At least it's not staph.

I have caught the crud.
I actually think it may be the most peculiar crud I've ever caught. No sniffles, sneezing, or sore throat. My chest aches like someone has dumped molten lava into my poor, tender little lungs, who were, by the way, just becoming accustomed to not being charred with a pack's worth of nicotene-flavored smoke a day and that was just fine with them thank you very much. I was running a fever which I think broke sometime during my eighteenth hour of sleep today, and my body aches like I just went ten rounds with Mike Tyson, post cannibalism era. This afternoon saw me pacing up and down the aisles at Kroger, whimpering like a little girl any time I actually had to raise my arms above my head. I'm not entirely sure it was worth the trip. My cats, however, were ecstatic to have their supply of crunchy kitty-oriented goodness replenished, and I have spent the entire time since either comatose or happily inverted beneath an open bottle of nyquil, feet kicking in the air. I may actually be able to go to work tomorrow for my whole four and a half hour shift, which would be nice considering that my creditors don't take too kindly to hearing that really I caught the bubonic plague of fiery death ebola laced sludge in the lungs and really I almost caught pneumonia but my immune system took a break from attacking and dissolving squirrels in the back yard to come to my rescue and as soon as I stop feeling like death I'll work so's I can earn money please don't sell my worldly possessions that would be great thanks!
Also, hoodies are become my bestest friends. I spent most of the last forty-eight hours with my hood over my head.
Now, I have a pretty rockin' immune system, but children carry some of the most virulent stuff I've ever come in contact with. Ergo, each time I am around a sick child, I catch the creeping crud. In the ER last Monday, there were no less than twenty sick kiddos.
I still maintain, however, that short-term sickness is God's way of forcing a vacation on you. I admit, one day of sleeping soundly in a fever-induced fog has been nice. Any more than that, though, and you may have to talk me down off a clocktower and pry the AK-47 out of my hands.
Is it a sign of low intelligence that my cat's snoring STILL freaks me out?

Expect nothing but contented musings...

I just don't have the stress-angst necessary for my usual bitter sarcasm. Life is just too good right now.
Of course, there's a dissenting area of my brain right now (mom and dad always wondered, often aloud, why I was so frickin' argumentative all the time. Here's your answer, mom and pop; my brain is constantly arguing with ME. I'm just translating the internal monologue into external conversation). This area is whispering to me that life always WAS good, I was just too busy being stressed and whiny to notice.
Really, let's look at this logically (famous last words). Even though I had no car, I obviously had friends that loved me enough to never leave me rideless when I really needed it. There was a spectacular four-week span during which I could only work weekends and was rideless and mostly housebound during the week. That was probably one of the most depressing chunks of my life, but through it all I had loving friends who bent over backward to get me out of the house whenever possible, often to their own detriment.
And let's not forget another VERY important fact: I learned what it meant to fully rely on God. Nothing was stable. I was not assured of any income in my rideless state. My family is hundreds of miles away, might as well be light years sometimes. I have, during the nine-month course of all this, developed a massive guilt complex and during my worst moments I was sure that no matter what they said, my friends were growing sick of me and wouldn't stick with me much longer. All that I could be certain of was that Jesus loves me, that God was my helpmeet, and that all this was part of His plan. I came to Him for everything because I had NO recourse. Some days it took His grace and mercy just to give me the motivation to get out of bed.
I say this not to evoke a sense of self-pity, but to underline my gratitude to the One who got me through these times. My Jesus cared on the days when I was too heartsick and hope-starved to give a flying flaming unicorn poot in space. My Jesus was strong on the days I was weak as water, joyful in my depression, and hopeful in my despair.
Even in the last days when I spent most of my time chasing Corrie with a box of tissues and sniffling because I was too volatile to be left unattended (like a cooking omelette...filled with TNT), Jesus stayed by my side, and occasionally gave me a little nudge to ensure that I knew He was still watching.

Jesus: Hey, I've got this.
Me: But...but....STRESS!
Jesus:....did you not hear what I just said? I've GOT this.
Me: Is that what you had said?
Jesus: YES, that's what I HAD SAID.

So now, with a reliable car that by any reasonable standard I should not have the keys to, a steady job that I love in a town so precious I just want to stick it in my pocket, and friends that, despite my depressed self-assurances to the contrary, seem to have survived Hurricane Erin just fine and may even still think I'm nifty.

So ya see, nothing has really changed. I was blessed with a car, true. But God blessed me yesterday, last week, and last month. He will continue to bless me tomorrow, a year from now, and for the rest of my life. The fact that I got what I wanted today doesn't change the fact that He has blessed me, is blessing me, and will continue to bless me. It doesn't mean He loves me any more than He did during my trials. "My" car is just a tool to carry out His work.

Enough seriousness!

Yesterday I got pee in my eye.

Only I would have enough genius to get urine in my eyeball. To add insult to injury, I was in the middle of telling a new nurse that I was showing how to change the Foley bag that this particular procedure carried the risk of urine splashing when the tubes popped apart and sprayed me.
"Now you want to be really careful while you're disconnecting the two tubes, because they can very easily...*POP! SPLOOSH!* .................Do that."
The patient became concerned. "Did you get...hit?"
"In my eyes."
After I literally finished the procedure with my eyes closed, I left the room unceremoniously to summon the DON and flush my eyeballs.
Long story short, I had to throw away my last pair of contact lenses and bum a ride from the administrator to obtain my glasses from Lisa. Then I had to go to the ER.
No kidding.
Four hours of waiting in an emergency waiting room full of sick kids wasn't all bad, cause playing with kids is fun, but I feel bad for missing more than half of my shift. Still, as one friend put it:
"You got peed on last night. That should hold off karma for a few days."
True.

You know, lately Trippy the Cat has been getting into the "HI IT'S TIME TO PET ME WOW WHAT IS THAT YOU'RE DOING THAT IS LESS IMPORTANT THAN PETTING ME?" behaviors. I would like to put a stop to it for simple practicality's sake, but it's actually kinda sweet to know my cat wants quality time with me.

I am very pleasantly drowsy right now. Hence, bed!

Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us through Christ Jesus, to Him be the glory and honor and power forever. Amen.

When walking down memory lane, always bring a machete.

