Normal

This post is rated R for really gross bathroom stories.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Optimistic disillusionment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deep, happy sigh. Honesty feels good.

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

Whatevs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On vacation?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Acceptance, abandonment

The other night while I was driving home, I asked myself out loud, "Why is acceptance so foreign to me?" I thought this was a heartbreaking question to hear myself ask myself. This still bothers me. This evening while I was at the beautiful coin laundromat, I asked God if my statement from the other night broke His heart to hear. He was like, "Not really. I designed you with every intention of accepting you." I guess maybe I broke my own heart. Good grief! Does it ever end?

Eventually. It will more than likely end eventually. I guess I have to just accept that.

Wait. Did I just hide behind humor again? Arrrgh, Tirzah, stop protecting yourself! Bah! Psychotherapy overload!

"Jesus answered and said to him, '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)

I think I can safely substitute "she" and "her" for "he" and "him" in the verse above.

Speaking of homes, I think I had a hard time settling in one when I was a kid. Anytime life would get hard, the family would move. "Where are you from?" or "Where did you grow up?" are usually unpleasant questions for me to answer, because the most accurate answer is "Texas." It's the truth. I was born in Austin. When I was a baby, we moved to Bastrop. When I was 6, we moved back to Austin. When I was 9, we moved to Dallas. When I was 15, we moved to Odessa. While I was in Odessa, if you count my college years, we lived in 4 different houses. It was maddening. On the bright side, I am somewhat of an expert in moving.

"The church you grew up in" evokes similarly unpleasant emotions. While we lived in Austin, we went to 3 different churches. While we lived in Dallas, we went to 4 different churches. While we lived in Odessa, we went to 2 different churches. And I think I may have missed a couple. And I didn't count all the ones that we visited while Dad was filling the pulpit. Honestly, I think church congregations nowadays take it for granted that everyone who has a church background automatically knows the words to hymns. Perhaps that is one reason why I hate hymns in general. Sometimes I grew up in an English-speaking church, and sometimes I grew up in a Spanish-speaking church. Sometimes I would sing hymns in English, and sometimes I would sing hymns in Spanish. By the time I was old enough to become remotely interested in the music, I was recruited (honestly, I was kinda guilt-tripped) into becoming the church pianist. (Off topic, is it just me, or is "pee-a-nist" just a totally weird pronunciation for that word?) I didn't really get a chance to memorize hymn lyrics. On the bright side, I am somewhat of an expert in adjusting churchwise.

So, I grew up in an environment that was constantly discontented and where people and things were constantly being replaced. Almost nothing lasted for very long. Almost everything was replaceable. If you didn't like something or didn't feel appreciated, you could just pack up and leave forever.

Speaking of abandonment, recently after an extremely difficult emotional day, I was sitting in my car and talking to God, and I asked Him when I first started feeling a fear of abandonment. He was like, "You've always felt it, even when you were in your mother's womb. Your mother would abandon your needs to meet the needs of your father." When I say this, I don't mean to disrespect anyone; I mean to be honest, and I mean to understand why I struggle with the things that I struggle with. I was raised by a woman who found her identity in being a mother, and I was raised by a man who was perpetually a child. They were a perfect match for one another. I just think they accidentally kicked me to the curb in the process. Even my therapist said that they abandoned their roles as parents. I honestly felt treated more like a student than a treasure. Students are relationships that tend to only last temporarily. They're in your classroom for a while, and they're supposed to remain at a distance. They're not supposed to inherit your fortune or help you grow old or connect with you emotionally on a permanent basis. They're supposed to leave. Eventually.

And yet, as a perpetually, unnecessarily traveling family that didn't trust outsiders, we had to cling to one other to survive. I think we were emotionally distant from one another while we were enmeshed with one another. Maddening! Psychotherapy!

