In memoriam, in reflection

Wow. When God said Choochie would go suddenly, He wasn't kidding. I had been instructed to take her back to the vet if she didn't poop within 48 hours; so since she went about 96 hours without pooping, I took her back to the vet. I explained that if she couldn't be helped, I would consider having her put to sleep. The doctor said Choochie didn't look good and that if she were her cat, she would euthanize her. So, early Monday evening, about three days after her kidney-disease diagnosis, my Choochie was put to sleep. She was 17 years old and weighed only 3.08 pounds.

This post is dedicated to her memory.

This is my favorite photo of Choochie and Macho together. (Choochie is the sassy kitten on the left.) I think I took it around February 2001, shortly after she had gotten spayed. Macho was still my roommate's cat and happened to be hanging out in my room when I took the picture.

Through the years, one thing that God put on my heart about my feisty little cat was this: He designed Choochie just for me. Everything about her -- her friendliness, her adorableness, her petiteness, her sweetness, her endearing tendency to trill instead of meow, the fact that she was mixed-Siamese (a breed known for its longevity) -- was designed with me in mind.

I think God made sure that I ended up with her. A friend of mine knew that I wanted a cat, found out that a friend of hers wanted to get rid of her kitten, and told me about it. She said that her friend was trying to find a home for a sweet, white, mixed-Siamese kitten who had been scratching their three-year-old daughter because they couldn't afford to get the kitten declawed. This was back in 2000 when I was battling depression, so when I met Choochie, I wasn't all that impressed. I put her in a borrowed pet carrier (which later became mine), placed her in the back seat of my car, and drove her home. At one point, she fussed while I was driving, so I reached back, poked my fingers through the pet carrier, and pet her. When it was safe to look back, I noticed that she had closed her eyes and was purring while I was petting under her chin.

That was when I fell in love with her. (And I guess you could say that I rescued her from being declawed.)

About a month and a half later, I went on a mission trip to Boston for a week. My roommate informed me that Choochie pooped in the corner of the living room (under a TV cabinet) in my absence, which I'm assuming was in protest of my absence. When I returned from my trip in the wee hours of the morning, I remember sitting on the edge of my bed with Choochie perched and purring on my thigh.

Almost a week after that, I had an emotional breakdown and drove out of town to escape everything. While I was away, I remember eating dinner at a Pizza Hut and looking out the window. A cat who looked like Choochie was hanging around a Dumpster, and I suddenly wanted to go back home. Almost immediately after I did, I attempted suicide, and I included Choochie in my suicide note. (I mentioned that my roommate could have her.) Fortunately, my suicide attempt didn't work, so I kept my kitten.

Unfortunately, as a consequence of my actions, my roommate wanted me to move out for a little while, and a retired couple who opened up their home to me wouldn't let me bring my kitten due to allergies. So, while I lived in my temporary housing situation, Choochie stayed at my roommate's house, and I would drive 30 minutes (one way) nearly every day just to see her. The photo I shared several paragraphs ago was taken shortly after I moved back in.

Several months later, I moved out again because my roommate was preparing to move overseas as a missionary, so her parents began the process of selling the house. When Choochie and I moved into an apartment, Macho came with us because my roommate didn't want to pay to have him shipped to her overseas. A few months after that, my roommate returned and informed me that Macho was my cat now, and the rest is history. (Macho was my cat for about 14 years; Choochie was my cat for about 17 years.)

So, Choochie and I had a very meaningful history together. And she was excellent at teaching me lessons without even trying. God taught me a lot about how He feels about me through her, and I've blogged about that a lot through the years.

When she was spayed, I borrowed money for the procedure, and I took her to a discount pet clinic that didn't give her one of those cone-of-shame collars but instructed me to keep her inside her pet carrier instead. While she was healing, I remember placing her pet carrier onto a table, scooting it close to my bed, and hearing her purr in the dark. (In other words, I can enjoy being close to God during a trial.)