So in the course of talking to my friends this weekend, as I am wont to do, I came across an old memory that I forgot I had. It was still perfectly good, if a little dusty, and to be completely honest, I can't believe I've never blogged about it on these forums before.
This memory starts back in my last days of college or a little after. We were in a relatively new 2-bedroom apartment that, now that I think back on it, was the nicest apartment I've lived in to date. Ground floor, one story, large common area with a big kitchen, and I had a huge bathroom all to myself. My room was nicely placed to the east, so I got great sun in the morning and great shade in the evening. The apartment complex was new, but this is Texas, a fact which explains the ensuing story.
It was at the tail end of spring, and the world was beginning to show signs of the searing Central Texas summers that fostered me into a sun-hating adulthood. Things that were outside wanted inside into the cool air-conditioning, and those of us that were inside took great exception to that fact. This was caused by the reality that most of the creatures that wanted inside had more than four legs.
One day, as I was going about my life, I went into my lovely, huge bathroom that was mine and no one else's and found that it was occupied. It wasn't occupied by anyone that lived there or was visiting, or even by an animal, as this was in the days before I got her royal Fuzziness (also known as my cat).
No, it was a roach. And not just an ordinary roach. It was a gigantic Texas waterbuck roach, as big as the average Hissing Cockroach, and if you've never seen those, let me help you out with the imagery. Imagine a dog. The size of an elephant. Now give it six legs. Okay, you're caught up with the rest of us.
This roach was luxuriating in my bath tub, smoking a stoagie and sipping on a snifter full of cognac. When it saw me, it simply flashed a deuce and kept reading the newspaper.
I do not like roaches. During the dawning of mankind, the natural enmity that was supposed to be placed between woman and snake missed in its shot from me and hit the roaches. As I didn't have any Raid or Hotshot handy, I grabbed the nearest thing and began to spray. Crisp Linen Lysol does not work as well as Raid or Hotshot. I chased that thing around the bottom of the tub for fifteen minutes screaming "IT WON'T DIE! IT WON'T DIE!" I think it finally drowned. I washed it down the drain and sat for a moment trembling in a cloud of Crisp-Linen scented freshness. It took several shock therapy sessions, but at last I was able to forget the incident and use that bathroom again without a flame thrower.

But in the insect world, there is apparently a code that says when one of ours kills one of theirs, there must be a blood hunt. This particular roach's family apparently found it necessary to send Slaughterbob the Ender after me. A few weeks after my initial kill, I was on the phone with a friend, looked up, and saw that above the spinning fan blades on the ceiling, there was a roach even larger than the first one. It had Rambo-style camo face paint on, camo fatigues, and had a grenade launcher on his shiny little roach shoulder. I know I went dead silent on the phone, but in my head a thousand screaming voices cried out a bad word in unison.

Now, I know most of you that haven't seen one of these roaches will have a hard time believing me, but I swear it's true. The theme music from Mission Impossible began to play, and the roach dropped down between the spinning fan blades and hit the floor with a thud. I felt the ground shake, no lie. Then it did a serpentine body crawl under the nearby sofa. I jumped onto a chair, afraid that a smoldering grenade would shoot out from under that couch and cut me off at the ankles.

But no, what happened next was still more horrifying. I looked around the corner of the sofa tentatively to see the roach charging into my room. My lovely little cozy east-facing room. This meant war. I leapt down off my chair with the age-old southern battle cry of "Naaaah!" and ran after it.

The nearest missile I could find to throw was a shoe. Now, this was back in my Hippie vintage fatigue jacket and worn jeans days, so it wasn't a normal shoe that I seized, but a five-pound birkenstock. I threw it at the horse---I mean, roach, and watched in disbelief as the shoe began to scrabble across the floor propelled by six clicking legs. In an unprecidented show of bravery, I leapt on top of the shoe and jumped up and down, listening for the "crunch" that would signal victory. The crunch never came, but I was pitched off the top of the shoe by a mighty heave.

Okay, you want to play it hard, we'll play it hard, I thought. Whereupon I used my standard issue forklift to hoist one my nursing school textbooks that (back me up on this, Corrie) weighed as much as a third-world country. I lowered it down on top of the shoe as hard as I could without cracking a crater in the foundation, then went to hide in my closet.

To avoid dragging the story out any longer, it took a good half-hour for the textbook to stop moving, and I left it there for a few days before I had the nerve to pick it up and see the carnage underneath. The roach was dead, one middle finger extended toward me. I still have the tiny grenade launcher somewhere in storage.

Now, what did we learn from the epic Battle of The Roach? Simply this: Always keep a broadsword handy in the house.

Life is a Highway!

It's over. The transportation battle that's lasted nearly a year has ended. God is good, but God pushes. When God pushes, worlds move, lives change, and people are driven beyond the boundaries of what they thought they could endure into the realms of the beautifully impossible.
I am whiny by nature. I realize that I waste more time whining than I do watching cartoons, which is considerable. I know it must be trying for my friends to be around me sometimes, and it may not seem like it, but I control a great deal of the complaining I am naturally inclined to do. I was born to have a positive disposition, but things happen. Nevertheless, the strains of the last few months have gone beyond the realm of complaint. Eighty or ninety hour weeks at work, extra bills, and a snowfall of guilt left my knees buckling under pressure. Now, God is good, and provided me with a plethora of work opportunities as well as a lucrative and flexible permanent position, but the human psyche and body are fragile things. I spent most of my thirty minute drive to and from work begging God for grace, patience, and energy. The time I had alone with Him was priceless, and allowed me to see that He has spent the last nine months breaking me, melting me down, refining me, scraping off the impurities, and shining me up into something completely new, beautiful, and more reflective of Him.
Now, before I go any further, I've got to give credit where credit is due and say that because of a few key people in my life, I managed to get through the entire nine months of carlessness without having to rent, which was good because apparently for me renting a car is next to impossible without my liver, my firstborn child, a note signed by my mother, God, AND George Washington, and a live Rhysis Monkey in a golden cage.
This blog would like to thank:
Jennifer and David Berger, for retail car assistance, endless hours of chauffering, and the use of your car for a great many of those nine months.
Lisa Gonzalez, Tonya Chancey, and Corrie Moore, not only for the loan of each of your cars for a time, but also for your neverending prayers, emotional support, and astounding patience. Oh, and could one of you pick up some trash bags on your way home from the store?
Laura Matheny, you know what you did.
Julia and Exo Martinez; Exo, I know I probably took a few years off your life when I was driving your car, but it was greatly appreciated, and I promise I never drove carelessly.
Julia and Micah Sprague, you guys are the bomb. Thanks for giving me a chance to learn what it's like to drive a pickup. Dwight is the best!
I know I must be leaving people out. There are countless more that gave me rides, prayed me through hard days, and offered their cars for use but were never actually taken up on it. Thanking you would be damning you with faint praise. I can't count the number of times I would have given up without you all. There is no doubt in my mind that God put each one of you in my life because He delights in giving His children beautiful people to befriend. You are all beautiful, and I pray every day that I can find a way to bless you like you've blessed me.

