A heap of thankfulness

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

I heard Dennis Jernigan pray at least once and ask God to show us where we'd be if Jesus hadn't rescued us. I think I heard him pray this at a concert or two, and I'm pretty sure also on a worship tape/cd. He has a crazy-awesome testimony, and God lifted him out of a crazy mire, cleaned him off, healed him up, and now Dennis Jernigan has been pointing other people to God our Healer.

So, God has shown me at least once where I'd be if I hadn't let Jesus rescue me. They weren't pretty scenes. From what I understand, the devil had a plan A and a plan B for me (and probably plenty of others), but these top two strategies for wiping Tirzah off the face of the earth would have been plenty effective, if God hadn't intervened, and if I hadn't let Him intervene. I hope you don't mind me writing about topics that are this grisly, but, well... this is my online journal. You're welcome to read it, especially if it points you to God and/or helps you connect with Him. Considering the subject matter that I'm about to share, please keep in mind that if you struggle with any of these issues, reader, I don't think you're a terrible person. I'm not making fun of you. I just believe that worshiping anything or anyone besides God is sin, and I choose to let God help me get rid of sin in my life, and I choose to let Him get rid of the things that have driven me to sin. God loves you, and He wants you, and He wants to help you, just like He loves me, wants me, and wants to help me.

A few years ago, I told coworkers that if I hadn't gotten saved, "I'd be in prison for cooking up drugs for my morbidly obese girlfriend." Unfortunately, I think the devil's plan A for my life would have been much worse than that. In my early teens, I wanted to grow up to become a veterinarian, but I was told that I should probably become a pharmacist instead. So, my academic career was focused on becoming a pharmacist. I even had an interview with the UT pharmacy school with a professor/dean who was extremely cynical of my aspirations until she saw my grades. Halfway through my senior year of high school, my pharmacy plans changed abruptly when I decided to pursue my writing hobby as a career instead.

Fast-forward to 3 months ago, I was getting a prescription filled at a pharmacy (in preparation for going on a magic wisdom-teeth carpet ride). During the wait, I saw the pictures of the pharmacists hanging on the wall. Then God showed me the devil's plan A in grim detail. More than likely, if I had never gotten saved, my picture would have been hanging on a pharmacy wall somewhere, but I would not have been female anymore. I would have had a sex change operation, and any stronghold/iniquity software programmed inside me to carry out a suicide attempt would have been successful because, well, as a pharmacist, I would have had ready access to all sorts of drugs. If I hadn't gotten saved, I would have more than likely become a male pharmacist who would have successfully committed suicide.

Of course, I'm extremely thankful to Jesus for rescuing me, for wanting me, for uninstalling my stronghold/iniquity software, and for training me to turn to Him during a crisis. I'm also extremely thankful that God my Daddy created me to be a woman, and I wouldn't change my gender for anything. I'm extremely thankful to the Holy Spirit for showing me these things, for empowering me to live life His way, and for drawing me close to His bosom where I can receive a heap of desperately needed healing. So, another one of the devil's plans bites the dust.

"A man who isolates himself seeks his own desire; he rages against all wise judgment." (Proverbs 18:1)

Recently, I've become fascinated with episodes of Hoarder shows on YouTube. (I don't have cable or rabbit ears, because life is cheaper and simpler that way, so YouTube has become a good friend.) These types of shows used to bother me, because they really are about disturbing things, but lately I've been glued to YouTube. To me, it's fascinating to see the psychological aspect and effects of turning a piece of junk into an object of worship. Logically, if you have a heap of things that you never use, you should probably sell the things, give them away, or throw them away. That's one thing that eBay, friends/relatives, and Dumpsters are for. But people who hoard compulsively are psychologically attached to their things, to the degree that they will fight to keep them in their unhealthily crowded house.

While I was watching one of these episodes, God told me, "That was the devil's plan B for you." I'm not exactly sure if I would have been an unsaved hoarder or if I would have been a Christian in bondage to hoarding, but I think that means that the devil's plan B for me was to become a compulsive hoarder. I would have worshiped stuff, to the point of hiding behind it and freaking out anytime anyone would try to help me dispose of it.

Looking back on my life, I can see the ingredients. When I was a little girl, I shared a room with a sibling that was a complete disaster area, with toys strewn everywhere, and with very little parental discipline to keep the room clean. After I graduated from college, I pretty much accepted every junk gift that was offered to me ("I was going to throw this away, unless you want it." "Ooh, it's free. Sure, I'll take it."). I remember one time after I moved, I just threw all my stuff on my side of my roommate's room and closet, and I don't think I really organized it. The clutter just sat there, and I didn't care. And I was depressed. As the years passed, relatives would deliver boxes of new clutter-junk to my apartment, which had clutter piles everywhere.

One time while I was in college, I decided to get rid of most of my cassette collection because I didn't feel the secular music was good for me to listen to anymore, and I thought maybe I could sell it and pay off some debt. The people I lived with forbade this because it was mine or because it was wasteful or something -- I don't exactly remember. But I remember finally giving the music to a sibling. In retrospect, I find it quite alarming that I wasn't allowed to dispose of my own things.

Now I understand more than ever why God wanted me to move completely on my own last year. I threw away heaps of unwanted items, and I haven't missed any of them. Once, I even got a talking-to from a Dumpster-diver about throwing away my things. (I'm guessing he frequently visited Dumpsters to hunt for items, because he was wearing rubber gloves, and he parked his vehicle next to the Dumpster. I'm curious as to why he briefly lectured me instead of thanking me for depositing all that free stuff, but whateva.) Now, I don't have any problems throwing junk away (even if it's good quality stuff that I probably should have sold), I don't have relatives forbidding me from throwing my own stuff away, and I don't have friends/relatives who regularly deposit heaps of stuff on my property. I don't have heaps of junk to hide behind, I don't stare at things and dream of what I could do with them anymore, and -- from what I understand and hope -- I don't worship things.

Also, have I mentioned lately that I'm a crazy cat lady? Perhaps I could have become a crazy cat hoarder as well. At any rate, I'm glad their vet bills and pet deposits are expensive, or I might own way more than 2 felines today.

God made these changes inside me. I'm extremely thankful that He rescued me from what could have become a major bondage to hoarding. Selling things, giving things away, and especially throwing things away (that last one truly is a major pleasure) is, I think, a healthy, exhilarating feeling. As Macho would say, "Wow."

I'm also extremely thankful that God seems to be restoring me back to the way things were many years ago, the way things are supposed to be now. When I was about 6 years old, before I moved into the messy room of the sibling, I had my own room, which I remember keeping organized, and which I remember getting in trouble for decorating with puffy Garfield stickers on the closet door. One of my strengths is "maximizer." I think apathy is one enemy to being a maximizer: If other people don't care, why should I? If I was evicted from my room, where I took care of my things, and coerced into living in an environment where things weren't taken care of, why should I care at all? Another one of my strengths is "adaptability," which is probably an opposite of being a maximizer, but trust me, it works, because basically, God designed me to be flexible. But what He didn't design me to do was forsake my sexuality. He did not intend for me to adapt to a new gender. He intends for me to discover how He created me, who I really am, who I really am in Christ, and to go for it, with His help. Boy, am I glad God wants to help me. I would truly be a goner without Him.

I am a girl, I am a woman, I am female, I am heterosexual, I like men, and I am extremely thankful for that. I hate clutter, I have a small chores routine, I am still learning how to keep a clean living space, and I am extremely thankful for that, too.

At the beginning of this post, I shared a photo of my real-life Garfield and Nermal enjoying a snack. All I had to do was whisper, "Midnight snacky," and Macho trilled, "Mmm."

Well... Duh

"I can see clearly now, the..." rain is gone? No, rain comes and goes, and rain helps things grow. Lately, I've been thinking about a different metaphor/analogy/whichever type of figurative language that says that something is like something else.