When the three of us moved from Central Texas to West Texas, I placed both my cats inside the same pet carrier on the front seat of my car. During the six-hour drive (or so), we ended up highway-traveling late at night. Macho would groan-meow from time to time, but Choochie was purring in the dark. (In other words, if God takes me somewhere and I can't see where we're going, I can enjoy the ride because He's with me and He's taking care of me.)

Sometimes when I would ask God if I needed to do or be anything different than what I was (I would ask this because I was being insecure), He would remind me about Choochie. When she would groom herself, eat, drink water, etc., would it be ridiculous of her to ask me if she was doing it right? Yes, of course it would. She was being a cat. She was being herself. (In other words, I need to be myself. I need to be ME.)

Choochie was an excellent little companion. It was normal for her to perch her furry little self next to my cereal bowl and purr while I was eating. (Most of the time, she wouldn't try to sample my breakfast.) One time several years ago, when I was hit with very deep emotional pain late at night, I unplugged and let myself cry like I had never, ever cried before. It was nearly 2 a.m. on a Saturday night, I was lying in bed, and Choochie wildly wiped her cheek on the palm of my hand in an effort to comfort me. And recently (as you may have read in this previous post), she developed the routine of snuggling on my pillow at night. The day before she was euthanized, she was well enough to snuggle on my pillow that morning one last time.

 

I took this picture of her several months ago. She didn't really change much throughout her life. She's always been tiny and adorable.

Earlier this year, I caught her trying to poop in the living room, which wasn't a normal activity for her (at least, not since I had been in Boston 17 years ago). Then gradually, I noticed that her business would end up missing the litterbox. I also noticed that she started peeing differently in the litterbox and wouldn't cover up her messes. I did some research online and learned that sometimes elderly cats become constipated and act the way she had been acting.

After I received her kidney-disease diagnosis the other day, everything made sense. The day that she was euthanized, the vet explained that the constipation was just a symptom of Choochie's kidneys shutting down and her body not being able to process water correctly.

Macho's death was kind of a dramatic, romantic one that helped me prepare a little bit for what to expect with Choochie, even though she was -- in contrast -- her usual feisty self to the very end. It was almost comical. Right before I decided to take her to the vet one last time, she was purring in her usual motorcycle-lawnmower way, and she severely protested me transporting her in her pet carrier. Right before the euthanasia drugs were administered, I had a hard time getting her to calm down. She kept pacing and squirming. But the veterinary staff gave us a lot of time alone. I talked to her like I always would before bedtime, and she finally settled down when the doctor came into the room.

Since I knew that Choochie would die suddenly, it had become my habit to always check her little belly to make sure she was still breathing while she was napping. So, it was really something to be able to check her little belly one last time after she had been put to sleep and notice that she had stopped breathing. The vet turned Choochie's body around so that I could see her face. Um, her tongue was sticking out, and one of her eyes was still open, so...

 

Yep, she kinda looked like an emoji. I'm not sure whether I should laugh or cry. Maybe I should do both.

Now, for the first time in years, I live in a home without cats. It's the little things that are currently weird for me. Coming home to an empty apartment, not having to feed anybody at a certain time, not having to clean a litterbox, not having to warn anybody when I'm about to turn on a light or do anything noisy like turn on the garbage disposal, not worrying about tripping over any water bowls -- those are all strange things for me right now.

And I definitely miss my little girl cat. Since she was with me for 17 years, I can still remember her vividly. I can still feel her little paws on my fingertips. I can still feel and hear her purring. I can still hear her scratching around in the litterbox. I can still smell her bundle of mixed-Siamese fur.

She was the best girl cat that a girl could ask for. She will always have a special place in my heart.

 

Dying cat, take 2

In my previous post, I mentioned that my cat Choochie is more than likely on the last leg of her journey but is doing just fine. Unfortunately, today I received word from the vet that Choochie is in the final stages of kidney disease.