"God is good, but I am weak. But God is good."
I said that last week when talking to my dad about my stress level. I know my parents have been worried for me, and I have no doubt that they've worn out the doors of God's Throneroom knocking for me. I admit, I was a little worried myself toward the end. As much as it appalls me that a simple transportation problem could twist me into this many knots, at least now I know my limits. Independence was a stronghold in my life, and God broke it into a million pieces, forcing me into dependence on Him and those around me. So much of that battle is too personal for me to write about on a public forum right now, but every step has been a new epic of growth, and I wouldn't trade it for a thousand cars (mostly because that kind of income would put me into a higher tax bracket, but I digress).
Since when does the God of the universe care for such minutiae?
Since when does an omnipotent Being concern Himself with loving mortals so completely?
Since when is the Creator and Destroyer of Worlds so tender toward an awkward little girl from College Station, Texas?
I don't know where He got the idea to create and love such imperfection, but I'm sure glad He did.

Selah

God of the universe, above, on, and beneath the earth;
Let my home be where You are.
Let my familiar ground be the space between Your arms.
Let my resting place be the hollow of Your heart.
Let Your glory be my ecstasy.
Let Your wisdom be my logic.
Let Your sufficiency be my plenty.
Let Your power be my refuge.
Let Your fame be my confidence.
Let Your beauty be my crowning glory.
Let Your tirelessness be my endurance.
Let me drink in Your glory as I sing Your name in the smallest voice of one of Your weakest creations. Embrace my fragile frame and mix it with Your steel. Place Your armor on me, but keep the frail heart within dependent always on Your mercy, forgiveness, and grace.
And Lord, when I fail, fall, and hurt myself, those around me, and even Your name with my flaws and sinfulness, pull me through the raging fire of Your refinery and bring me out again, just a little more fit to reflect dimly the image of an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-present, all-loving Creator.

....wuz mah birfday!

Well, okay, not yet. Not until Monday. But tonight was my birthday party. Loving friends, freaking amazing cake, food so tasty it bordered on immoral, fun pictures, and a two-hour jump-a-thon on the trampoline.
For those of you that don't know, the last two months have been indescribably frustrating. Tonight was what I needed, a break in the gloom, a concentration of every good thing in my life into one evening. I even got my mom to get on speaker phone and tell the embarrassing stories that I hear every year. My birthday wouldn't be complete without them. It's my version of a birthday spanking. I don't grow properly unless I get that connection to the child within.
So tonight, sweaty and exhausted from jumping on the trampoline and laughing myself sick, I climbed in the shower, and played with my new Japanese Cherry Blossom shower gel (courtesy the POCettes). Got out, slathered myself with the matching lotion, and crawled into the World's Softest Bathrobe.
Purr, purr, purr.....
So, once every couple of years I have to do this, and tonight just seems to be the perfect night. Everything I love is snuggling itself up on me like a warm little nest. It's like a stupid Disney movie where all the woodland creatures are creeping up on the heroine because she's so happy and content. My woodland creature catalog would include gerbils, penguins, and beavers.

Anyway, here it is-

My Favorite things (in a rough kind of order):

Butterflies
Cool nights
Laughing until I can't breathe
The soft ache in your muscles that tells you you've played just enough.
Sparkles
Fresh cut flowers
Incense
Scented bath goodies
Fuzzy animals
Trampolines
The POC
Watching video games
LOLcats ( http://www.icanhascheezburger.com )
Webcomics
Tonya's cooking
Old people
Penguins
Down pillows
Fuzzy bath robes
Box fans
Bubbles
Candy with stuff in the center
Cookies
Hoops and YoYo cards
Back scratches (gentle ones! I'll never get those people that like the skin clawed off their backs)
Big, snuggly hugs (I view hugs the way people look at handshakes. Weak and clammy hugs just....suck. And they reflect poorly on you! And they make me feel not liked! It's okay, though, the one person I know that gives icky hugs makes up for it with other variegated coolnesses)
Ladybugs
Pill bugs
Did I mention sparkles?
The smell of grass and earth
Sarcasm

I could go on all night. But if you look at this list, 90% of it was present at the party tonight.
So, to anyone who wished me a happy birthday, but especially those that were able to make it to the party...thank you for giving me the best party in the history of birthdays.
Love you guys!

STOP GRABBIN' THE WHEEL, DANG IT!!!

Panera has entirely too many choices for bagels. I grew up with PLAIN, BLUEBERRY, and CINNAMON RAISIN.
I blame New York, personally. They gave us all the concept of hundreds of different varieties of bagels, but did not warn us that this kind of variety is given for a city of thirty bajillion people.

God often uses my AM quiet time to shove things in my face that I would never, ever, ever see otherwise. Even if it's all coming together, I would never see it if not for the "living and active" status of His Word.

This morning's lesson: STOP GRABBIN' THE DANG WHEEL! The surest way to cause a wreck while someone else is driving is to grab the wheel and try to steer yourself. The fact is that whether I like it or not God is in the driver's seat, and will remain there for the duration of everything. Amen, thank you Jesus. But why do we get so bummed and frustrated and flat-out neurotic when we have to stop trying to drive?
I personally hate driving. It is a nifty and efficient way to get where I am going, no lie. It can also be a zen experience with the proper stretches of pavement. Also, my GPS has changed my life and made driving a much more pleasant experience. Still, with all this....I hate driving. There is nothing worse than being in thick traffic with people weaving in and out half an inch from my bumper and having to brake hard with said people all up in my car's bidness. I would much rather have someone else driving.
There's a catch, though. As POC alumni Laura can attest, I am a complete wuss when it comes to letting others drive. I have to spend tense moments with my hands over my eyes. Laura even started just slapping her hand across my eyelids when she was about to do something squirrely. This is a necessary preventative measure.
See, I've got really, really, really, REALLY bad depth perception. This has made me a much safer driver than I might otherwise be, as I always brake slowly, carefully, and always just a smidge early. Others without this handicap do not find this necessary. Therefore, their safe distance is my "OMG IM GONNA DIE" zone. I am aware of my own deficiency, and know that if I watch, I will scream. Or try to grab the wheel.
Problem with life is that we can't close our eyes and not look while God drives. He wants us to watch the scenery, learn from Him, talk to Him. But we all have really awful spiritual depth perception. So we see what we think is impending disaster, when in actuality, God's already got His foot on the brake. And we scream. And grab the wheel. And then we WRECK.
Shocked? I hope not.
In Psalm 42 David is giving his soul a pep talk, telling himself over and over to put his trust in God Almighty, reminding himself of the great works God has wrought. Later, in chapter 44, he reminds himself that in all these instances it was nothing of human doing that brought about these miracles.
"It was not by their sword that they won the land, nor did their arm bring them to victory; it was Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your face, for You loved them."