Sometimes after a long shower, the mirror is fogged up, and I can't see what I need to see. (Putting on my glasses doesn't always help, because they're majorly fogged up after a shower, too.) But if I wipe away the fog from the mirror, even if it's just a teeny little window, I can see what I need to see so that I can proceed with getting ready. Sometimes it takes a long while for the bathroom mirror to clear up completely, even with the exhaust fan going, but wiping a teeny little window on my mirror usually helps me get the job done. (I'm a woman. Getting ready takes forever, even without makeup.)

I think also sometimes after God gives me a long shower -- with something like His word or a nice discipline-spanking or a burning-hot trial -- my metaphorical mirror gets fogged up, too, and He'll wipe away a teeny little window so that I can clearly see what I need to see. Dang, those little windows can show a lot of important things.

I've blogged previously here and here about how I think some issues and situations are like rocket science, but others are like "duh" common sense. I'm going to talk about the latter type of thing here. Please keep in mind that in this post, I'm NOT referring to the "love hopes all things" type of thing that 1 Corinthians 13 is talking about. Jesus is the ultimate hope, and He'll change whoever will let Him change them. If I repent and follow Him around like a lovesick puppydog, and if I let Him do whatever He wants with me, then I can learn whatever He wants me to learn, and I'll want Him to mold me into whatever He wants me to be. If anyone mistreats me, there's always hope that they'll repent and let Jesus show them how to treat people better.

In this post, I'm referring to the "give me an understanding heart" type of thing that Solomon experienced in 1 Kings 3. Here's Tirzah's quirky right-brained version of that chapter. God was like, "Hey, Solomon, I love you. What would you like Me to give you?" And Solomon was like, "Hi, Lord, I just became king. I know this new job is going to be extremely challenging. So, I was thinking about how my father David was a street-smart songwriting tough-guy warrior. He knew how to go out to war, and he knew how to come back in and chill with You. He learned a ton of things the hard way, and he learned them at the school of hard knocks. He knew the ropes. He had it going on. But I'm not him. I grew up in a palace. I'm used to being waited on hand and foot. I'm used to being doted on. I'm used to getting my own way. So, unlike my dad or Billy Joel, I have no scars on my face, and I cannot handle pressure. So, Lord, I was wondering... can You please give me an understanding heart? I'm going to need it in my new king job. I need You. Can You please help me?" And God was like, "Wow, what a request. I'm proud of you. No problem; you got it. I'll give you an understanding AND wise heart. Go get 'em, tiger!" And, voilà, King Solomon's wisdom gets recorded in the Bible.

All that to say, I think there are some situations in which understanding/wisdom are readily available, staring at you right in the face, right after God wipes a teeny little window in the mirror-fog. You suddenly see it right in front of your face, and then you're like, "well... Duh. Maybe I should have seen that sooner."

1) That one friend who completely ditched me at a church function so she could go hang out with her cousins, well... after years of dragging the friendship along off and on, I finally decided that she was a bad friend. Duh. And, of course, she got mad when I told her I didn't want to be her friend anymore.

2) That one friend who flirted with me while he was out with another woman, well... she ended up having major problems with him after she married him. Duh. And, of course, he lectured me after I unfriended him.

3) That one supervisor who allowed her sibling to engage in extremely unprofessional behavior at work, in her department, before her sibling got fired, well... she ended up being one of the worst supervisors of my career. Duh. And, of course, she happens to be a longstanding supervisor at a certain company.

4) That one guy friend who I painfully crushed on for 14 years in a hope-deferred-makes-the-heart-sick-just-like-in-Proverbs kind of way, who finally told me that he only thought of me as a sister, which is why he never pursued me in the way that I wanted him to... well, I had to block him on Facebook twice for the sake of my sanity. Duh. And, of course, I totally should have said something to him, like, maybe 19 years ago and regained my sanity sooner.

5) That one friend who told me plainly in college that we weren't close friends, and who chowed down on a tall plate of chocolate-chip cookies while I stared at her in minimum-wage starvation, and who hunted me down after college so I could help her with some of her work assignments, and who has done nothing to deepen our friendship... well, she didn't defend my job performance at a certain company. Duh. And, of course, I don't think she's noticed yet that I unfriended her.

When I grew up, gossiping was normal, and I didn't even realize we were doing it, and I didn't even realize it was bad, even though it was a tasty-morsel-just-like-in-Proverbs type of thing that you share as a painting-your-nails type of chick bonding. Now that God has wiped a teeny little window in the mirror-fog, I see it right in front of my face, and I'm like, "well... Duh." And I can avoid gossiping like the plague.

When I grew up, being a Pharisee was normal, and I didn't even realize we were doing it, and I didn't even realize it was bad, even though it was a brood-of-vipers-just-like-in-the-Gospels type of thing that flows naturally out of your mouth like a dead bone floating in a "they are below us, because we are gente fina" type of crap-river. Now that God has wiped a teeny little window in the mirror-fog, I see it right in front of my face, and I'm like, "well... Duh." And I can let God get rid of my whitewash and bring my dead bones to life.

When I grew up, abuse was normal, and I didn't even realize we were doing it, and I didn't even realize it was abuse, even if we did it to an animal, and even though it seemed kinda wrong but nobody really did anything to stop it. Now that God has wiped a teeny little window in the mirror-fog, I see it right in front of my face, and I'm like, "well... Duh." And I can see the scar on my finger from that one time I got too close to that one dog. And I can learn how to treat my animals better. And I can guard my animals' lives with my own. And have I told you lately how much I love my cats?

"A righteous man regards the life of his animal, but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel." (Proverbs 12:10)

That one guy who once told me that people shouldn't waste prayers on animals, well... I unfriended him. Duh. And I guess he would say that, like, half my prayer life is wasted.

That One Man who left heaven to be born on this earth, die an excruciatingly horrifyingly humiliating death in MY place -- the death that I deserved -- and who has never, ever, ever been mean to me or ignored me or mistreated me in any way whatsoever, well... I'm going to follow Him around like a lovesick puppydog forever. Duh. And I'm thankful that He wants to help me learn how to see things clearly now.

Banquet banner, part 3

This post is rated R for mature material. (At least, to me it's mature.) It ain't gonna be pretty. And I'll do my best to not cuss.

A friend of mine from choir has mentioned a couple of times that "Jesus is your Mama Bear." In other words, Jesus is the Ultimate Protector, the One who bares His sharp claws and charges after any enemy who attacks one of His little ones. I would like to overtly share my version of this assurance.

I'm a woman, but I think there are some woman genes that I lack, such as the shopping gene (I would rather endure surgery without anesthesia than go clothes-shopping), the beautification gene (I hate to wear makeup, color my hair, paint my nails, or wear perfume), and the domestic gene (I haven't cooked anything on my apartment's new stove or oven, and I'd like to keep it that way). However, I think the rest of my woman genes seem to be functioning OK, such as the nurturing gene (Daddy loves you, reader), the poetic gene (the rain fell softly on the moonlit window like the contented purr of a cat after a meal), the protection gene (if Macho tries to hurt Choochie, he'd better have his affairs in order), and the unabashedly emotional gene (that one, actually, is newly refurbished, considering THE LIVING HELL THAT I'VE JUST GONE THROUGH!!!). I also seem to be carrying additional non-womanly genes, such as the fist-bumping gene (I'm not completely sure why people greet me this way, but I'm truly not complaining, 'cause I dig it), the MacGyver home-improvement gene (have I ever told you about the time I successfully installed a driver-side mirror on my car with double-sided tape?) and the bug-killing gene (my favorite!).

That last one came in very handy today at work. While I was alone in the women's restroom, I saw a cockroach on the floor. It crawled away, but I hunted it down, and I found it waiting quietly in the shadows, where I unabashedly released my foot upon it. And so perished the intruder, which I scooped up and deposited into its swirling watery grave. And shall the cockroach stalk the floor? Or soon forsake its watery store? Nevermore.

So, while I was hunting down the roach in the restroom, I was glad I was alone, because I didn't want any of my coworkers to freak out at the sight of a bug. (Just let the roach-stalker do her thang.) I know that bugs can be scary, but I truly don't understand what's so complicated about confronting an extremely fragile, tiny pest and terminating its existence forever. But I did it for myself and for coworkers that I really don't even like much. But that's what we women do -- we protect others. Whether we do it ourselves, or whether we call an exterminator, we women have an instinct to keep our space pest-free.