Yesterday, Choochie wasn't her usual self. She was struggling with her constipation and also vomiting white foam. In addition, she kept meowing at me (which is rare for her) and kept trying to jump up on the bathroom and kitchen counters so that she could drink directly from the faucets (which I haven't allowed her to do for about 14 years, due to an ear infection that was likely caused by water). So, thinking that perhaps she was dehydrated, I positioned her onto the bathroom sink myself and ran the water for her (trying to not let any water trickle into her ears). This happened repeatedly yesterday. And she didn't eat anything. So, I took her to the vet.

It turned out that she was very dehydrated. Also, the heart murmur that she was diagnosed with about 10 years ago (and which hasn't shown up during any exams in the past several years) was detected once again. The vet took an X-ray and confirmed that her entire intestinal system was backed up, and an enema was performed. They also rehydrated her. We were sent home with an assortment of medicines, and I was warned that Choochie could, uh, continue to leak throughout the evening.

I didn't see any leaks, but I couldn't get her to eat, either. As soon as we got home, Choochie hid under my dresser (her usual napping spot during the day), and I didn't see her come back out until this morning.

Today, the vet's office called with her blood test results and said that she probably only has a few months to live. They gave a couple of options of treatment, including regular rehydrations and new medications that we could try. But they indicated that the focus would eventually need to shift to making her comfortable (e.g., painkillers) and then reevaluating her quality of life (e.g., putting her to sleep).

I knew this would happen someday. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised that it's happening now while I'm unemployed and am able to devote so much time to taking care of my little roommate. One thing I know for certain during this season is that my instructions are to take life one day at a time, and I intend to do that with my cat as well.

So far, it's happened the way God said it would happen. He had told me that Choochie would die suddenly. I just hope it involves as little pain as possible.

So today, I spiked her drinking water with a laxative and fed her prescription canned food directly from my hand. My apartment smells like canned cat food and death.

And it's beautiful.

When it's Choochie's time to go, her passing will mark the end of a very long season for me. Macho and Choochie were the dream team of pets. And they were all mine. They knew me when I was 24 and embarrassingly wet behind the ears, all the way through my 30s, and into the beginning of my 40s. They've seen sides of me that no one else has ever seen. They've known me in ways that no human has ever known me -- because they've lived with me during some of the most challenging, stretching, aching times of my entire life. I think I've probably grieved the deaths of my cats harder than the loss of any human family member.

Because my pets are my family.

So, when it's Choochie's time to go, I'm going to grieve her passing. I've already been grieving it pretty much all day. (I don't know how I would have been able to make it through today if I'd had to go to work.)

But for now, Choochie is still alive -- all 3.8 pounds of her -- and I'm still keeping a close eye on her. Whatever she wants, she's got it, within reason -- even if she wants to drink nasty hard water straight from the tap.

"Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing?" (Matthew 6:25)

Changing the subject ever so slightly, I've started to feel lately what this Bible verse really means. If I'm worried about how I'm going to pay my bills, I need to take a step back and get some perspective. Technically, as I type this, I'm not overdue on any of my bills; why am I freaking out? Technically, if you compare life versus food, the fact that God has been keeping me alive is much weightier than whether or not He is able to provide food -- which He is. (My satisfied tummy can vouch for that.) Technically, if you compare the human body versus clothing, the fact that God has sustained my body for the past 41 years is much weightier than whether or not He is able to provide clothing -- which He has. (My fully stocked closet can vouch for that.)

So, I'm good to go.

With that said, if I'm going through all this trouble to sustain the life of one tiny little cat -- who isn't my creation, who isn't made in my image, and whose life span is only a quarter of my own, if that -- how much more trouble would the God of the universe go through to sustain MY life and take care of ME? God created me in His own image, designed and destined me for a specific purpose, and adopted me eternally. If I'm in trouble, He's going to rush in and help me through it. If I'm in pain, He'll do everything He can to comfort me and help me endure it. If I'm in need, He's going to open His hand and feed me from it directly.

 

So, for now, and while I can, I'm going to make Choochie's last days the best that they can be. I don't want to miss any critical moments with her. I want to help ease her pain. I want to sing to her. I want to enjoy every last second of her.

Because she's mine.