So, this is making sense. I wondered why God was telling me that I have a fear of intimacy. I've heard that the fear of intimacy and the fear of abandonment are interchangeable. I already thought I was plenty intimate with God, but maybe I'm shrinking back in a way that I'm not noticing. Or maybe God wants to pull me even deeper and help me feel emotions that are even more explosive.

I think my rejection issues and my abandonment issues are intermingled, and I think they're exposed and freaking me out a little bit right now. But not in a despairing, hopeless way. I'm just glad to see all of these things coming together right now. I want to work through them.

Even when I started writing this post, I felt petrified, and I felt a tear roll down my cheek. My cat sat on my thigh and purred.

My cats. I have known them and have stayed with them for 14 years. That's not normal, and that's not consistent with a rejection/abandonment lifestyle.

I'm not designed for perpetual temporariness. I'm designed for faithfulness. The latter feels more natural to me. I think maybe that's why my upbringing was so hurtful, even without me realizing it at the time.

I think inside me, I'm expecting everything that's precious to me to disintegrate and float away forever, just like everything else. I think inside me, I'm expecting everyone to turn their backs on me and replace me with a newer, younger model, just like everyone else has in the past. My expectations are rejection and abandonment, instead of acceptance and intimacy. My expectations suck. I think I need some new ones. I think I need some healthy ones.

God is definitely the place to start. He makes His home with me. He lives inside me. He's here permanently. He won't pack up and leave just because He's unhappy. He'll slice me open, dig around, and clean me out so intimately that I'll beg for more.

So, when I first started this round of psychotherapy, my therapist explained that she usually sees clients for 8-10 sessions. Today, she explained that she will see me for 12 sessions. She explained that some of my therapy goals will be accepting that some things in my past were just the way they were.

But, as I mentioned previously, acceptance is so foreign to me. And I think I know why. And I don't think it needs to stay that way.

You know what? I'm worth it. God certainly thinks so. My cats certainly think I'm worth hanging around. These three are the ones who know me the best and see me the most, and they want me. I want me, too.

People can want me, too. I don't have to be utterly shocked anytime anyone sticks around in my life for longer than a year or two. I don't have to wonder when the excitement with my presence in their lives will wear off. Maybe it never will. Maybe some of the people in my life don't want it to. Maybe not everybody is programmed to pack up and leave at the slightest hint of imperfection.

Dang it. No wonder I need therapy!

My cat is purring on my thigh right now, and I'm not forcing her to get this close to me. I think she actually likes me. I don't think she's actually using me for my Purina-serving skills.

Wow. I don't have to be afraid of acceptance, either. God doesn't make fun of me for being honest. Maybe other people won't mock me, either, for being myself when I try to get close to them. I really do belong. I really am enough.

I think this will take a really long time to sink in. And you know what? I hope it takes an extremely long time. If I'm going to get rebuilt, I would like for the job to be done the right way. And I trust the Builder to do His thing perfectly, just like He always does.

So, I can accept that things in my past/present have been/are terrible. That is OK. And even I'm acceptable. Some people are quite possibly going to abandon me, period, especially when they see what I'm really like deep, down inside. And if they're going to reject me, anyway, I would much rather them see the real me than some fakey-fake people-pleasing whitewashed me. I think that means that the people who accept me will treat me to a relationship that is that much sweeter.

Also on the bright side, "abandonment" doesn't always mean "to walk away forever." It also has a positive definition. If I abandon myself TO something, I give myself over to it completely. If I abandon myself TO God, I give myself over to Him completely. That is worship. That is ripping myself open, sharing the most precious parts of myself, risking total rejection, possibly even setting myself up for total desertion. But worshiping somebody or something that would pervert my abandonment would be foolish. Worshiping the only One who will never, ever leave me or forsake me, period, the only One who will always accept me because of His purity, isn't foolish. It's what I was created for.

If you need me, I will be in a fetal position while hugging myself and taking deep breaths.

Young lions

"The young lions lack and suffer hunger; but those who seek the Lord shall not lack any good thing." (Psalm 34:10)

When Macho was a kitten, he helped me understand this verse. Technically, he's a 14-year-old cat now, and he's more of an old tiger than a young lion.