We women protect our own. I learned at a class at church that we women protect our young, even though I may not have needed a class to tell me so. I think technically, it's common sense that women's bodies are designed to carry and protect their young, even if only for a period of time. At least, it should be common sense that a mama bear will protect her children, whom she loves.

I'm about to share the most disgusting part of my story. If everyone has a "past," this is mine. I've blogged about it here, but I tried to do so tactfully and in code. Tonight, I feel like I need to be more plain and direct about what happened to me. I wrestled with whether or not I should share this in this manner. My desire isn't to shame, punish, or slander anyone. My desire is to unravel things inside me that need to be unraveled. I think maybe some readers have gone through similar things, or maybe they've experienced things that were far worse than my experiences. But I'd like to brag about God and what He's done, and I think I need to be more open about my story to do it. Please understand that when I mention any family relation in this post (e.g., mother, father, sister), it is an ex-relation, because I am no longer part of my immediate family. I will also talk about 2 people whose real names I won't use: Brother A and Brother B.

1993-1994 was my senior year of high school. Although it wasn't a perfect year, my life was shiny and full of potential overall. I was doing well in school academically, and I was very active in church. I felt like I was popular, and I was pretty much on top of the world. Brother A was an usher at church. He was also a custodian at my school, so I saw him often, and I trusted him. Then one day while I was naively alone in one of the classrooms at church, and I was talking to Brother A, he grabbed my chin, pulled it to his face, and kissed me. I was shocked, of course. I did not welcome or want his affection, of course, especially considering that he was a married man with grandchildren. But he repeated his behavior on several occasions, and I think he enjoyed the secrecy. I did not enjoy these episodes at all. Years later, I learned that technically, these episodes were rape, because he forced affection on me, even though we never had sex. I remember being extremely uncomfortable around him after that first episode, and one time I ended up sitting next to him somehow in the church sanctuary, and he put his arm around me and told me, "I wish you was my girlfriend." I knew he meant it, and I thought it was disgusting. Not only was this rape; technically, since he was lusting after me like that, this was also adultery.

My father was the pastor of this church where this adultery was happening. Since my mother was in charge of my house, and since I'd always count on her for enforcement, I told her about what Brother A had been doing to me. She said, "Don't tell [your father]. He has a big mouth." I suppose she was concerned that my loquacious father would mention what was happening from the pulpit and cause an offensive stir in the church? Meanwhile, I found out that Brother A had been doing the same involuntary rape/adultery with my best friend. I guess the behavior was spreading.

So, God stopped it. Several days before my high-school graduation, Brother A died of a heart attack. His demise was kind of suddenly weird, because he was a healthy, sturdy, hard-working man who didn't appear on the outside to have any cardiac issues. But he kicked the bucket. Honestly, I think God smote him, because I was free from Brother A's abuse. Unfortunately, I don't think any of us learned from it.

Fast-forward to 1996-1997, which I think may have been sometime in my junior or senior year of college. This time frame is vague to me, because I only lived at home during the summers and holidays. The congregation at my parents' church split, and my father was now pastoring a new church at a different building. Brother B was now an usher at church. I think I was the Sunday School secretary. One day while I was naively alone in the church office, and I was talking to trusted Brother B, he grabbed my chin, pulled it to his face, and kissed me. I don't remember if I was shocked or numb at this point. But I do remember not welcoming his affection, of course, as he also was a married man with grandchildren. He repeated his behavior on several occasions, and he told me in Spanish to not tell anybody. He was a bit more aggressive and slimy than Brother A had been, but Brother B was equally undesirable. Again, I found myself being the victim of a non-sexual, adulterous rape.

Again, I told my mother about what was happening. I don't remember her exact reaction, but I think she may have told me to keep quiet about this again, because it didn't stop. In fact, it spread again. I found out that Brother B had been doing the same involuntary rape/adultery with my sister. One time, I saw Brother B shake my mother's hand, and I think he may have stroked it unwelcomingly or something, because she whipped her hand away, as if she had just shaken hands with a serpent.

So, OK, let's take inventory here. I had involuntarily participated in adulterous activity with 2 men -- 2 Hispanic married men who smelled musty and had spiky mustaches. My father did nothing to stop it. My mother did nothing to stop it. I did nothing to stop it. And the abuse spread to other girls. And this all happened under the roof of church buildings.

In this paragraph, I'd like to talk about what I've learned about my role in this abuse, in retrospect. I'm not exactly sure why I allowed it -- perhaps it was confused teenage hormones, or perhaps it was my ultra-obedient doormat personality, or perhaps it was simply a wildly high tolerance for terribleness. But I shouldn't have allowed the abuse to continue for as long as I did. There are quite a few things I could have done to stop it. I could have told Brother A's wife about it. (She is now deceased; if she's in heaven, I'm guessing she might hear all about it.) I could have called the police. I could have called whichever Babbdist association it was that oversaw our church. I could have stormed the pulpit during my father's sermon, taken over the microphone, and exposed Brother A in front of everybody. Or I could have gently cradled his head in my hands and gouged his eyes out. Or I could have grabbed his leathery wrist and shattered it in my strong pianist hands. Or I could have grabbed a hymnbook and impaled his skull with one of the sharp hymnbook-corners. The opportunities to end the abuse were endless.

Unfortunately, the abuse did not stop, and it certainly got God's attention. I already mentioned that I really think He took Brother A out completely. God also removed me from my immediate family completely. In 1998, God told me to leave my parents, and I didn't. In 2011, after I remembered what He had said, I spent pretty much an entire summer praying through leaving my parents. I fasted. I counted the cost. I wrestled. I grieved. I got confirmation, and plenty of it. While I prayed, I felt like God kept highlighting a certain incident that attracted His wrath.

"Your enemies roar in the midst of Your meeting place; they set up their banners for signs. They seem like men who lift up axes among the thick trees. And now they break down its carved work, all at once, with axes and hammers. They have set fire to the sanctuary; they have defiled the dwelling place of Your name to the ground. They said in their hearts, 'Let us destroy them altogether.' They have burned up all the meeting places of God in the land." (Psalm 74:4-8)

While I was wrestling through whether or not I should leave my parents, whom I love, who happen to do ministry-related work, God kept highlighting that His sanctuary had been defiled. Since I'm a believer in Christ, I'm a temple of the Holy Spirit, so in that sense, I'm God's sanctuary. I involuntarily participated in non-sexual adultery, so since my body was defiled, God's sanctuary was defiled. And since the abuse happened literally in church buildings, I guess you could say that God's sanctuaries were defiled. But those weren't the only sanctuaries. The abuse spread to other women. Other sanctuaries were defiled.

I would like to take a moment to say that love covers a multitude of sins (1 Peter 4:8). Jesus died for everybody's sins -- whether they were committed in the past, are being committed in the present, or will be committed in the future. So, Jesus offers forgiveness for sins. He offers power to walk free from sin. He offers power to change. Anyone who comes to God and lets Him change them will change. Abusers don't have to remain abusers forever. I'm living proof of that. Jesus will restore anyone who will let Him. In my case, however, I believe He insisted that the consequence of my parents' unrepentance was losing me forever.

I would now like to unleash some emotion. After I left the family, and my sister spiritually abused me online by telling me that I should honor my father and mother, lest I be judged, and suggested that my church told me to sin by divorcing my parents, I reminded her about the incidents with Brother A and Brother B. She suggested that perhaps her parents didn't think there was anything they could have done to stop it. Well, I have a suggestion. When some pervert comes against your precious daughter, you bare your mama-bear claws, and you say, "GET YOUR SCUMMY HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER!" You rip off your whitewashed Pharisee mask and scream, "I DON'T CARE WHO THE BLEEP I OFFEND IN THIS STUFFY CHURCH, BUT IF YOU EVER TOUCH MY DAUGHTER AGAIN, I WILL RIP YOUR BLEEP OFF AND STUFF IT DOWN YOUR BLEEPING THROAT!" You grab him by his icky mustache, drag him to the police station, and say, "WHERE DO I SIGN A RESTRAINING ORDER TO KEEP THIS BLEEPING JERK AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER FOREVER?"