Candy dish 3

This post is a (very belated) sequel to my (unintentional) "Candy dish" series. If you'd like to check out my previous posts, here's a link to this one that I posted almost 3 years ago and this one from about 2 years ago. Enjoy!

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I know I don't look my age. My prepared answer for "You don't look that old! How come you look so young?" is "I've never been married, I don't have kids, I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't like to be outside, and I'm Mexican." I guess it's nice to not look like I'm 41 years old, until people start treating me like I'm half my age. Or until I start crushing on a guy who's around my age but who keeps his distance because I look (or possibly act) like I'm half my age. Well, excuse me for being myself.

 

So, whenever I find a gray hair, I celebrate. (Because these little treasures are few and far between.) When I found this one a month or two ago, I was beside myself. Yesssss! I am TOO an old lady! You gotta respect your elders, you know?

At any rate, God doesn't seem to have a problem with me being young at heart. So there. I stick out my tongue at you.

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The other day, I bought an ice cream cone at McDonald's for $1.07. I think that's one product that hasn't really seen any inflation in the past 20 or 30 years -- it's always cost the same. I think that's refreshing.

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Recently, I came across a spiritual gifts test that I took at church (a test that almost all of our members take) about seven and a half years ago. According to that particular test, my number one spiritual gift was exhortation, and there was a three-way tie with martyrdom, prophecy, and pastor for second place. In a nutshell, I think that means that I have a spiritual grace to do the following:

1) encourage people to do a certain action

2) take a bullet for the team

3) speak the truth, cuz it's the truth

4) attack lions and bears head-on, cuz nobody messes with my sheep

Yep, that pretty much describes me. And I think it explains a lot.

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Today as I noticed that this is the third time I've been unemployed while I've lived in this part of Texas, I was thinking that this whole unemployment/poverty thing is getting old. Then I heard the wistfulness in God's voice as He replied, "I think it's beautiful."

Eh?

He showed me a picture of a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. I was like, "Are You saying that this is the third time I've gotten married?" He showed me that when a young groom carries his bride over the threshold, the bride is completely dependent on the groom to carry her -- to not knock her head against the doorpost, to support her, to value the package that he's carrying. The only thing the bride can really do is hold on and enjoy her groom.

Hmm. So, that's why this is such a romantic notion to God. I bet He felt the same way when the Israelites were released from bondage in Egypt. They were dependent on Him for their every move, including how they would find food (manna) in an otherwise foodless place (the desert).

So, I won't complain.

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It still cracks me up whenever a car dealership mails me a spam letter saying that they want to buy my car from me because it's a popular model and people keep wanting to buy it. Um, let's use a little common sense, shall we? If people want it, it's probably because it's a good car. So, I'm keeping my car. Just sayin'.

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A leader who isn't vulnerable isn't worth following.

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My apartment has become a feline nursing home once again. Towards the end of Macho's life, he had problems with diarrhea. And now, at age 17, Choochie has developed problems with constipation. So, I keep an eye on her, and I regularly check my carpet for little surprises.

 

Sometimes I worry about her, and I think maybe she's finally come to the end of her life. Then she does something very kittenish like explore my wet shower curtain after I've used it. No problem, kitty. Do your thang. We feisty old ladies gotta stick together.

Unemployment again

I seem to be becoming an expert of sorts on unemployment. This is the third time in six years that I've found myself between jobs. Not bad for a starving artist, eh? In 2014, I wrote a twelve-part series of blog posts on Unemployment that you're always welcome to read if you like. This post is a nod to that series, especially with a current photo of my pantry. (Don't worry; I'm not starving. I don't store all my food in my pantry, and I'm currently typing this on a very full stomach.)

My blog is like my journal that I keep online. I talk about my life here. Metaphorically speaking, I slice my heart open and show you what it looks like while it's still beating and healing. You're welcome to take a look anytime.

So, long story short, I was basically forced to quit my job about two weeks ago. Upper management got wind of the fact that I was unhappy there and told me to pack my things. How dare I work there only for a paycheck!

Anyway, moving on. I feel like I learned some important lessons while I was there, and I'm glad I get to take those with me. (No, they're too big to fit into a cardboard box.)