And guess what? He loves us too. We are every bit as much His chosen ones as the Israelites were. We were adopted into His family as blood relatives, dear children of a mighty King. Even when we act like little brats, we're still His children, and our hands will not win the fight. His hands over ours will, though.

Trusting God is hard for me right now, and I know it's hard for some other people in my life. It's not gonna stop being hard.

But what if, for just a second, we put our hands in our laps and stopped looking at the road ahead and started looking at our Daddy's face? What if we saw that its calm, relaxed features showed no symptom of being lost or confused or stressed by the traffic? The heart takes what the heart needs, so we're going to feel the way we're going to feel and there's not a damn thing we can do about it. Except trust. And hope. And believe. And praise through and in and around difficulty. And I think that's quite enough of a full time job, especially during the hard times.

Let's face it, side-seat driving is just gonna make us carsick.

I would ask whoever's reading this if they ever have one of those days where everything seems to go wrong, but I've never been a fan of questions with obvious answers. Plus, when your attitude is stuck like mine is today, the last thing you want to hear is someone say they know what you're going through. Be warned...that's the easiest way to get sarcasm-ed into unconsciousness when I'm cranky.

Okay, maggots. I Kings 18 and 19. One of the most useful passages I have ever found for dealing with depression. Don't kid yourself. Everyone suffers with it from time to time. The twit-witted pill-popping docs that got their medical license from a box of cracker jacks seem to think that jacking with the body's seratonin levels is a good idea. I want to see a doc that won't prescribe pills until diet change, hydration, B12 and omega 3 supplements, light exposure, and exercise haven't worked. But ANYWAY. The fact is that it happens to everyone. As I have so efficiently demonstrated in this blog already, one's first inclination during the "poor me" phase is to say or think that no one else has ever suffered like you in the entire history of the world. Ugh. The last person that actually had the chutzpah to SAY that around me got their hides nailed to the wall.
Sorry, guys. See, anger turned inward is depression. Right now, I'm on anger turned inside-out and diagonal, then tied into a slipknot.
Depression is a perfectly normal response to a valley in one's life, or even just a spiritual attack. In the passage in Kings, Elijah had just won a great victory for God. Somehow, Satan convinced him that, even with the backing of a God who thought enough of him to send fire down from the heavens onto his altar, he needed to fear for his life.
So the pressures of the world got to him. Think about that scene on Mount Carmel. All those prophets running around, gouging knives into their flesh to make blood run, some possibly passing out, screaming, setting things on fire. The cacophany must have been absolutely deafening and jarring to the nerves. And this went on all day and into the evening. The smells of blood and sweat and rotting meat all would have blended together into a cloud of nausea. The ridiculous spectacle had gone on long enough for Elijah. Finally, he finished repairing the Lord's altar that someone had trashed. He dug a trench around it while everyone watched. Just like always, everyone thought he was crazy. No matter how many times what he said turned out to be right, no matter how many miracles God worked through his ministry, he was always just crazy Elijah. Finally, the trench was deep enough to hold a few gallons of water. The offering was divided and placed into the altar's top. People jeered at him as he began to douse the entire setup in water. Crazy old Elijah. Of course the Lord would respond to his cry. Of course the offering would be set on fire. But these people still wouldn't believe. This day would not end happily, no matter how careful he was, no matter how many miracles happened. He and his servants finished pouring the water, and Elijah prayed a simple prayer. Fire came down from heaven. Of course it did. It consumed everything in its path. Of course. Then, only then did everyone fall face down and believe. Only then was God a God of nations. It took God performing like a trained monkey before they would believe. And so, it was time to do what had to be done.
"Seize the prophets of Baal. Don't let anyone get away."
The scene of slaughter was hideous. The smell of death was on the wind, and human screams ripped through the air like cracks of thunder. When all was done, a cold fear gripped the company, and they did what any animal with three brain cells would do. They ran. They ran into a safe place, and when they arrived, Elijah told them to stay. On he walked, into the desert, now crazy old Elijah again. The next group he met would probably think he was nuts too. It didn't matter. He'd probably wind up having to kill them too, just like the prophets of Baal. Now, not only did people think he was crazy, they also hated him.
On he walked, through the dryness, scarcely conscious of the blisters growing on his feet. His legs went numb, and on he walked, praying that his breathing would stop, that his heart would still, and that he would fall away into the blackness of death. Finally, he stumbled and fell to his knees under a broom tree, the scratchy branches providing mediocre shade against the searing heat of the day, and he slept.
In times like this, God is gentle. He knows our hearts can't take much more. The human frame He built from dust is only designed to stand so much despair before it ceases to function. So He let Elijah sleep, only letting His angel wake the man when food and liquid became a necessity. Then, the angel cradled and fed the half-insensible man and let him fall back to sleep.
When he woke, the last leg of the journey was a little easier. Numbness carried him to Horeb, the mountain where God was said to dwell. Elijah went into a cave and waited, miserable, not even caring if God would exact justice on him for his lousy outlook, just hoping that it killed him so that he could see an end to this suffering. While fire burned and the earth shook outside the cave, Elijah waited.
Then, he heard it. The still, small whisper that signaled the approach of the Creator of time and space. Elohim was coming. Chills of awe and fear and wonder racked Elijah's body as he covered his face and left the darkness of the cavern. God's voice was so soft, so undemanding, with a note that said He had seen and understood everything Elijah had been through, inside and out.
"What are you doing here, Elijah?"
Elijah's composure broke, and everything he had suffered came spilling out through choking and tears and shame. Abba waited patiently for him to finish, then began giving him instructions. Elijah could scarcely believe his ears. God was telling him to go anoint one who would put to death those that threatened his life. And not only was he not the only crazy man that followed El Shaddai, the followers were seven thousand strong. He was not alone in his service. He would follow the Lord's voice, and he wouldn't be put to shame, at least not in the eyes of those who mattered. God had been preparing the way all this time, and was not even angry at Elijah for his momentary wavering in attitude. Instead, He had gently lifted him up and shown him that things really weren't all that bad.
And that, ladies and gents, is the Elijah prescription for depression. Rest, eat, pray, and listen. Better than Zoloft, huh?

I spend half my day asking animals "What's the matter?"
"What's the matter, Mollie? Why are you running in circles in the dining room and looking angsty? I know you didn't poo on the carpet, so that leaves eating something. WHAT DID YOU EAT?"
"What's the matter, Trippy? You look bilious. Did you eat a poison spider? Oh crap, you ate a poison spider, didn't you? Oh....never mind, I guess it was just gas."
"Old Lady, what's the matter? Why are you standing next to the food can and screaming? What's that you say? Too old to chow down on the dry food Trippy eats? Need soft food for your poor toothless mouth? POOR BABY!"
I should make them each a cue card that reads "Either I ate something or I want to eat something or I need to get rid of something I ate yesterday." That would solve it, and I could stop asking that question and get back to watching YouTube.