I mean, for crying out loud. This crap happened in TWO CHURCH BUILDINGS. Do you have any idea what kind of crap I've had to work through? Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to realize that you've believed a lie that it's OK for an innocent person to be taken advantage of in a safe place? I did not sign up to be a lip-concubine! I had zero intention of becoming an involuntary adulteress! Do you have any idea how wide of a door was left open for the enemy to puke his crap all over my soul? Or your soul? Or the souls of any other of the girls who were treated like meat by these two-legged turds? And to BOTH of your daughters, no less? What kind of a mother does that? What kind of a woman does that? If we had lived in ancient pagan times, would you have told me to just walk into a fire and die a heinous death with the rest of the innocent children? And would you have told me to not scream too loud, because daddy has a big mouth? Would you have told me to make sure and smile the entire time I was being burnt to a crisp so that nobody in the ancient-pagan-fire temple would be offended? What kind of message is that supposed to send to people IN A CHURCH BUILDING? Is God some giant wuss who does nothing while innocent people are abused? Does He really care that much about appearances? Is He honestly exactly like you?

"But to the wicked God says: 'What right have you to declare My statutes, or take My covenant in your mouth, seeing you hate instruction and cast My words behind you? When you saw a thief, you consented with him, and have been a partaker with adulterers. You give your mouth to evil, and your tongue frames deceit. You sit and speak against your brother; you slander your own mother's son. These things you have done, and I kept silent; you thought that I was altogether like you; but I will rebuke you, and set them in order before your eyes.' " (Psalm 50:16-21)

Calming down a bit, I will say that I'm thankful that the abuse, at least in my case, never went as far as it could have. Physically, I'm still a virgin. Brother A is deceased. I think Brother B may still be alive, but he is aging, and, as you've read previously, I have no problem with self-defense now. I can relate to rape victims. And I'm not a victim anymore. I understand that God heals and restores, and I understand that He takes crap and turns it into fertilizer. I understand that my part in the process is to forgive, to allow the Holy Spirit to shine like a flashlight into my soul that exposes any cockroaches that need to be exterminated forever, to tell the truth when the time is right. I understand what it's like to need protection. As a shepherd, I've endeavored to leap into action as quickly as possible to keep any bleeping wolves away from my sheep. As Joseph said in Genesis 50, people meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.

Of course it's been difficult to wrestle through. If God really exists, why would He allow such a heinous thing to happen, even in His own house? Doesn't He care?

"In my distress I called upon the Lord, and cried out to my God; He heard my voice from His temple, and my cry came before Him, even to His ears. Then the earth shook and trembled; the foundations of the hills also quaked and were shaken, because He was angry. Smoke went up from His nostrils, and devouring fire from His mouth; coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens also, and came down with darkness under His feet." (Psalm 18:6-9)

"So they came to Jerusalem. Then Jesus went into the temple and began to drive out those who bought and sold in the temple, and overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves. And He would not allow anyone to carry wares through the temple. Then He taught, saying to them, 'Is it not written, "My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations"? But you have made it a "den of thieves." ' " (Mark 11:15-17)

"But thus says the Lord: 'Even the captives of the mighty shall be taken away, and the prey of the terrible be delivered; for I will contend with him who contends with you, and I will save your children. I will feed those who oppress you with their own flesh, and they shall be drunk with their own blood as with sweet wine. All flesh shall know that I, the Lord, am your Savior, and your Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob.' " (Isaiah 49:25-26)

Cool. So, God is real, and He does care about what happens in His house. He does care about the crap that happens to me. I'm glad, because I need Somebody to help me pick up the pieces.

God has helped me plenty so far, but I suspect that He might have plenty more work to do in the years ahead. I probably still have some fear and self-protection issues to work through. I'm not suspicious of all gray-haired men anymore, but I do avoid "the appearance of evil" like the plague. If I say something weird like, "I haven't kissed a man voluntarily in 19 years," it's because of my past. If I cringe anytime a married man sits too close and/or hugs me for too long, it's because of my past. If I stand 5 feet away from a married man anytime I talk to him, it's because of my past. If I ever have a crazed look in my eye that says, "I am about to karate-chop your head off," I'm probably considering it, and it's because of my past.

But my past has been redeemed, as I've mentioned previously, and it can continuously be redeemed. Surely not everybody is as heinously selfish as the people from my past. Surely safe, trustworthy people exist in this world. Seriously, I don't understand why married people freak out about us single people. We honestly, truly do not want to do it with your spouses. I mean, ew! Honestly, they're yours forever, and we honestly respect that. We honestly don't want to attract married people or make them stumble. We honestly want to find spouses of our own, and if we don't ever find them, we'll do our darndest to stay content in our singlehood. (I say, "We," but I mean, "Me." I guess I can't speak for everybody.)

God's banqueting table/hall/house, which has a banner that says "LOVE" over us, is supposed to be a safe place. It isn't supposed to be a whitewashed, unsafe place which has a banner that says "PARTY WHILE YOUR WIFE ISN'T LOOKING" over innocent people.

"Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." (1 Corinthians 13:6-7, NIV)

I hope nobody got some kind of cheap thrill knowing that otherwise innocent women were treated like meat. I hope everybody understands that God is a God of justice, and He delights in administering that justice. I hope, frankly, that all parties involved in my past were and are saved through faith in Jesus Christ -- not in a prayer that they prayed, not in a water baptism that they received, not in a cracker and tiny bottle of grape juice that they consumed once a month -- in Jesus, who wants to be Lord of their lives and show them how to live life His way.

Jesus is the Lion of Judah. He has claws. He roars and rushes to the rescue of all His children. I don't understand why He doesn't always do so right away, and I don't understand why He allows crap to happen. But I do understand that He's real, I understand that He helps me to unravel crap, and I understand that He uses crap to make things grow. I understand now that He is an expert banquet Host, and He never fails.

If evil haunts you in the night, my Savior puts nightmares to flight. With matchless power and muscles strong, He vindicates and rights your wrong. His gentle tears flow freely down and seek to wrap themselves around your aching soul and quiet groans. He never has forgotten you. He shines His light upon the truth. His heart breaks hard along with you. Do you feel hopeless in your daze? Compassion cracks, breaks through your maze. His name is Jesus, King of Kings. He makes the weary victim sing. The night succumbs to the coming day. He washes pain far, far away. Please don't give up. He'll lift your head. He'll help you to your feet again. And then you'll walk until you run. Your inner smile shall scare the sun, for what does it have that you don't? Nay, nothing, for you shall not want. Our Savior nurses you with care, and in the night, you'll learn to dare. You'll dare to hope, to dream again. You'll dare to think that you could win. Our Savior rights the wrongest wrong; in His embrace, you can be strong.

Banquet banner, part 2

Last night, I blogged about God's banqueting table/hall/house. Tonight, I'm going to blog about how I think there are times when God's banqueting table/hall/house -- and its banner, delicacies, and delights -- can be taken for granted or even abused. I'm also going to touch on a few things that I blogged about when I bought a new keyboard earlier this year. I apologize in advance if I'm boring you with the same ol' story, but I hope to spice up my story with a few details that may be new to you. And I hope you're not tired of reading about my cats because, well, who else do I have readily available to write about? Well, there's God my Daddy. He totally rocks, and thinking about Him and talking about Him could totally distract me from anything, because He's the coolest Person in the universe ever. Wait. What was I talking about?

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

At the beginning of this post, you saw a photo of Macho eagerly anticipating his evening snacky. I knew exactly how to snap a photo of him. I knew exactly where to sit so that he could come find me to satisfy his tummy-hunger. Voilà.