So, I'm unemployed again. This is familiar territory, and I talked through some of my old familiar fears with God, and lately I've been feeling OK. Thankfully, one good thing about familiarity is that I know what to expect. I thought I'd make a list of some of the things that I've learned during the unemployment bumps on my journey through the years:

1) I'm a survivor. Cue Gloria Gaynor. Years ago when I lived with parents -- and struggled through seasons of unemployment with them -- they treated me like I was some kind of helpless little kid. Well, excuse me for growing up in an abusive home where I wasn't taught any life skills. I think if they could see me now, they would be shocked at how much of a badass I've become (please pardon my French). During my years of emotional healing, I've learned that a major strategy of demonic attack on little fighters like myself IS abuse, which is pretty ironic, and which ends up biting the devil in the butt later on. In a really big way.

2) It is possible to live on peanut butter and raisin bran. It isn't kind to your digestive system, but I won't go into details. "Tirzah, have you lost weight? You look good!" Yeah, thanks. That's, uh, because food costs money. Thankfully, I took a pay cut so that I could work at my previous job (evidence that I was NOT unhappy there the entire time), so I had to cut back on spending anyway. Also thankfully, I currently have more than just peanut butter and raisin bran in my kitchen. (And I don't plan on letting it get that bad again.)

3) Sometimes God gives you unexpected vacations so that you can take care of important life-stuff. I think this is what He was trying to show me during my brief unemployment period back in 2011, but I ended up finding full-time work after approximately one month of searching. Way back in 2001, Choochie was a kitten and needed to get spayed; I was out of work, but I'm glad I was available to help her through her healing process. Fast forward to this year: God has been teaching me about rest, so maybe unemployment in 2017 shouldn't have come as a surprise.

4) Online job applications are SO unpredictable. Some of them only take a few seconds to complete, and others can take an hour or two. (At least.) But it's worth the shot, so just push through until it's done.

5) Never underestimate the phenomenon of being in the right place at the right time. Incidentally, that's how I got my previous job. Employers can make their job descriptions as specific as they want (seriously, who has four years of experience in writing for a marketing agency?), but ultimately it will boil down to how desperate you two are for each other. If you have what an employer wants, and if they have what you want, and if the price is right, you've got the job.

6) Don't be surprised when potential employers suddenly show up at your door AFTER you finally find a job. (Seriously, where were you people when I was living on peanut butter and raisin bran??) Ecclesiastes 11:1 says, "Cast your bread upon the waters, for you will find it after many days." I'm still not sure why some employers will suddenly show an interest in me two or three months after I apply for their job, but at least this gives me hope that if I keep sowing, eventually I could reap.

7) God is VERY serious about taking care of me. The last time I was unemployed, I found a job six months after I started collecting unemployment payments -- during the last week of unemployment. I had been checking an online job board for a long time and had been applying for jobs there, but no one was interested in me. Then one day, I suddenly saw a job that I hadn't seen there before. I followed the instructions on the job listing, got an interview, took a writing test, got a second interview, and got hired. In the nick of time.

8) I AM WORTH IT. Every time you see a resume, you see a list of job experiences, qualifications, education, and skills... but what you're really seeing is a person. You're seeing a human being who's dressed themselves up to look presentable enough to fit into your company culture so that they can earn a paycheck. So that they can earn a living. So that they can live. Sure, it might be inconvenient to call them, ask them a few questions, invite them to your office, ask them some more questions, check their background, check their references, and repeat the process for every job candidate that you have. Maybe your company specializes in some very specific things, and you're afraid that somebody new is going to just waltz in there and mess it all up. But maybe that somebody is willing to adapt to your company and pour themselves into your mission and work their fingers to the bone so that your baby will live to see another day. Because your livelihood is now their livelihood, too.

I am a human being; therefore, I am worth going through that entire process. Jesus thought I was good enough to die for -- just because I need Him and because I'm still breathing. That means I AM good enough.

That means I AM WORTH IT.