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; Test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting."
Psalm 139:23, 24

"It's no surprise to me, I am my own worst enemy; 'cause every now and then I kick the livin' **** outta me."
LIT, "My Own Worst Enemy."

Satan is evil. Satan is not a little red dude in a jump suit with a pitchfork and a goatee. He is big and powerful, and he hates my guts. He hates that I am given a redemption he was denied. He hates that I, filthy little worm that I am, have access to the Glory of God, while he is doomed beneath it. He wants me to die, and if not, to at least be ineffectual for the Kingdom. To do this, he will use every power at his disposal to steal, kill, and destroy in my life. He has been alive since before the earth was created, knows the ins and outs of humanity, and is wiser than most other creatures alive. He will use this knowledge to destroy me in any way possible.
And yet, I am not as frightened of him as I am of myself.
See, it goes like this: God promised victory over Satan in the end. I know that if I abide in Christ, and He in me, I can ask whatever I will, and it's a-gonna happen, and that's one tool Satan doesn't have. So his mission now is to keep me from abiding in Christ.
This is dreadfully easy, as I'd rather play on the computer than read my Bible.
I'm not going to lie. I'm no good at it. When I wake up in the morning, my first inclination is to reach down and grab the laptop, rather than reaching over and grabbing the Word. More often than not, I do, until guilt overwhelms me and I put the puter away or turn it on Pandora in favor of Scripture.
On a good day.
God knew how hard this would be for us as humans. He knew, and He made a way out. As I am famous (or rather, notorious) for saying in Homegroup, "Everyone has a different Jesus-shaped hole, and none of our holes are exactly the same." I was tired, get off me.
God gave us a thirst for Home. He gave us a burning, unquenchable desire to be with Him. We all have it, whether we know it or not. We can use a million other things to fill it, but the thirst will still be there. Even when we quench it properly, with the presence of God, it will be there all over again in the morning, demanding to be filled.
When I taught Nurse Aides, I had a student who was, and still is, one of my very favorites. She is bright, funny, cheerful, a hard worker, and genuinely cares about people. One day, we were having a particularly grueling clinical. A group of us were in a patient room trying, for the forty-fifth time, to learn how to take someone's blood pressure. It's a lot harder than it sounds. We were all sweaty and cranky and I had two bruised arms from letting the students practice on me. This student poked me and asked if I had any gum. It just so happened that I did, and as I was pulling a stick out for her, she told me, "Thanks, I'm thirsty."
"...You're what now? You're thirsty?"
"Yeah."
Hydration is one of my big pet peeves, especially since I am so poor at staying properly irrigated myself. "Hon, there's a water cooler in the front lobby. Go get a drink."
"No, that's okay. I want to stay here and watch what's going on. I'll be fine."
Anyone who knows me will not doubt what happened next. I reached up (she's quite a bit taller than me), grabbed her by the ear, and dragged her down the hall, through the locked doors, and into the front lobby. I did not release her ear until she had a full cup of water in her hand and was drinking it.
"Now, what did you learn?"
"I learned not to make Erin mad."
"Try again."
"I learned not to chew gum instead of drinking water."
"Right. You're leaving yourself open for all kinds of problems if you let yourself get dehydrated, especially at work."
"Okay. My ear hurts."

See, her body was telling her that she needed water via a dry mouth. Chewing gum would have pacified that cue, but it wouldn't have fixed the problem. She was thirsty. Her cells and tissues needed fluid to keep working. She could have ignored it, but it would have hurt her. Over time, the cumulative damage of denying your body fluid can lead to organ failure.
See where this little metaphor is going? Good, then I don't need to tell you.
Most vices are the result of a desperate attempt to fill our Jesus-shaped void. When I say desperate, I mean it. Check out some of Webster's definitions for desperate:
1: arising from or marked by despair or loss of hope;
4: showing extreme courage; especially of actions courageously
undertaken in desperation as a last resort;
5: showing extreme urgency or intensity especially because of
great need or desire;
6: fraught with extreme danger; nearly hopeless

I think 5 is my favorite. We are a fat-cat world, and most of America has never had to go hungry a day in their lives. A while back, I did a ten day fast....NOT one of my best decisions ever. I learned what it was like to be without food. Because of chronic hypoglycemia, I never hit that phase most people hit of no hunger. I stayed painfully, achingly hungry the full ten days, and there were times that I was desperate to eat, and I was on my face before God praying for just one more day of grace. I think we may have forgotten what desperation is like. We have tried to still that thirst within, and have managed to blunt the knife edge, when all we need to do is drink from the well that is RIGHT IN FRONT OF OUR FREAKIN' FACES!
Seriously! It's there! It may not feel like it's helping anything at first, but God shows Himself faithful every stinkin' time.
Before I sound hypocritical, let me clarify: I'm thirsty, too, and I'm among the worst of gum-chewers. Denial is the most addictive of all drugs, and I have used all kinds of distractions to help me continue it.
What distractions, you say?
None of your business. Figure out your own and leave me alone.
My point is that this thirst is a Godsend, literally. Without it we would recede into apathy, and miss the beautiful letdown that comes from humbling ourselves before God and telling Him that we can't quench the thirst on our own. It's a process that has to be repeated over and over, but it's worth it. If I could stop fighting myself long enough to let God work, I'd be in pretty good shape. But as you will find if you take a quick read through these archives, I'm more inclined to the moronic.
Oh well. Thank God for loving morons.

A Day in the Life

So because of a monster throat and ear ache I've been experiencing, my trusty rice pillow has been tossed in the microwave repeatedly today. It feels better than a heating pad and cools down automatically, which is better for your tissues. Anyhow, I heated it up one last time before I settled in, went to do something, and when I came back, my 3,000 year old cat had pressed her back up against it and closed her eyes blissfully like she had at last found completion. My ear still hurts, but I can't bring myself to take it away from her.
Now, I know the five people following this blog must sit around at times and wonder what it must be like to live glamorous life in my sexy shoes. I know, I know, it's hard to fathom what it must be like to be a part of the riches and fame that comprise my life. Fear not! I have taken the liberty of writing out my to-do list here. In the immortal words of Roomie Lisa, "I write down the things at the end of the day that I've already done, and cross them out as soon as I write them down."
Check it out. This list is at least marginally chronologically accurate.