I love Macho, but my relationship with him is much different than my relationship with Choochie. Have I ever told you about the evening when I first met her? I brought her home with me as a kitten. She was given to me free by a family that didn't have enough money to declaw her, and they didn't want her to continue scratching their toddler, and they possibly just didn't want her anymore. I was told that she was very sweet and wanted to snuggle with her owner, who made her sleep outside at night. (Thanks. Now I get to deal with curbing her tendency to roam.) So, when I adopted her as a kitten, I wanted her to sleep in my bed at night. That first night I turned out the lights, snuggled into bed, and insisted that my little kitten slumber there with me, she stared at me for a minute and purred loudly with this look on her face that beamed even in the dark: "OH, MY GOSH, YOU'RE LETTING ME SLEEP HERE WITH YOU?!??" And from that point on, that's been her usual sleeping spot at night: in my bed, often perching on my shoulder, sometimes on my pillow, on occasion waking me up in the middle of the night with her too-close snuggling/purring. That's my baby. She knows that I'm the one who feeds her and gives her shelter, but I think she's ultimately motivated by having a close relationship with me. And I've already typed up most of this blog post with her purring at my living-room banqueting table. Voilà.

Macho, on the other hand, seems to have quite different motivations. He follows me around and demands my attention usually whenever he needs something: affection, food, or warmth. I didn't own him when he was a kitten; Choochie and I took him in when he was already about 2 years old, he didn't fit into his owner's life anymore, and he had already adopted me as his mama. But despite our history, it sort of grieves me sometimes that he'd rather have a snacky than a purring session with Mama. (I know... he's a cat. But please work with me here with my metaphor.)

Choochie seeks me, cries out for me, and demands to snuggle with me pretty much all year long. She's consistent, she's faithful, and she doesn't seem to care about how unpopular it is for cats to bond that closely with their owners. And usually when she misbehaves, she has the decency to do it right in front of my face. I correct her right away, and we move on with our lives. Macho, on the other hand, is a giant bully who sneaks around to misbehave when I'm not looking. Just a few minutes ago, he jumped onto my banqueting table, where there wasn't enough room for him, Choochie, and my computer simultaneously, so he was about to start bullying Choochie off the table, as usual. I decided to set a boundary, tell him that there wasn't any room for him, and shoo him off the table so that Choochie could remain here snuggling close to me. I love each of my cats equally, but if I have one that wants to be close to me and another one that only wants snackies, sorry, but I'm going to give the one who's after my heart as much snuggle time as possible... while feeding them both their snackies when it's time... and yes, I know that they're cats.

Referring back to that verse in Ephesians I quoted above, I'd also like to talk a bit more about having responsibilities in God's banqueting house. One major downside to living life in a spiritually abusive environment is that your calling could get squelched out completely, and you may not even realize it.

For pretty much most of my life, until recently, the people around me were always very "Meh" about music, as if it's something that everybody's automatically supposed to know about. The paternal figure of the household where I grew up had perfect pitch, so he would rarely spend more than an hour per week practicing music on his own before leading the music at church. So, musical discipline wasn't modeled very well for me. After I went off to college, almost everybody and their grandma knew how to lead church music on a guitar. (Which is one reason why I resisted learning how to play the guitar myself. Why conform?) Most of the regular pastors were musical, knew how to lead worship on a guitar, and had written at least one original worship song. Finding somebody who knew how to lead worship for a small group was rarely a problem, because almost everybody and their grandma was equipped and ready to go. And in those circles, answering God's call to be a missionary in a foreign country was placed on a pedestal, so that was almost everybody's goal. So, a musical calling wasn't considered to be very special.

So, after I left all those unhealthy environments, took a closer look at my soul, took a closer look at my hands, took a closer look at my brain, and took a step back, God was basically like, "Yes, hello. Of course you have a major calling on your life for music." It's kind of a no-brainer, especially considering the fact that I'd go to sleep at night when I was a teenager with piano chords in my head, I'd spend most of my evenings worshiping God on my guitar and trying to sing original songs to Him when I was in my early 20s, I minored in music when I was in college, I'm right-brained, I study my musical forefathers on YouTube in my spare time, and I usually have an easier time singing than I do talking. No-brainer.

I'm definitely not perfect, I'm definitely not the most diligent or disciplined person in the world, I definitely have a ton to learn, and I definitely have a lot of work ahead of me. But I kinda think God set me up. I'm a member of a church that is a major distributor of praise/worship music. Major music artists are on staff at my church as pastors. A while back, while I was singing in my church's choir, I noticed that one of the music-artist worship pastors (whose cds I bought long before she came on staff) was on the platform with us. I was starstruck, in an almost unhealthy hero-worship kind of way, and I had to talk to God my Daddy about it. He was like, "Happy birthday," even though it wasn't my birthday. That's what He's like. He's an extravagant giver of gifts. He's the Father of Lights, and He doesn't change, even though I deserve for Him to kick me out of the Family forever. Nope. He draws me closer, gives me something majorly awesome, and says, "Merry Christmas," even though it isn't Christmas yet.

And I think God is more interested in me fulfilling His calling on my life than I am. No-brainer.

And, of course, He wants that with everybody. Reader, you have an exquisitely unique calling on your life that Daddy longs for you to discover, cultivate, and pursue, if you haven't been discovering, cultivating, or pursuing it already.

God's banqueting table/hall/house is supersaturated with delicacies and delights, and His love-banner is huge and strewn across everything as a silently trumpeting reminder of who He is. But even though He delights in us enjoying His banquet, or in drinking deeply from His river, or in thoroughly using His gifts, I think the best thing is getting to know the Host of the banquet, the Giver of the gifts, the Owner of the table, the banner, and the entire house. His stuff is a lot of fun to play with. His stuff is needed. He wants us to use His stuff. But I don't think He wants us to use His stuff to make ourselves look good. He wants us to get to know Him. He wants us to worship Him. Knowing Him is better than getting His stuff. Finding Him is better than finding His stuff.

And, of course, after I fed the cats their evening snackies, Macho napped in another room while Choochie remained close to me. She is currently about 14 inches away from me while I type this. Yeah, that's right. She knows where she belongs.

Banquet banner

Reader, I would like to invite you into my online meditation on the following verse, which is a huge morsel for me to chew on right now.

"He brought me to the banqueting house, and His banner over me was love." (Song of Solomon 2:4)

I sort of have this verse memorized from an old Kevin Prosch song: "He brought me to His banqueting table / (echo) / And His banner... over me... is love." I've mentioned about God's banqueting table in blog posts of yore, but lately it's stuck out at me that not every Bible translation translates that verse exactly like Kevin Prosch's song. I've done a tiny bit of digging around (and I would like to dig around some more in the very near future), and I haven't found a truckload of information, so you're going to get Tirzah's quirky, right-brained, driven-by-her-major-need-for-healing version.

The New King James version calls it a banqueting HOUSE. The New American Standard and the New International Version call it a banquet HALL. I actually haven't found a version yet that translates the word as TABLE, but I'm guessing there probably is one somewhere, or maybe Kevin Prosch was expressing something that exists for real in heaven, or maybe his entire song, or maybe the entire Song of Solomon, is a metaphor for one of God's truths. I'm not a Bible study expert, but I'd like to get to the bottom of this.

Please understand that the reason I'm writing this isn't to get a cold, scholarly dissection (or vivisection) of the Bible. I need this verse to seep deeply inside me. I need something new to click. I need life to replace the death that is, frankly, getting unraveled and pooped out. I'm discovering that I don't exactly know what it's like, deep down inside, to be an accepted, continually invited, welcome part of a Family banqueting table or house or hall that has a huge banner draped over me that says "LOVE." But God has this all set up for me, and He's going to show me what I've got, and He's going to show me what it means.