But when he was a kitten, I wasn't his owner. I was friends with his owner, and I would sleep over at her house sometimes. (I was clinically depressed and afraid of my apartment, and she enjoyed hosting me in her spare bedroom. I don't think either of us had 8-to-5 jobs. Good times.) When I would wake up in the mornings, Macho would stand on his hind legs and look out the windows that stood about two feet off the floor. At first, I thought he was just admiring the beauty of nature in the mornings. Sigh. Sensitive cat. But then I discovered that a flock of birds would visit the back lawn in the mornings. That meant that Macho wasn't really admiring nature. He was window-stalking his prey. Arrrgh. Hunter cat.

I believe it was sometime after I moved into that house as a roommate that I witnessed another window-hunting phenomenon. Suddenly, without warning, Macho leapt from the couch onto the window blinds in pursuit of a squirrel. Of course, Macho just dangled there (and the blinds had a permanent droop after that incident), and his owner screamed, and the squirrel remained safe outdoors, and I think I probably laughed my head off.

14 years later, he's still perpetually hungry. In this current photo that I shared (which was miraculously not photo-bombed by my Siamese puma), I got him to look at the camera by saying something food-related ("dinner," I think). Macho would rather have Purina than catnip, and his genuine bottomless pit of a hunger never ceases to amaze (or surprise) me.

"So I wept much, because no one was found worthy to open and read the scroll, or to look at it. But one of the elders said to me, 'Do not weep. Behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has prevailed to open the scroll and the loose its seven seals.' " (Revelation 4:4-5)

Technically, Jesus is the Lion of Judah. So technically, since Jesus is like my Big Brother, and God is my Father, I'm like a young lioness.

I'm not talking personalitywise. My personality is definitely NOT a lion, at least in the sense that I am NOT, in general, a driven, take-charge, results-oriented person. I'm more of a... wait. I'm sorry. What was I saying? I distracted myself by imagining a river of caramel flowing through my imagination. Hmm. That reminds me of a Billy Joel song. That was actually playing loudly on the radio of a car that drove past the beautiful coin laundromat the other day. Sigh.

Wait. What was I saying? That's right. Personalitywise, I'm not a lion. And yet, I can very much relate to the ferocious hunger that young lions feel. And there is a ferocious wildness inside me that rises up at very interesting times. I think some people may call her "Mama Bear," but I prefer to call her "The Snarling Shepherdess."

I think she usually shows up whenever her "young" are threatened. Recently, while I was in my kitchen, I saw a small roach sprint across a sink or counter, and I heard myself chanting, "Oh, I don't think so" repetitively like a deranged exterminator while I grabbed a nearby napkin or paper towel to introduce the roach to its Maker. (I'm 100% secure in my femininity, but I am so NOT a girl when it comes to handling pests.) Creepy-crawly intruders, I'm sorry, but you're trespassing, and you will NOT be allowed to stay in my home or come anywhere near my babies. So, don't mess with the shepherdess.

The Snarling Shepherdess showed up suddenly today at work, too, and she stayed with me during my entire shift. As soon as I checked my email this morning, a project leader pounced on a new trainee and broadcast her mistakes and my mistakes to more than one person on my team. OK, so unnecessarily criticizing me in front of my peers is one thing. However, mercilessly shaming an innocent "young" coworker is another thing altogether. I replied as diplomatically as I could (and possibly a bit too wildly) that I would appreciate it if the project leader wouldn't air out our mistakes in front of everybody in the future. Later, I found out that another coworker -- one who is "young" senioritywise and a very strong, productive, dedicated worker -- had quite possibly been on probation, too, judging from her "If you don't like my work, you can fire me" joke. Excuse me, extremely terrible employer? Threaten MY coworkers with the same crap you pulled on me? Oh, I don't think so. Oh, I don't think so. Oh, I don't think so. Oh, I don't think so. Oh, I don't think so.