1. Crawl out of bed.
2. Go to bathroom.
3. Stagger downstairs into kitchen.
4. Grunt at Lisa.
5. Back upstairs to bed.
6. Sleep four more hours.
7. Quiet Time, AKA: Blog Fodder.
8. Yell at various people via text message.
9. Answer E-Mails
10. Talk with Dad on phone for an hour or so, listening to stories so that you don't have to talk, thus upsetting the monster ulcer that now resides in a den somewhere in your left tonsil.
10. Travel with Lisa to watch an independent film.
11. Repeat.
12. Stop by Kroger on the way back for nutritive substances that are Erin-Friendly. Sweat profusely in line, wishing that there were more registers open after 9PM. Realize that the ick in your throat may actually be an illness. Lodge yourself firmly back into denial.
13. Back at home, make Erin-Friendly soup. Check to see if there is ice cream left. Upon realizing that there is, squeal at the top of your lungs and jump up and down.
14. Eat soup in bed while watching YouTube.
15. Wake up with face plastered to keyboard halfway through "Gabriel Iglesias: Hot and Fluffy." Turn off computer. Grunt.
16. Sleep for the next twelve hours.

And there it is. That is my life when I am not working. And sick.
Even Jesus took days off.

Cliff bars are relatively delicious.

Okay, people, check out the first nine verses of Psalm 31. I would write it out here if I were your kindergarten teacher. Go read it yourself, lazysaurus! We're commanded over and over not to fret when we see people seemingly rewarded for doing wrong. I admit, as a chronic comparer of myself to others, I've been guilty of this a lot. I don't think I'd be able to count the times I fought and starved(figuratively speaking, of course. Food and I have a torrid love affair. Except circus peanuts. Those things are wicked-nasty) to do the "moral" thing. In the end I didn't feel one bit blessed, which (I told myself, while sulking over a comic book and a box of cookies) was okay, since virtue is its own reward, or some goody-goody baloney like that. But then I looked at others who either didn't care or seemed to be deliberately trying to live in the most immoral way possible. I am talking Brittney Spears, Dawson's Creek, Circus Peanut-level immorality. And their lives were fantastic!! That was when I had a Jonah moment and exploded at God, waved my arms, paced around, and told Him that it was all wrong, unfair, and humiliating after all I had done to watch the wicked be blessed while I struggled. Then I knocked over the best lamp in God's living room, kicked a throw rug, and stomped away while God glanced at me over the top of His newspaper, completely unaffected by my tantrum.
The whole process took a very long time to resolve, but finally God humbled me enough so that I could listen to His rebuttal. It went something like this.
"Wrong? I invented right and wrong. Keep listening and I'll tell you all about it. Fair? Be glad I'm not fair. Fair ended at the cross. Your salvation is what's unfair. Fair should be a dirty word in your vocabulary. Fair should be something you avoid at all costs. I could be fair, but I guarantee you that you wouldn't survive it. You think that behaving like my child is humiliating? It's an easy life, being a pig, lolling around in mud and pooping where you stand, but any good parent wouldn't let their child act like that. Parents that love their children bring them up to be polite and respectful, not letting them act like the pigs that are carried away by the butcher. Now stop your griping, eat your danged vegetables, and go play outside. I love you, kiddo, and I congratulate myself on creating you, but danged if you don't act dumber than a sack of snot sometimes."
God has to get krunk with me sometimes. But I gotta tell you, He knows what He's doing. And He's sure right. I do act dumber than a sack of snot.
Probably the only verse in the Bible that I just don't like is "He disciplines those He loves."
ARGH! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
If He loved me, He would zap me with insta-discipline, insta-charisma, and insta-faith. Right? RIGHT???
Wrong. We were created to be God's companions. If He creates us as we are to be with no capacity or necessity for growth, we would be pretty poor companions. It would be like a crazy scientist creating an android to keep him company. As we all know from watching Star Trek, an android without the desire or need for growth is nothing more than a part of the scenery.
....did I just nerd out for a minute, there? Sorry.
We were put in this beautiful, amazing, fallen world with the desire for growth and change, because our ultimate goal is to be the companions of God. How COOL is that? That's like your favorite celebrity (Sandra Bullock? YES PLEASE!) calling you up and saying "I want you to quit your job. I need a friend, and I think you're it. You could be my best friend full-time." But you'd have to learn to walk the celebrity walk. You'd have to look good accompanying her on the red carpet as her BFF. You'd have to know the ins and outs of a Hollywood set. You'd have to know all about all the things that interest her.
Being God's BFF is about a bazillion times harder, but infinitely more worth it. But we've got to learn how to walk the Holy walk. We've got to look good as a pure specimen of His kingdom. We've got to know the ins and outs of the Word. We've got to know about the things that touch God's heart. That takes work, people. Hard, hard work. We're humans, and we like to be lazy. I know it's one of my favorite things. But if we're not growing, we're stagnating, becoming apathetic, part of the scenery.
I make one ugly tree. The scenery thing doesn't work for me.
Neither do Circus Peanuts.

....and that's the exact moment when things started going wrong, your honor.

I would like to take a break in my copious expressions of opinion to go over one basic fact that is central to my life and that may help others in their journey.
Nurses are idiots.
I am a nurse. A nurse gave birth to me. I am related to many nurses, and have many more nurses that are friends. I have also seen nurses save countless lives, correct errors made by doctors that could have been fatal, and make ingenious health care decisions. I do not mean that nurses are professionally incompetent. I mean that when we step off that clinical site...we...are...idiots.
I could tell several stories to illustrate my point, all about myself, but allow me to give you one brief, horrifying glimpse into what happens when I am left alone too long by saying this:
When attempting to perform cosmetic surgery on oneself, it is a wise idea to have a styptic pencil nearby to control the copious bleeding that apparently results. I had no such thing handy. Lisa and Corrie will be no doubt delighted by a pile of blood-soaked tissues in the bathroom trash can when they arrive at home. I don't want to talk about that any more.