At the beginning of this post, I displayed a picture of my banqueting table. That big hunk of wood on the right side of the photo is my coffee table. That's where I eat my meals in front of my TV. And those are my cats. That's where they beg for food while I eat my meals in front of the TV (or, when the TV's off, my computer or my Bible). The only time they are allowed on my table while I'm eating my meal is during breakfast. Usually, my mixed-Siamese cat will crouch near my cereal bowl and purr while I eat. But that's it. If she tries to eat my breakfast, she must descend from the table immediately. Sure, I have rules, even though they don't always follow the rules... because they're cats. But that's my setup. It's a simple little spot where I enjoy cereal, soups, TV dinners, you name it. It's a functional place where I sometimes type on my computer, sometimes file my nails, and sometimes file my taxes. But that's my banqueting table. That's where my cats are welcome to join me (within the rules) while I live my life.

My cats are welcome at, on, or around my table because they're mine. They belong to me. They belong with me. They're in my family. Actually, if I had put the camera down and set the timer so that I could also be in the photo, it would be a family portrait. It could have been our Christmas card. (Dang it! Missed opportunity.) My cats know me, they trust me, and they know that they belong with me.

They've been very flexible to adapt with me in the 12 and 13 years that they've been with me. My living arrangements have changed considerably throughout the years, so my cats have lived through quite a few different seasons with me. But through each season, each year, each meal, each moment, they've known that they're MY cats and that I'm THEIR mama. Of course, I have all kinds of boundaries with them (which they don't always observe... because they're cats). But they know that they belong in my room, in my bed, at my table, on my couch, on my chair, or almost anywhere I am, because they're mine. (Currently, I'm typing this on my couch between one cat who's perching on a couch cushion and another cat who's perching on a couch armrest.) They know where they belong.

I'm not trying to diss how I grew up; I'm trying to process through it, come to terms with it, and make some adjustments in my soul so that I don't have to be stuck with it. So, while I was growing up, I don't remember being given any regular responsibility in the household such as accomplishing a household chore on a regular basis. I remember the maternal figure of the house being in charge of all household chores. While she was at work, I was occasionally told to vacuum the floor or wash dishes. But I don't remember being given a specific ongoing responsibility. You know who else isn't given any specific ongoing responsibilities? Temporary houseguests. You know what a temporary houseguest is in her own home? An orphan.

After I went off to college, I eagerly embraced all the teachings about the Father-heart of God, probably because I was hungry for them and didn't realize it. Everyone needs to know God's heart as a Father. Now I'm running into roadblocks that are beginning to make better sense.

This is the current stuff that God has been highlighting for me lately: Why should an orphan stay someplace that she doesn't belong?

Someone who belongs in a certain household takes ownership in the household when he or she is given responsibility in that household. If I had grown up in a house where I was given specific ongoing responsibilities, I think I would have taken more ownership in the household, because I would have been responsible to help keep the household running. If I had been assigned to clean the bathroom, and if I had neglected to do it, how would it have gotten clean? It would have stayed dirty, and it would have been my fault, or perhaps my sibling would have yelled at me because she would have had to pick up the slack for me. You know who is entrusted with a responsibility? A son/daughter.

I'm not obsessing over a works mentality. I'm not talking about doing stuff "for God" or "serving the Lord" all the time. (I think if you love Someone, you'll be so obsessed with Him that you can't help but stare at Him constantly and never want to leave His side, so you'll end up doing stuff "for Him" or "serving Him" all the time as an overflow of your relationship with Him.) I'm talking about belonging. While I was typing this paragraph, my little cat purringly trotted onto my chest, and then trotted onto my shoulder and back onto my couch's armrest, because she knows she belongs with me. (I think it's a cat's way of saying, "Hi.") I'm saying if you live in a house and are entrusted with responsibilities there, it will be solidified deep down inside you that you belong in that house. Otherwise, why stick around?

Are you getting an idea of how some of these seeds of doubt and unbelief got pooped into my life?

So, in my Bible study of Song of Solomon 2:4, I haven't found much yet to help me with the "banner" part, other than the fact that some banqueting houses were decorated with banners. But I'm still looking. And there might be more common sense to it than I realize. (Speaking of Bible study, I was delighted by the King James' translation of Song of Solomon 2:5: "I am sick of love." Laughing out loud!)

For my 7th birthday, I wanted a pizza party. All the food was pizza: a regular-sized pizza, smaller pizzas, and pizza bites. That rocked. I was the guest of honor, because it was my birthday. I guess you could say that during the banquet, there was an invisible birthday banner over my head that said "BIRTHDAY GIRL" or "PIZZA FANATIC" or just plain "LOVE."

I think it would be nice to have had more than one birthday like that. That memory tends to be overshadowed by my current ones like my recent one where my coworkers halfheartedly decorated my cubicle, and they signed a card which was delivered to me by a coworker who muttered a bored, "Happy birthday," and then walked away. Thanks.

I'm just trying to wrap my mind around all this. What does God's house look like? Because I belong there.

Well, I don't think it looks like the following: He invites me to His house for a meeting once a week where He serves me a TV dinner that contains an ingredient that gives me heartburn, raises His hands in the air and says, "Sorry, but that's all I've got, so that's all you're eating," and then apologizes for kicking me out an hour later so He can get some homework done or call His girlfriend or go to bed early. I don't think He'll hastily put up a banner that says, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TRIZA" that keeps falling off because He's too cheap or lazy to use something besides little pushpins, or shrug His shoulders and say, "Whatever, your name's hard to spell" when I try to correct Him on my name's spelling. I don't think He has other banners that say "LOSER" or "PITY PARTY" or "ORPHAN."

He doesn't treat me like I'm an inconvenience. He doesn't treat me like I'm an accident. He doesn't treat me like I'm a pity friend, and He's doing me a favor to hang out with me for an hour. He doesn't patronize me, look down on me, or make me feel dumb every time He talks to me, even though He's the wisest Person in the universe. He treats me like I'm His daughter, who He plans to stick with for all eternity, who He plans to share responsibility with in the ages to come, who He can proudly introduce to other people as, "This is Tirzah, My delight, My heir, who I trust with My life, whose life I impeccably look after, who I would love for you to know."

I think my Father's banqueting table, and/or His banqueting hall, and/or His banqueting house looks like the following: He purchases my life with the blood of His own Son, and He invites me to live in His house forever, where He serves me an unending supply of His finest foods. Just when I think I've found my favorite dish or condiment or ingredient, I find another one that tops it. When I ask Him how long I can stay, He says, "Forever," and I incredulously double-check, "Um, what?" And His Helper double-checks the deed that's stamped on my heart, and He declares, "Yep, you've moved in with Us forever, and We've moved in with you forever. Are you OK with that?" And I scratch my head and say, "Uh, sure. Please. So, what's the catch?" And my Father smiles and says, "Check out My banner." And I look up at the most gorgeous piece of fabric I've ever seen, and I notice that it says "LOVE" in a zillion different languages. And my Father confirms, "Just love Me. You get to stay here forever, I get to love on you forever, and I get to own you. But you have to love Me." Before He finishes speaking, I'm already clasping onto His ankles and soaking my face onto His feet. The intoxicating aromas of the food in his banqueting table/hall/house are invading my starving nostrils and almost causing me to faint with love, and He gently lifts me onto my feet so that I can quiet the urgent rumblings of my stomach. While I'm unapologetically stuffing my face, He asks me if I wouldn't mind doing a job for Him. I say, "What, are You kidding? Of course not," and He points to the front door and asks me to guard it for an hour. I gasp so hard that I nearly choke on my luscious food, and I declare, "I have always wanted to do that!" Then I grab some food to go, and I guard His front door for an hour. After my shift, He tells me, "Hey, you did a great job. That is now your job from now on." And the process repeats when He asks me to shine His shoes and when He asks me to dust His picture frames. I have responsibilities here because I belong here, and I delight to do them, because I'm good at them, because He gave me the ability and the desire to do them. From time to time, I glance up at the banner over me, and I see that "LOVE" is actually saying many things simultaneously. I see that His banner over me is "PATIENT, KIND, UNRUDE." His banner over me is "ALWAYS HOPES, NEVER FAILS." His banner over me is "DOES NOT DELIGHT IN EVIL, BUT REJOICES WITH THE TRUTH." His banner over me is "FAITH, HOPE, AND LOVE ARE IMPORTANT, BUT THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE." His banner over me is "I LOVE YOU, TIRZAH; I LOVE YOU, TIRZAH; I LOVE YOU, TIRZAH; AND I CARE ENOUGH ABOUT YOU TO SPELL IT CORRECTLY EVERY TIME." His banner over me is "I AM SO GLAD YOU WERE BORN. WILL YOU MARRY ME?" His banner over me is "I ALLOWED MYSELF TO BE BEATEN, SCORNED, AND PUBLICLY HUMILIATED IN YOUR PLACE." His banner over me is "I DIED IN YOUR PLACE." His banner over me is "PLEASE REST HERE BETWEEN MY SHOULDERS. YOU BELONG WITH ME. YOU BELONG TO ME. YOU BELONG BECAUSE OF ME." His banner over me is "MY ADOPTED DAUGHTER FOREVER." His banner over me is "LOVE."