It's funny how much a situation can change in a matter of seconds. One day, I'm fighting off the temptation to cut myself because I know I won't live up to my manager's expectations. The next day, I'm ready to bite my manager's head off for bullying my coworkers. Oh, I don't think so. You stay away from my "young" ones, Your Incompetentness.

So, all that to say, I can definitely understand how aggressive young lions can be. When they get hungry, they're out for blood. They don't care what it looks like, sounds like, or smells like -- they're gonna take somebody out, and it's gonna be quick, and they won't have time to barbecue because they'll be too busy scarfing it down raw.

Psalm 34:10 says that even these crazy-brave, wild creatures, these young lions, despite their ferocious attempts at locating food... even these young lions will lack and suffer hunger. But those who seek the Lord won't lack any good thing.

Even if I were to ferociously stalk the choicest of meats in the entire universe, I would STILL come up short. But if I were to (benignly) ferociously stalk the Lion of Judah and pounce on Him, I'll find Him, and I won't lack any good thing, because He'll make sure I have everything I need. Shucks. He IS everything I need.

Even the young lions LACK. They STARVE. But if I seek God, I won't lack. I won't starve. Psalm 23:1 confirms this. Matthew 5:6 confirms this.

Even the young lions, with their driven, take-charge, results-oriented personalities, lack and suffer hunger. But regardless of my personality, even the one that likes to serenade God my Father with Queen songs, if I seek Him, I won't lack or suffer hunger. I won't be disappointed. I won't be ashamed. I am the champion, my friend, and I'll keep on fighting till the end. No time for losers, 'cause I am the champion of the world.

Because Jesus is the Conqueror. I am more than a conqueror. He's the Lion of Judah. I'm a young lion who won't lack or suffer hunger, because I'm seeking God. He's a lot of fun to talk to during a long commute home. I like Him. I want to hang out with Him forever.

In the middle of the night (middle of the night) I go walking in my sleep (I go walking in my sleep).

The vending machine

In my previous post, I mentioned that I have PMS. I hope my talking openly about PMS doesn't make you uncomfortable, because PMS is a natural part of life. And, honestly, there are times when my being witchy is just 100% hormonal, so I think it's good to at least know when I can blame hormones for witchiness. And, of course, chocolate usually makes PMS-related witchiness magically disappear, so it's good to have some in stock for those special times of the month. But other times, when I become angry, it isn't PMS's fault.

There's a verse in the Bible that says to not let the sun go down on your anger (Ephesians 4:26), and I think it's usually quoted in the context of married couples. But in my case, I don't think not letting the sun go down on my anger means don't literally go to bed until you've resolved your anger (especially since God often encourages me to sleep and take a break so that I can enjoy a few moments of bliss before I wake up the next morning and suddenly remember why I've been so ticked off). I think not letting the sun go down on my anger means not procrastinating working through my anger.

Anger is such a misunderstood emotion. And it's such a fragile, delicate one to work with, despite its loud scariness. If you express it all at once, not caring who you puke on, you could expose a scary part of your flesh that could permanently hurt somebody else. If you keep it all to yourself, it could fester inside you and become depression. But if you express it to God, He will take it and make something good out of it, and He'll pop it like a boil and let all the pus and junk flow out, and you'll temporarily wonder why God isn't getting mad at you in return and punching your lights out to finally end your misery. He's absorbing your emotion, and He's comforting you, and He's actually still wanting a relationship with you while simultaneously seeing all of your icky issues. (And when I say "you," I mean "me.")

But anger is often frowned upon, especially in Christian circles, so it's rarely expressed healthily, and I think leaders rarely set good examples on how to be angry and not sin (Psalm 4:4). But that is my opinion. In this post, I'm not trying to be a good Christian leader who's setting an example. I'm just trying to resolve an anger issue I've had for a while.