"I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ." -Ghandi

If I hear one more Bible-toting, praise-and-worshiping, Scripture-Quoting, Ichthus-wearing Christian respond to the question "How are you?" with any of the following words, I will instigate physical violence. Consider yourselves warned.
The phrases in question are:
"I'm here."
"I'm surviving."
"Don't ask."
"Ask me on Friday."
"Ugh."
I include myself in this threat. Don't be surprised, friends and loved ones, if you see me slapping myself silly sometime in the next few months.
If there is one thing more pitiful than an apathetic Christian, it is a chronically discouraged Christian.
Tell me something, what unsaved person in their right mind would want to follow a God that, if He doesn't cause a feeling of ennui, at the very least leaves His followers to feel vaguely discontented and dyspeptic their entire lives.
WHAT THE CRAP, MAN?
There is no excuse for a Believer to answer the "How are you?" question with anything less than, "God is good." No matter how things are going, if you believe anything Scripture says, you have no excuse to be answering poorly.
Now, don't misunderstand. Christians have bad days, and they're allowed to have bad days. I'm not saying that you can't express how you feel if you're struggling that day, that week, etc. How else can we solicit the prayers and support of others?
What I'm talking about is people that habitually answer neutrally or negatively to inquiries about their general state of being. Even if they're doing okay, they say one of the Forbidden Phrases listed above to avoid giving the impression that they are too happy. Whether the motivation is a need to feel more spiritual through suffering or just to gain sympathy because you like feeling special....
STOP IT! STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!
STOP IT IMMEDIATELY!
CEASE!
ALTO!
HALTE!
ENNNNNNNNNNNND!
I KILL YOU!
You're making Christians look like the rest of the world! STOP! We're supposed to be shining lights, in the world but not of it! We are forgiven, renewed, and heaven-bound. And if the thought of where you're going isn't enough, which it really isn't on the days when you feel like you're not getting there fast enough, don't forget; you have Jesus on your side! If you're not at least a little bit excited about your life today, well, that needs to be addressed immediately!
I would once again ask the reader to keep in mind that I am targeting myself just as much as I am others in this and all posts. I am just as guilty of habitual gloominess as the next Christian, but today I realized that not only is it a drag, it's SIN. Jesus came to give us life, that we might live more abundantly! We are commanded to rejoice! The joy of the Lord is our strength, and some of us are walking around like Spritual Urkels, weak, reedy, and flabby. What is supposed to make someone who is searching for a fuller life look at US and say "gee, I want to be like that!"
SMILE, OR I'LL HIT YOU WITH SOMETHING HEAVY!
I'm going to bed now. I'm becoming cranky.

And now for something completely different...check out Psalm 18.

It began with a cry. It was a thin, weak, almost inaudible cry. But it echoed in the rafters of the Highest Temple, like a tiny drop of water echoes in a never-ending cavern. The whispery call came, and the heavens woke.

My Jesus spoke out of the black of the inky reaches of infinity where He makes His home. The single syllable from His tongue rocked the very atoms that form the molecules of the Milky Way. The “gods” of the Greeks and Aztecs trembled when they heard Him draw in breath. Him. My Jesus.

Then my Jesus let out a breath, scarcely a sigh, that stripped the heavens and laid bare their scaffoldings like flesh being pulled from bone. Hot, searing breath that had on its edge a metallic tang. Something deep inside every living creature shuddered at the scent. It was the smell of anger. My Jesus was angry.

Cherubim, ferocious and beautiful, fell to their knees before my Jesus, covering their four faces lest they should be exposed to the glaring majesty of His rage. With a thunderclap, my Jesus planted the soles of His bleeding, nail-scarred feet on their backs. But it was not them that my Jesus was angry with. To the contrary, He employed their services to exercise His fervor. Lifted off the streets of crystalline transparent gold by the breath of Elohim, they propelled Him through the heavenly realms, splitting the celestial thresholds asunder, then broke the sacred bonds and cut through the atmosphere of the earth, barely causing a ripple. But there was nothing covert about His mission. My Jesus was caught in a storm of contained, controlled, concentrated fury. He was coming for them, and they would know. Long before He arrived, they would know the pain of the strike that was coming.

They would know, but they could not stop it. Sinful. Violent. Hateful. They inhabited the earth blithely, not even bothering to kid themselves about the evil they perpetrated. They would pay, and they would pay dearly, and they would pay NOW.

He rained down lightening like flint sparks, and with each bolt a clap of thunder split the ozone-suffused air.

And that was just for show. His real vengeance would come with twice the beauty, and infinitely more finality. As he approached, the thin screams of His prey were drowned by His deep-chested growl, almost animalistic, and entirely carnivorous. This was not the pink, candy-coated Jesus they tried to show the diluted masses to weaken their resolve. This was a mighty ruler, one who bore blows from a Roman death whip, one who carried seventy pounds of crossed timber through the streets, dragging across puddles of His own blood. This was the Jesus that was torn bodily to shreds, tortured, mocked, starved, and dehydrated, and did not break. This was the leather-skinned, stone-handed Jesus that hewed cedar planks, whose eyes defied Pharisees, stopped angry mobs in their tracks, and turned the mighty Pontius Pilate into a waffling school girl.

Those same eyes locked on His targets, zeroed in, and went for the kill.

And they knew fear. They knew the nauseous clawing of certain agony and death. They could have run. They could have hidden, but in the end, the result would be the same.

The calloused fingers of Jesus, the crucified Jewish Carpenter, wrapped across their faces and ripped them in half.

Amid their cries of agony, a voice like a crash of thunder, a bursting dam, a falling redwood, a continental plate splitting apart ripped the air.

WHERE IS MY CHILD?

He didn’t wait for answers. With barely a flick of His fingers, His targets were incinerated, sent to the pit to await judgment. Breathing smoke and brimstone, my Jesus turned to the shredded, torn soul of the child He came to save tonight.

Cold obsidian eyes suddenly soft and compassionate, my Jesus began to wash the wounds on His beloved. With infinite dexterity, He soothed the deep lacerations and cleaned the debris from the cuts.

My Jesus gently wrapped the battered soul in His own robes. The cherubim were again used as transport. This time the pace was gentle. My Jesus would take no risk of further jarring His loved one. Cradling the broken form close, He slipped away to the peaceful place they used to share, the special spot that has been waiting for this moment.

Not the spot for a Warrior and His foe. A spot for a Father and His precious child.

That’s the plan. That’s the necessity. That’s the passion and the ruling force and the exception to the rule and the summation of judgment withheld. That’s sin exonerated and fragility defended. That’s power and praise and meekness and majesty. That’s the nature of love and the Author of relationship. That’s mighty salvation.

That’s My Jesus.