At the banqueting table / coffee table that I share with my cats, the meals are sometimes simple, sometimes drive-thru sophisticated, sometimes small, and sometimes large. But they're mine. My cats are welcome to perch close by and watch me eat, because they're mine, and they know where they belong, and they know who they belong to, whether their mama Tirzah is dining at a banqueting table, a banqueting hall, or a banqueting house, no matter what she happens to be dining. And they know that their mama loves them. My banner over them is "I WANT TO SMOOCH YOUR FUR OFF." My banner over them is "I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND ME BLOGGING ABOUT YOU WITHOUT YOUR PERMISSION, BECAUSE YOU'RE MY ROOMMATES WHO KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT ME." My banner over them is "I LOVE YOU, I'M YOUR MAMA, YOU'RE MY KITTIES, AND I'M SO GLAD I'M YOUR MAMA, AND I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE MINE."

Show 'em what you're made of

About 3 months ago, I got my wisdom teeth removed, and, of course, I blogged about it. Please feel free to catch up on the first post here and the second post here, if you like. (Unless, of course, you feel that reading about my rotting wisdom teeth is TMI; in which case, please feel free to skip my description of my newly posted photo.) Here you see a photo of my mouth. There in the shadowy spot behind my left molar is the gradually filling-up hole in my jaw where my left-bottom wisdom tooth used to be. My oral surgeon and his nurse explained to me that I had to take very good care of the 2 bottom gum-holes in my jaw so that they wouldn't become infected or injured after the teeth extractions. I had to be careful to not allow the blood clots deep in the bottom of my gum-holes to dislodge, or I could develop a condition called dry socket, which means that the nerves in my jaw would be continually exposed and continually screaming for mercy.

About a month after my surgery, I visited my regular dentist, who confirmed that my gum-holes were healing nicely, and he briefly explained that the healing happens "from the bottom up." My gum-holes have been gradually filling with new jawbone, from the bottom up, and it's important to keep them clean during the process.

And, of course, a metaphor was born inside my head.

"When an unclean spirit goes out of a man, he goes through dry places, seeking rest, and finds none. Then he says, 'I will return to my house from which I came.' And when he comes, he finds it empty, swept, and put in order. Then he goes and takes with him seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter and dwell there; and the last state of that man is worse than the first." (Matthew 12:43-45a)

After God pulls out a metaphorical rotting tooth out of my life, e.g., demons, strongholds, bad habits, terrible attitudes, etc., I need to fill up my metaphorical gum-hole with metaphorical new jawbone. Of course, the filling needs to be God's word. I think it heals from the bottom up: the blood clot would be God's truth.

For example, if God reveals and removes a lie in my life such as "Nobody will ever accept me," I need to replace it with God's truth such as these Bible verses: "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ... to the praise of the glory of His grace, by which He made us accepted in the Beloved." (Ephesians 1:3, 6)

If I'm feeling lonely and I don't know what to do about it, maybe if I'm wrestling with a lie such as "Nobody will ever want to be around me," I need to replace it with God's truth such as this Bible verse: "Jesus answered and said to [Judas], 'If anyone loves Me, he will keep My word; and My Father will love him, and We will come to him and make Our home with him.' " (John 14:23)

If metaphorical growing pains occur while metaphorical new jawbone is forming, and I freak out when somebody is wildly celebrated and I am not, and those old neglect and orphan wounds are flaring up at the old, still-healing roots, I can soothe them with God's truth like this Bible verse, where the Father in the prodigal son parable calms down the tantrumy older brother: "And he said to him, 'Son, you are always with me, and all that I have is yours.' " (Luke 15:31)

I am always with God, and all that He has is mine. I want that to be enough for me.

It's been fun and relieving to see areas in my life where my metaphorical new jawbone has been forming. My soul-catastrophes have shrunken. My fires have snuffed out quicker. My crises have been smaller. My freakout sessions have been shorter. For example, one day at work, God was like, "It took you 6 hours to get angry today." I used to get angry at my cubicle as soon as I'd arrive at work and open my Outlook. He's been showing me progress. And it's been all Him doing it.

"And you shall remember that the Lord your God led you all the way these forty years in the wilderness, to humble you and test you, to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep His commandments or not. So He humbled you, allowed you to hunger, and fed you with manna which you did not know nor did your fathers know, that He might make you know that man shall not live by bread alone; but man lives by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord." (Deuteronomy 8:2-3)

When God leads us into the wilderness, He wants to see what we're made of. It's sort of like a boot camp. In a way, He allows everything that was precious to us to be stripped off us, like Job. And in the hot, blazing sun, God lances every single one of the boils that have covered us from head to toe. Perhaps with each lancing, the enemy is right there waiting for us to curse God and die. And God, in His extreme, eternal faithfulness, is believing and declaring, "Nope, this one is going to make it. You'll see, enemy. And then she'll kick your butt, because My Son kicked your butt long before she was even born. And now she hates your guts more than she can do justice to describe on a tiny little blog post." Anyway, that's Tirzah's version of life in the wilderness.

Jesus was tempted in the wilderness, of course, and in Matthew 4, we all got to see what He was made of. He resisted very crafty temptations with flying colors. Then after we accept the sacrifice He made for us on the cross, we get to resist temptations, too. He helps us win.

Further back in the Bible, the Israelites spent a heck of a lot of time out in the wilderness. God taught them all kinds of things while He whipped them into shape, so to speak. He really was so good to them out there. He kept them fed with manna, He gave them water, He kept them organized with leadership, and He shepherded them with Moses, of all people. I could write forever about how awesome Moses was, but I would truly digress.

I think God found out who His friends really were among the Israelites, too, while they were in the wilderness. (I'm not a Bible scholar, but you're about to get Tirzah's cliffs-notes version of what happened.) God was like, "Hey, come hang out with Me on the mountain." The Israelites were like, "Uh, no, thanks. Moses can talk to You for us." Aaron and Miriam were like, "Hey! How come Moses gets to be the leader and not us?" God was like, "Uh, because I said so, and, oh, look, now you have leprosy." The Israelites were like, "Bleep this stupid manna. We want meat." And God was like, "Oh, My manna isn't good enough for you? Fine. I'll give you so much meat, you'll be sick of it." Even Moses accidentally dissed God in the wilderness. He hit a rock instead of speaking to it (so that the Israelites could get some water), and God disciplined him by keeping him in the wilderness. But I'm pretty sure Moses' mistake was redeemed, and I'm pretty sure he let God restore him, because He got to hang out with Elijah and Jesus in Matthew 17. And Moses' song is sung in heaven. I think that's awesome.

Speaking of Elijah, he escaped to the wilderness after Jezebel freaked him out, and he found God there. In His still, small voice, God was like, "What are you doing? You're Elijah! You rock! Shake this off and go kick some Jezebel!" (That was Tirzah's version of what really happened in 1 Kings 19.)

Yes, the wilderness, the desert, trials, and all of the above are very important processes that God uses to shape who we are and draw us closer to Him. However, I think sometimes the wilderness is put on a pedestal unnecessarily and almost unhealthily. I've heard people say things like, "Yeah, I like trials because God is, like, right there" or "Who wants to be up on the mountain? I prefer the valley." Well, I'm glad to hear that you enjoy being close to God and pitching a tent in the valley of the shadow of death. But that's not all there is to living a life with God.