"And when you pray, you shall not be like the hypocrites. For they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the corners of the streets, that they may be seen by men. Assuredly, I say to you, they have their reward. But you, when you pray, go into your room, and when you have shut your door, pray to your Father who is in the secret place; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you openly." (Matthew 6:5-6)

This particular post will be a lot like this older post, but I'm mainly just going to vent.

Like I mentioned previously, I have PMS. In my monthly hormonal state, I made a wonderful discovery, of which I've shared a photo. Ohhhhh, chocolate. I found this beautiful bag at Target. Yeah, that's right. You won't find this awesome stuff in a dinky little vending machine.

Vending machines are peculiar things, really. They offer interesting (or sometimes uselessly boring) selections of snacks at often ridiculously expensive prices. The other day, I thought I would bypass the $10-for-a-bag-of-beef-jerky vending solution at my job and visit the building's vending machine downstairs near the lobby. There was an extended "Oh my gosh, we are so sorry if you lose money in this machine, we care about you, we can reimburse you with a gift card, come visit our café" apology pasted to the front of the vending machine. I should have taken this as a warning. But I deposited $1.25 for a Butterfinger into the machine anyway and, of course, my candy got stuck inside the machine. I think $1.25 is a relatively cheap price for a lesson learned. So, I have a couple of boxes of chocolately snacks ready to go to work with me tomorrow. But I've visited many other vending machines in the past, of course, that were priced much better and that actually worked. You just stick some coins in the slot or a dollar bill in the green-arrowed slot and, voila, you have something to quiet your tummy's rumbling. (And I always enjoy collecting the change for later. Will my next vending-machine victim enjoy receiving 12 dimes and one nickel as payment for a Butterfinger? Maniacal laughter!)

However, there's a problem. The last time I checked, I don't have a coin slot or a green-arrowed dollar-bill slot installed anywhere on my forehead. Why not? Because I'm a person, not a vending machine. Unfortunately, I sometimes feel treated like a vending machine instead of a person. I'll explain why.

I've heard that one way you can tell that you're gifted in intercession (which is basically praying for other people) is when you feel very honored when people ask you to pray for them. According to that definition, I am probably 100% NOT gifted in intercession whatsoever. I honestly dread receiving prayer requests.

And I honestly dread receiving prayer. If you ever hear a mental health case screech, "I DON'T WANT ANY BLEEPING PRAYER!!!" at the top of her lungs during a church service, it's probably me.

Maybe it's a pride thing. Maybe it's a bitterness thing. Maybe it's a loneliness thing. Maybe it's a post-traumatic stress thing leftover from so much spiritual abuse. Maybe it's all of the above. I'm not 100% sure. But this is what I've been working through lately. This is where I am right now.

Last summer, as you may have read about, I got my wisdom teeth removed. I was concerned before the surgery, so I asked many people to pray for me. They did, and I appreciate it, because the surgery was a success. What bothered me is that as soon as I asked for prayer for a SURGERY (which is often a prayer motif), everybody and their grandma replied very speedily with an "I'll pray for you!" But after my surgery, I spent four days by myself in my apartment. I had to watch Mr. Rogers videos so that I could have somebody talk to me and encourage me. Mr. Rogers passed away about 10 years ago. What is wrong with this picture?

Sure, God took care of me while I was recovering from my surgery, as I knew He would, because He's a good, doting Mama with the most dependable bedside manner in the universe. But where was His church? Where were His hands and feet? Have I mentioned lately that finding God is a matter of life or death?

When people approach me and ask me (or tell me) to pray for them/somebody/something, I feel like they treat me like a vending machine. Just stick your coins and/or dollar bills into the slots in Tirzah's forehead, and you'll have instant spiritual gratification. Right? Um, wrong, and I'm sorry if reading that disgusted you, but that's how I feel all the time.

As Matthew 6:6 explains, prayer technically isn't relationship-building between you and me. It's relationship-building between you and God. You won't get closer to me by praying. You'll get closer to God. You won't get any reward from me by praying. (You might get some change out of the other slot, though.) You'll get rewarded by God. Prayer is something that happens between you and God, not you and me. (Even if I'm in the room while you're praying for me or with me.) Prayer is an expression of relationship between you and God.