Cuing Gloria Gaynor, weren't you the one who tried to break me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay down and die? Oh, no, not I. I will survive. As long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive. I've got all my life to live. I've got all my love to give. I will survive.

"I'll be right here"

When I was growing up, movies would stay in theaters longer, and the marketing for each new flick was ubiquitous. So, I heard all about E.T. before I had actually seen it. Pictured here is a little reward that my first-grade gym teacher gave me (probably for showing up?). "Did good" comes from the movie quote "Be good." I've kept this little slip of paper in a little scrapbook of sorts all these years.

Back then, E.T. was the holy grail of kid movies. My parents were broke when it was in theaters -- so I think this may have been the movie that I donated the $4 I had in my piggy bank so that my family and I could watch it in the dollar theater. (It was either E.T. or Annie. Those were the two big movies when I was in the first grade.) A few years later, my sister got a storybook version of E.T. on a 45 record. I ended up memorizing some of the movie's lines that way.

From what I understand, Steven Spielberg vowed that he would never put E.T. on VHS. Then I guess he changed his mind, because it ended up in video stores I think when I was in junior high (several years after it was in theaters). While my family and I watched the movie on video, we fell in love with the robust piano solo that plays while the end credits begin to roll.

In those days, entertainment wasn't always at your fingertips. You had to search for it, even if it meant begging your parents to drive you to record stores until you found what you wanted. Sometimes you were fortunate to find exactly what you were looking for. The rest of the time, all you were able to do was dream.

Nowadays, it's possible to find what you're looking for in a matter of seconds. This past Fourth of July, I spent the holiday watching E.T. on DVD (which I think I bought used on Amazon a few years ago). The end credits started to roll, and I admired that intoxicating piano melody. And it dawned on me that I might be able to download that song on iTunes. Sure enough, in a matter of seconds, I ended up doing so on my phone. Wow! The exact thing I desired was suddenly right at my fingertips.

E.T. is a very intriguing story. (And it's a guaranteed tear-jerker.) I saw an interview in which Steven Spielberg explained that the movie was basically his own childhood fantasy -- a lonely boy in a broken home making a friend. The boy, Elliott, discovers E.T., an alien who was accidentally left behind while a group of aliens was on a mission to earth. The two little guys become extremely close friends, but tragedy strikes when E.T. ends up getting captured by scientists. While E.T. is dying, Elliott reaches out to him and says, "I'll be right here." E.T. dies and comes back to life while his fellow aliens come back for him. Right before he flies back to his home planet, he points to Elliott and says, "I'll be right here." (See? Tear-jerker.)

Taken with a grain of salt, E.T.'s friendship with Elliott kind of reminds me of some things in my life.

Shortly after Macho died last year, my cat Choochie adopted my pillow as her new nighttime napping spot. Every night, as soon as I crawl into bed (sometimes before then), Choochie drops whatever she's doing, crawls onto my pillow, perches her hind feet on my bicep, and purrs. Sometimes she crawls out and continues her nighttime slumber elsewhere, and other times I fall asleep with her there close to me. Yes, I took a selfie with the lights on to document this phenomenon. It's interesting that she knew exactly where to go and what to do, even with the lights on. Because she knows where she belongs.

She belongs with me.

"You are my hiding place; You shall preserve me from trouble; You shall surround me with songs of deliverance." (Psalm 32:7)

"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)

"Then they also brought infants to Him that He might touch them; but when the disciples saw it, they rebuked them. But Jesus called them to Him and said, 'Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God. Assuredly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it.' " (Luke 18:15-17)

I got saved when I was 10 years old. I know that I got saved because I used to cheat on tests at school, but after I got saved, I remember that I stopped doing that.

But my surface-level relationship with God changed dramatically when I was 18 years old -- after I was baptized by the Holy Spirit. I think Pastor Jimmy Evans would say that it's because the Holy Spirit is a Connector; He connects us to Jesus and to God the Father.