"The Lord is near to ALL who call upon Him, to ALL who call upon Him in truth. He will fulfill the desire of those who fear Him; He also will hear their cry and save them." (Psalm 145:18-19, emphasis mine)

"Is anyone among you suffering? Let him pray. Is anyone cheerful? Let him sing psalms." (James 5:13)

See? You don't have to go through a hard time in order to be near to God. The wilderness isn't necessarily supposed to last forever. I think the wilderness is simply supposed to have a purpose that's supposed to last for a season. The wilderness is a place where God tests our faith in Him and our devotion to Him. I also think the wilderness is a place where we find out who are friends really are.

Anytime I've gone through a hard time, I've been able to see what's inside the hearts of the people around me, and I haven't always liked what I saw. I'll see it from the things they say, the things they do, or the things they don't say, or the things they don't do. It can be an extremely disappointing process, actually, on top of already going through a hard time.

Maybe my wilderness is also God's way of identifying my bad friends and removing them from my life. Sometimes when people weigh you down, you gotta just let 'em go. When you grow up surrounded by terribleness, you develop a tolerance for terribleness that's so huge, you won't realize that terribleness is terribleness. The wilderness is a great place to be alone with God and your issues, and sometimes He holds up a mirror or shows you an annual report or emails you the screenshot of an error message, and He shows you where something needs to be adjusted. He waves a red flag and says, "This is not OK." And sometimes that can take a while to sink in. Seeing how terrible many of my friendships were was kinda like that.

For example, after I vulnerably shared with one friend about how badly I was hurting because I didn't have a mother anymore, she basically said, "Oh, read books. The authors can be your mothers and fathers." And another one bites the dust: insensitive friend.

In a previous wilderness from several years ago, I walked with another friend who gave me a ton of spiritual instruction, left town, came back into my life again, caught up with me a bit, and then dropped off the face of the earth again. And another one bites the dust: unreliable friend.

One time, I shared with an old college friend about my dream of being a novelist. I had begun a draft, and I'd been working on it, and then I told her about it. She said, "Well, it'll be a good learning experience." And then she laughed. And another one bites the dust: mocking friend.

"Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stands in the path of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scornful; but his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in His law he meditates day and night. He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth its fruit in its season, whose leaf also shall not wither; and whatever he does shall prosper." (Psalm 1:1-3)

"The righteous should choose his friends carefully, for the way of the wicked leads them astray." (Proverbs 12:26)

"He who walks with wise men will be wise, but the companion of fools will be destroyed." (Proverbs 13:20)

While I've been coming to terms with my rejection, my abandonment, and my loneliness, and while God has been helping me punch all of that in the face, I've noticed that I don't have mockers holding me back anymore. Dang, that's a liberating feeling. I think the person in Psalm 1 is blessed not only because they delight on and meditate on God's word but because they don't have scornful mockers squelching out their dreams constantly. How am I going to bear fruit in due season if I have jerky people around me stomping out my dream-sprouts to death? I hope this doesn't sound cruel, but there are some friends that can hinder growth, and sometimes you gotta pull 'em out of your life by the roots, as if they were weeds in your garden.

Regarding the mocking friend I mentioned above, God showed me that I had to just let my novel-writing dream die. I have new dreams, and He is teaching me how to cultivate those. And maybe in the future, He'll give me a new novel-writing dream. But I don't want mockers around me to pulverize my dream-embers.

In order for dreams to come true, in order to make it through the wilderness, and in order to just live life in a healthy way, what every person needs is at least one good friend. Of course, Jesus is the ultimate Friend. He will always be there for me, and He will never, ever let me down, and He will never, ever, ever, ever, ever leave me (Hebrews 13:5). But we all need regular, fallible human-being friends, too. In Genesis 2, God said it wasn't good for man to be alone. Yes, He was talking about marriage, but I think He was also talking about being a human being in general. (Ecclesiastes 4 also talks about the necessity of friendship.) I've learned firsthand why it's not good to be alone. Isolation can do crazy things to a person. Having people around helps me keep a healthy perspective. If I have healthy people around me, I can bounce ideas off people and get healthy feedback. If I have people around me, I won't be able to keep my head up my butt, because I'll need to be able to consider the fact that other people are living lives, too. Not everything is about me.

So, the wilderness is a great place to find out who your friends truly are, because the wilderness is a really hard place that you're stuck in for a really long time, and you go through some really crazy stuff that you'll need help processing. I've discovered that I can't talk to just anybody about my dreams, my issues, my triumphs, or my struggles. Some people will make fun of me. Some people will blow me off. Some people won't take me seriously. Some people will flatter me and never find anything wrong with me. But as a human being who wants to be healthy, I need a balance. I need to know who I can lean on when I'm struggling. I need to know who I can count on. I need to know who I can trust to give good advice. Deciding who is healthy for me during the long haul has been a surprisingly liberating feeling.

I think my friend Powerhouse is an excellent example of a long-haul friend who I can count on during a hard time. ("Powerhouse" describes her, but it isn't her real name. It's kinda like her superhero name. It's a bird! It's a plane! It's... my friend! Fanfare plays.) Powerhouse certainly isn't perfect, just like I'm certainly not perfect. I've seen many of her blemishes. But I've also seen her change over time as she's allowed God to do plenty of stuff in her life. Iron has sharpened iron, Proverbs 27:17-style. She's sensitive, she's reliable, and she wants to support my pursuit of my dreams. And I hope it's mutual.

Powerhouse isn't just a "Hey, I'm here for you" friend who never shows up. She has consistently shown concern for me and interest in me. And it's mutual. Lately, our schedules have been very incompatible, so we haven't been able to see each other often. But even in the midst of her busy schedule, she'll check on me. And I'll check on her. Technology exists, and we use it to cultivate the garden of our friendship. We want it to grow. We challenge each other, and we follow up on each other. We fight prayer-battles on each other's behalf. We encourage each other. We warn each other. We give each other feedback.

And it isn't always pretty. I'll be like, "I felt neglected." And Powerhouse will be like, "I felt manipulated." And we'll work through it. I know where I stand with her, and she knows where she stands with me. Even in the midst of our crazy schedules, we remember details about each other's lives. Powerhouse is an excellent friend, she's a useful friend, and she's a cherished friend. Powerhouse reminds me of Jesus.

"A man who has friends must himself be friendly, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother." (Proverbs 18:24)

From what I understand, Jesus is the Friend that Proverbs 18 talks about. You can be as friendly, social, and popular as you want, but when hard times hit, you'll want to know who will stick close to you for support.

Jesus is the One who never fails to challenge me, correct me, or be there for me. He's the most intimate Friend that I'll ever have, because He's God. I don't think God my Father cares how old I am; if I'm hurting, and I need the type of TLC that a toddler needs when she's hurting, He's going to give it to me. He lets me cry on His shoulder, He speaks words of comfort, He looks out for me, and He spends a tremendous amount of time with me, because He's my Daddy. The Holy Spirit is always around, too, and He's like the Perfect Coach who talks me through things and keeps tabs on things for me and tells me when to do certain things. We enjoy each other's company, and we'll be together forever.

I am always with God, and all that He has is mine. Jesus and the Father have come to make Their home with me. The Holy Spirit is my Perfect Counselor who is always there for me. And I'm OK with that now.

After the rotting teeth are extracted and the gum-holes begin to fill up with new jawbone, there's gonna be pain. And a new, solid structure will be built that will be chiseled and beautiful and strong. Along the way, I'll separate myself from people, I'll bond with other people, and my God will help me sort through it all. Because He's the most sensitive, reliable, supportive Person in the universe, and He always will be.

Honestly, one reason why I don't have a problem typing up long, rambling internet posts is because I think it's a way of identifying long-haul friends. If I only hear complaints about the sincere expressions of my heart, that's a red flag. If I get mocked or ridiculed, that's a deal-breaker. If I hear constructive criticism, that's a gift. Thank you for reading.