However, prayer isn't an expression of relationship between you and me. A prayer won't hug me. A prayer won't offer me a Kleenex while I'm crying. A prayer won't hang out with me. A prayer won't watch a movie with me. A prayer won't offer me a ride to church. A prayer won't drive me to my dental follow-up visits. I can't buy dinner for a prayer. A prayer isn't a human being.

Technically, you don't need a friend to pray for you. You can technically receive prayer from a perfect stranger. You can approach somebody, anybody, at church, and ask them to pray for you. You can email a church organization who may possibly never, ever meet you and ask them to pray for you. You can call a prayer hotline from TV and receive prayer that way, too.

I feel like when people offer to pray for me, and if that's ALL that they offer, they create a huge distance between me and them. Or I feel like they completely destroy any kind of bridge of friendship that's been built between me and them. For example, I HATE it when I pour out my heart to a friend for like an hour, and after that conversation, they ask me, "So, how can I pray for you?" Excuse me? Um, were you not paying attention? Of course, you can always use prayer for manipulation, too. Recently, a friend emailed me and said, "Let me know how I can specifically pray for you." I was like, "You can pray that people who like me will get off their butts and spend time with me."

Seriously, I feel like the only way I can get people's attention anymore is if I tack the words "Please pray" onto whatever it is I'm saying. That will get people's attention REAL quick. I don't get it. If I were to say, "I'm lonely, I'm miserable, I'm depressed, I was fighting thoughts of self-harm at my desk the other day while I was at work," I'll get crickets. But if I were to say, "Please pray for my great-aunt, whom you've never met and will never meet, who is about to have surgery in Alaska," people who I haven't heard from in years will come out of the woodwork and shower me with promises to pray.

I am not a vending machine, and neither are you.

I am a human being who has a genuine need for genuine connection with other human beings. That's how God designed me. I have pesky little things called "emotions" that surface every once in a while because, as I mentioned, I am a phenomenon called "a human being." I am sorry if any of that makes you uncomfortable. I am sorry that I do not feed enough prayer requests into your forehead-slots to keep you engaged with my life.

Of course, there are probably lots of crazy wounds floating around inside me that God is still healing, as far as prayer is concerned. He and I talk about it from time to time. I'll be like, "I really hate prayer," and He'll be like, "You realize you're praying right now, don't you?" I think there are still some crooked things inside me that God is straightening out, as far as prayer is concerned. I've gone to a few prayer classes at church, and I bought a book about prayer that I hope to read sometime this year. And, of course, I pray. And I'm thankful that the God of the universe is merciful and gracious enough to NOT burn me to a crisp whenever I puke my prayer-witchiness-anger all over Him.

And even though I feel like prayer can't really do much to bond two people together in friendship, I have noticed that the more you care about a friend, the more natural it will be to pray for them without them even asking you to. The more you like a person, the more you'll be willing to pray Psalm 85 over them in the middle of the night with tears streaming from your eyes.

But I repeat: I am not a vending machine, and neither are you.

HUNGRY!

This post will be, in a way, a new twist on this older post.

This is a photo of my bagel with berry spread (atop 70s plate), a second helping of my snack this evening. I usually don't snack this epically at night, but I felt like I needed to. I ate a very early dinner, probably around 4:45 p.m., and it's OK for a woman with PMS to have the epic munchies.

If you're a male who's reading this, no worries, PMS really is as scary as it sounds. Honestly, I really don't think we women understand it, either. For a few days a month, we become phenomenally moody monsters with absurdly huge appetites, and chocolate mysteriously makes our symptoms disappear for a while. Seriously, I don't get it. I just go with the mysteriously hormonal flow.

But you don't have to have PMS to have the epic munchies.