Ever since I started living a life empowered by the Holy Spirit -- because I was suddenly able to hear God talking to me and directing me -- I've encountered all kinds of opposition. The worst, of course, came from my own family who tried to deprogram me as if I had joined a cult. And the hardest thing I've ever done was disown myself from my parents and walk away from my family -- probably to never see them again until we get to heaven. (I know I'll be there, but I'm not so sure about all of them.)

Who was with me through all of it? God. Whose relationship means more to me than anyone else's? God's. Who do I come to like a little child and pour my little heart out to because I know I'll be accepted, corrected, protected, and helped? God.

So, the last thing I want to do is destroy my relationship with God... or prevent anyone else from having that type of relationship with God.

I know I'm definitely not perfect, and I've definitely failed, just like everyone else has. But I know that I belong with Him. And I know that I can't survive without Him. Not anymore.

Whether I'm figuring out the mundane details of my life, or whether I'm looking for direction on how to live the rest of my life, or whether I'm walking away from people who are toxic to me, or whether I'm tackling a very challenging new task, or whether I'm learning how to use my gifts, or whether I'm struggling to learn how to do simple things like resting, or whether I'm dealing with an overtly demonic attack, or whether I'm wrestling with loneliness, or whether I'm being stabbed in the back by people who had been friendly to me, or whether I'm listening to antisocial Pharisees bark lies about my pastor through a bullhorn across the street from our church building, or whether I'm choosing to trust God while everything is falling apart around me, or whether I'm needing to live my life one day at a time...

I need to know what do to. I need to be reminded of the truth. I need to cling to the only One who has always been available to help me. I need to listen to the One who's always wanted me -- the One whose heart towards me has always been, "I'll be right here."

So, that's what I'm going to do.

God isn't like old technology. I don't have to beg other people to drive me around town until I find Him (IF I end up finding Him). I don't have to sit at home and only dream about the day that I will have access to Him. I already have access. He's right at my fingertips -- no, He's even closer than my fingertips. I can talk to Him whenever I want. He can talk to me whenever He wants. In a sense, I can crawl up to Him, perch on His bicep, and purr on His pillow, because I know where my place is.

I belong with Him.

Waiting and waiting and waiting

TMI warning: If you don't like to read about blood, needles, or any other medical stuff, you may want to skip this post.

As I mentioned previously, I got new glasses a few months ago. During a routine eye exam, my eye doctor found a cotton wool spot in my right eye. (I'd try to explain what that is, but I think Wikipedia does a better job at that.) He said it was probably caused by hypertension, diabetes, or extreme stress and that it could possibly heal on its own. During the follow-up visit, he saw that the spot had healed but that another spot had formed, along with a hemorrhaging spot. So, he referred me to a retina specialist.

 

While I was at the specialist, they did an angiogram so that they could examine the blood vessels in my eye. It was an interesting procedure that was kind of Blade Runner-ish; they took pictures of my eye while I had a needle stuck in my arm. (The technician explained that my pee would be a highlighter-yellow color for a while afterwards, and he was correct.)

The retina doctor said that I have two hemorrhaging spots in my right eye, so he ordered some bloodwork. He said that they would follow up in several weeks, unless they found some abnormal stuff in my bloodwork.

 

So, a couple of days later, I got my arm poked again. (In the above photo, it's the tiny bright red spot swimming near all my tiny moles.) I haven't heard anything yet, but no news is good news. (Which, by the way, is a lesson that I learned in a previous season.)

I hope this means that I'm not diabetic, my blood sugar is OK, and my blood pressure isn't dangerously high. I hope all of this eye drama is only being caused by stress and that my body will continue to heal itself. (And, ironically, I also learned that I can currently see better out of my right eye than I can out of my left one.) If that's all this is, it would definitely confirm that 2017 is supposed to be a year of rest for me -- yet another stop on my lifelong journey of learning how to rest, relieve stress, enjoy life, and not feel guilty about doing so.

I don't know for sure yet. I just need to keep waiting.

"Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart; wait, I say, on the Lord!" (Psalm 27:14)

In the body of Christ, people preach all the time about the concept of waiting -- waiting for your promised land, waiting for your dreams to come true, waiting for God to move in your life, waiting to live out your calling, etc. They usually present it like a one-time journey, like God did with the Israelites in the Bible. They usually say something like if you grumble and complain, God will leave you in the wilderness until you learn your lesson, and then He'll bring you into your promised land. They usually say something like if you keep getting hit with the same trial over and over and over again, that means God isn't going to let you move on until you learn the lesson that you're supposed to have been learning. And then when a spiritual light bulb comes on for you, you'll be done waiting, and you'll live happily ever after.

And I think to a degree, all that's true. But maybe it isn't exactly true for everybody.

I recently watched a sermon online for fun. It was a Holly Furtick message called "Waiting Room." I think she shared a lot of good wisdom. She explained that a waiting room can be a dangerous place. For example, if your kids are sick and you take them to the doctor, they could catch something from somebody else while they're stuck in the waiting room.

But what if your time in the waiting room is like mine was at the retina doctor?

I waited in the waiting room multiple times, in multiple ways, for multiple reasons, during the same visit: waiting for my name to be called, waiting for my eyes to fully dilate, waiting to see the doctor, waiting for the technician to perform the angiogram, waiting to see the doctor again... I think I ended up going back to the official waiting room about two or three times, in addition to waiting in multiple exam rooms. All for a tiny little retina.

(This is why I don't like to go see doctors; they usually just tell me that I'm as healthy as a horse and that I need to take better care of myself. And then they charge me money to tell me something that I already knew.)

But the waiting room was a scary place for me earlier this week. Suddenly, I wasn't a 41-year-old woman with a hemorrhaging retina; I was a little girl who was going to countless doctors' appointments all over again. (I was always getting sick (and sometimes pretending to get sick) when I was a kid, and at one point I had begun to develop a peptic ulcer (which college dorm food suddenly healed my body of, in a scared-straight kind of way).)

This is the kind of thing that shows me what I'm made of. And it helps me bond with my Father.

"Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? If I ascend into heaven, You are there; if I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there." (Psalm 139:7-8)

After I got home that evening, I pulled out my guitar and poured out my heart (and my eyes) to Him in song. And lately as I've been rebuilding my guitar calluses, I've noticed that I've been able to play my guitar because my wrist hasn't been hurting. 

If you followed my blog last year, perhaps you remember reading about how my wrist hurting was kind of a big deal to me. And I can't help but notice that God helped me through that. 

So, He'll help me through this current health drama as well. It looks like I'll need to keep taking it one step at a time.

I really think that's how life in general unfolds: one step at a time. Maybe that's how God often leads us, too.

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

I often see people around me living cool lives that progressed in a pretty regular fashion: grow up, meet somebody, get married, have children, find a meaningful career, retire, travel the world, live happily ever after.

But not everybody lives that way. And the sudden course changes in our lives aren't always our fault.

Maybe suddenly your life will be interrupted with a divorce, a job termination, the death of a loved one, the death of a dream, a horrible accident, a terrible health diagnosis, or all of the above, or a crazy mix of all of the above, or anything else that I haven't mentioned. Maybe all of that could even happen all at once. (Maybe Job could vouch for that.)

I don't think that necessarily means that that kind of stuff happens because you're doing something wrong... or that you're failing to learn a specific lesson... or that God is yelling at you. Maybe it's just life happening. 

At any rate, one thing I know for sure is that God is always available for us to lean on.

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." (Psalm 46:1)

So, I'm learning that sometimes the waiting room isn't just a one-time stop on your way to your dream destination. Sometimes the waiting room must be revisited multiple times while you're en route to your promised land. Sometimes it's just part of the process.

And I think sometimes there is more than one promised land. And maybe there are sometimes a handful of promised lands within a promised land.

God knows what He's doing. Maybe He isn't always in a hurry. Maybe He's strengthening us in ways that we don't need to see yet. Maybe when it's all over, we'll be able to trample scorpions or leap tall buildings in a single bound or shoot laser beams out of our eyes.

Or maybe we can just rest our heads between His shoulders and enjoy belonging to Him.