I've heard that males can also get cranky when they're hungry. I've heard that they have higher metabolism than we women have, in general, and that their wives like to be diligent to serve their meals on time so as to keep peace in the household.

But I really don't think hunger is just a gender thing. I think regardless of gender, hunger is a deep ache that must be satisfied if human life is going to continue at all.

Maybe that All-Bran I've been eating for breakfast at 6 a.m. hasn't been sticking to my ribs before I start my 9:30 a.m. job, or maybe it's the PMS, or maybe it's the hourlong commute, or maybe it's all of the above... I don't know what it is exactly, but I've gotten epically hungry lately right before I've begun my work shift. I know from experience that those dainty little fat-free snacks I have at my desk won't last me until lunch. And I know that the snack-vending situation at my job won't be helpful at all. (Sorry, but if your credit card machine isn't working, that means you don't want my business. (Especially if you charge $10 for a bag of beef jerky.)) So, I've stopped at McDonald's a couple of times for a second breakfast right before work. I'm not a hobbit, but I know from experience that I can't work on an empty stomach. I'll be very distracted in trying to find something, anything, to satisfy my hunger. And, not to mention, I'll be cranky and watch the clock like a hawk to see if it's lunchtime yet.

(As a side note, I've noticed that when I'm fasting, all of the hunger rules are completely different. I don't think I've ever keeled over from lack of food during a fast. I don't think God would ever be like, "Hey, I want you to eat only salads for two weeks" and then laugh maniacally when I pass out. He isn't cruel. I think He gives a special grace to abstain from certain foods, etc., during a fast.)

When I'm hungry, I'm barely able to function at all, and life pretty much stops until I can find something substantial to consume. If my hunger isn't satisfied deeply and properly, I'll be miserable.

In recent years, I've had major hunger pangs late at night. These episodes have only happened about three or four times, but they concerned me because I would feel a very sharp pain in my back that would go away after I would eat something and then take ibuprofen. When I would wake up the next morning, I would be fine. According to an internet search, this was only a hunger pain, but I should probably get a checkup sometime eventually just in case it's something else. (As a result, I try to not go to bed hungry.)

These episodes were scary. The last one was especially painful. I'm glad God has an impeccably good bedside manner. But I also wonder if the psalmists experienced something similar.

"My back is filled with searing pain; there is no health in my body." (Psalm 38:7, NIV)

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled." (Matthew 5:6)

Speaking of health issues, I recently discovered that my cat Choochie has an overactive thyroid. This is definitely a concern, and I definitely will seek treatment for her soon. But it was good to have this diagnosis, because knowing about her thyroid helps me understand why she was having such crazy symptoms, some of which I accepted to be normal for her. I thought maybe her fingernails were supposed to be thick. I thought maybe she was supposed to vomit multiple times before she would finally hawk up a hairball. I thought maybe she was just supposed to be petite. I thought maybe she just chews on the doorstops to get my attention until I feed her because her metabolism is supposed to be jacked up so high. But maybe all that stuff isn't supposed to be normal. (And maybe she isn't even supposed to be belching as much as she does. When she was a kitten, I thought her pungent flatulence was endearing.)

But Choochie gets ravenously hungry. She gets the epic munchies. And she's not ashamed to find me and tell me about her need.

I understand the metaphor that God's word (His spoken word and the Bible) is supposed to be our spiritual food. I understand that if I don't let God feed me directly from Himself, I'll die. And I understand that each one of us is born with what many people call a "God-shaped hole." In other words, I understand that we have needs that only God can satisfy. If we don't have God in our lives, we're spiritually dead. If Jesus doesn't live inside us, we're goners for all of eternity.

But the term "God-shaped hole" has become too cheesy for me. That's it? We only have one hole, and God is supposed to fit neatly inside of it like a factory-sawn puzzle piece?

Physically, when I'm racked with genuine hunger, my body doesn't just have a breakfast-shaped hole that only a Sausage McMuffin With Egg can fill. The cashier at the drive-thru doesn't tell me to turn to #94 in my breakfast hymnal for a cozy little altar call. No, I'm tearing down the highway, weaving between cars, trying to beat the clock, knowing that if I don't successfully make it to the drive-thru and order my Sausage McMuffin With Egg, a catastrophic sequence of events will occur: I will spend a large part of my morning seeking an acceptable substitute for a snack while meeting disappointment at every turn, I will eat an absurdly early lunch around 10:55 a.m., I will be ravenously hungry all over again and will spend another large part of my afternoon seeking a preferably-under-$10 snack while meeting another heap of disappointment, I will be absurdly and hopelessly hungry for dinner around 4 p.m., and my productivity for the day will be shot to heck. I will be cranky, frazzled, and almost useless as a human being without my Sausage McMuffin With Egg. Unless I successfully make it to the drive-thru that morning and order my Sausage McMuffin With Egg, I won't have anything sticking to my ribs, comforting my belly and fueling my brain, my wit, my heart, my soul.

Of course, my recent breakfast love affair with Sausage McMuffin With Egg is a very silly metaphor, but it really does remind me of my ravenous quest for God.

When I'm tortured with spiritual hunger, I don't just have a neat little "God-shaped hole" inside me. If I don't track down my God -- my One and Only true God, my First Love, my Life Source -- I won't just have a tiny little tummy growl. Life as I know it will end. I will spend most of my time groping around for comfort from anywhere I can find it, and the satisfaction will only be temporary. Whatever it is I find to temporarily dull the pain will only go away after a very short while, and I'll be hurting all over again. No codependent relationship, no job overtime, no TV show, no all-you-can-eat buffet, no sexual fantasy, no selfish ambition, no dip into the pit, NOTHING will be able to stick to my ribs -- metaphorically speaking -- and feed me like God can. Once I find Him, I can take a deep breath, know that everything will be OK, and proceed successfully with my day.

This is life or death. This is serious business. This isn't just a convenient little religion that you spend $10 on and store at your desk for whenever you get the casual munchies. This isn't something that you can conveniently plug into from 11 a.m. to 12 p.m. on Sundays, 7 p.m. to 8 p.m. on Wednesdays, and then forget about the rest of the week. This is life or death.

A couple of years ago, my church recorded a worship CD. Before the recording, our pastor gave us an exhortation. In other words, he gave us a very polite, timely warning. He said that sometimes after the greatest triumphs, we can be open to major temptation, so we should be on our guard. He was right. I remember I sang in my church choir during that CD recording. It was the culmination of months of work and preparation, and it was an exhilarating experience. Then when I came home that evening, as soon as I closed the front door of my apartment and noticed that I didn't have anyone to share my triumph with, I thought, "Oh, this is why rock stars do drugs," and I was hit with a dangerously tempting loneliness.

What are you gonna do when that type of stuff hits? I can't be satisfied with dinky little snacks anymore. I need a hearty banquet to feast upon. This chick gets HUNGRY! This really is a matter of life or death.

God is my Friend, my Father, my Family, my Counselor, my Comforter, my Restorer, my Redeemer, the One who lets me cry on His shoulder, the One who laughs when I tell Him about the ludicrous thoughts that sometimes cross my mind, the One who firmly tells me no, the One who gently tells me yes, the One who hasn't burned me to a crisp even though He's a consuming fire and I've asked Him for multiple hugs, the One who has never failed to show up when I need Him, the One who romantically knows what I need before I ask for it, the One who writes stories that are so much more entertaining than any dumb old TV show, the One who exists even though I can't see Him with my measly little human eyes, the One who reserves a spot between His shoulders just for me, the One who I've needed all my life and didn't even know it. This One is my food. This One is my sustenance. This One sticks to my ribs and fuels every fiber of my being. I need Him. I NEED HIM. I NEED HIM!!!

He isn't a feeling, a figment of my imagination, or a freak. He's a Real Person.

I truly can't feast upon anyone else but Him, not anymore. He's ruined me for life.