Throwing a Hand Grenade into the Battle of the Sexes

Okay, so I'm not usually a person that harps on sexism, mostly because I am so dead sick of hearing about it. If you don't like the way you're being treated, do something about it! You're not a gerbil, you CAN change locations. Get a new job, a new school, a new church, anything to keep us from hearing you whine about how the boys won't let you into their club. I'm also tired of hearing men being trashed. There are a lot of good guys out there that get NO credit whatsoever. So here is is; Fellas, on behalf of the female population that is too busy asphyxiating on hair dye to say it--thank you. Thank you for every time you were chivalrous instead of being condescending, respectful and considerate, for every hormone-induced insult you let go for the sake of keeping the peace. I won't apologize for the female gender, because we've got our own list of crap that we have to deal with, but I will thank the men who have the guts to step up and be men.
That being said, I gotta tell you, there are guys out there who are undoing all your handiwork.
Last week, I had a very long, difficult friday. Without going into too much detail, and thanking God for the day not being any worse (as it could have been), let me say that there was a mechanic that sorely challenged my already shortened fuse. For those of you not familiar with the saga that is my car's engine, let me summarize by saying that in February, I spent about 4 grand to have my transmission replaced. In retrospect, I should have just tried to sell it....but anyway. So a couple of weeks ago it breaks down again. Not knowing what was wrong with it and hoping for something simple, I had it towed to a local shop in Crowley. I recieved a call on Friday that went like this:
Me: Hello?
Car Dude: Hi, this is (name deleted) from (business deleted). Um...which car was yours again?
Me: (okay, so you totally called ME, I would hope you know what's going on a LITTLE better than that, but hey, there's an orange pollution alert today, maybe your brain's a little smoke-cured) Uh, the '03 VUE.
Car Dude: Oh, right. Your transmission's shot. Hang on a second.
Me: (sweating bullets and ticked from being on the phone with homeboy talking to someone about what kind of pizza to order for literally ten minutes, and finally getting cut off. The guy calls back and offers no apology) So, what's wrong with the transmission, now?
Car Dude: Uh, it's BROKEN. It needs to be FIXED. (raising his voice in a frustrated tone in offense that a mere woman would presume to know anything about something as manly and mysterious as a car transmission)
Me: .......excuse me?
Car Dude: (Loud sigh. looks like this broad is particularly dumb) It's an I-N-T-E-R-N-A-L problem. Do you HAVE a warranty on it?
Me: (Ohnoyadidn't) Yep. I have a warranty with someone else. I'll have it towed outta there. *click*
Did I mention I was PMSing too? Anyhow, the general concensus from my parents was that there's no excuse for acting like that, but mechanics are mechanics and I probably should have had a guy deal with them...not because I wasn't capable of dealing, but because mechanics like to play with power tools and power trips. Point taken. I had the illustrious Dave deal with the dude. Dave said he was nice. That's because chauvanists don't have a problem with other guys, just the women that are rude enough to occupy the non-kitchen space in their worlds.
ANYway. It got me to thinking about the battle of the sexes, in all its ridiculous, unloving, unspiritual glory.
You can't claim to love the Lord and accept Scripture in its entirety without admitting tha tmen have a different role from women. All it takes is a simple look at the life of Jesus.
D.J. Kennedy, author of "What if Jesus had Never Been Born?" and Mark Driscoll in "Vintage Jesus" both point out that the life and teachings of Jesus elevated women from property (like cattle) to citizens. He taught men and women alike as equals, and the disciples continued His work. On fact, the verse in ITimothy 3 so often quoted by the pious gasbags that don't want a woman in the pulpit is usually quoted incompletely. The passage reads in detail about the life of a Deacon and how it should mirror Christ. Paul says that the deacon is to be the husband of but one wife. Totally lame way to defend your little boy's only club, right? It's made worse by the fact that every translation except KJV go on to say, "The deaconesses, likewise...." I Timothy 3:11. There are several other verses that indicate women in positions of leadership in the church. This was a change fro the polytheistic temples that required women in positions of power to also prostitute their bodies like some mythological burlesque show. "And now, presenting Zeus and the Toga Tarts! Popcorn is now on sale in our lobby."
In fact, Paul writes a passage dedicated to the retraining of such women to be LADIES, respectable and appropriate by any and all standards in that time period (I Corinthians 14:34)
All this to say that yes, Jesus had a special place in His heart for women, especially women who have been exhausted by a world that refuses to allow them to behave as ladies.
Another source of great comfort to me is that Jesus understands PMS. Take a look at the story in Luke 10. You can't tell me that fit Martha threw wasn't originated in hormones! I mean, here is a grown woman, by all other rights respectable and mature, WHINING to Jesus! "Blubber, wah, Jesus, make Mary help me! It's not FAIR! *foot stomp, sniffle*" Every woman alive has immense sympathy for moments like that, nods her head, and says "Yep, my uterus hates me too."
But check out how Jesus acts. He's firm, but so sympathetic and tender. He basically tells her "You could be doing this too. I wouldn't mind, and I think it would make you feel better." Scripture doesn't record it, but I bet at that point Martha popped some Midol, grabbed a heating pad, and plunked down beside her sister to listen to Jesus. Talk about conflict resolution!
Jesus treated women with special tenderness. He still does. Men have a hard job, but women do too. Guys, be patient with us. Its' going to take a lot of work from real men of God before we can relax and be the Grace-filled ladiea we were commanded to be.

Also, men and women use different weapons in the hatful, unscriptural battle between the sexes.
The weapons of men are terrifying to women. Between a tendency toward verbal domineering and the very real possibility of inflicting physical harm, it's a wonder all women don't carry guns. But there is also the matter of the man who breeds false emotional closeness and the misguided feeling of security in a woman. The purpose of this is no more than to obtain what they want, be it servitude, a feeling of superiority, or plain old-fashioned sex. A woman will do almost anything to feel wanted. Men know this, and some of them use this knowledge in the most despicable way possible.
Girls, we're not exempt either. Read the story of Adam and Eve, or Samson and Delilah. Women are manipulators, through and through. We will cheat and connive and nag until we get what we want. Any man will tell you that there is nothing, absolutely NOTHING worse than a nagging woman. Every man alive instantly understands the parable of the persistant widow. This jerk judge finally tears his hair out and says "Agh! Okay! Anything you want! Yes dear! Just SHUT UP!"
But our gender's manipulations can take a more sinister turn, as in the case of a woman purposely getting pregnant or faking a pregnancy to rope down a man that's not terribly interested in her, or women that fly into crying hysterics when they are confronted about inappropriate behavior that needs to be remedied in their lives. These methods of manipulation are just as disgusting, just as vile, as the man who bullies and belittles his wife. I have seen women tear men's lives to shreds using these methods of getting what they want, efficiently and remorselessly, then move on to the next victim.

What is my basic point in this very long-winded post, aside from the fact that PEOPLE ARE CRAZY (which is an ongoing theme in this blog)?

Beware the power you have, man.
Beware the power you have, woman.
We will all have to answer for the abuse of it.

We interrupt our regularly scheduled soapboxing....

Okay, so last night at Homegroup, this blog got brought up. You never knew a group of adults could be so explosively creative as when they are presented with the words "shiny" and "koalas."
I knew it was a recipe for greatness, I just didn't know how near that greatness was. Here is the dialogue, near as I can recall. I may be getting who said what confused in my head, though.

Chris: What's it called? Stinky Koalas?
Caleb: Dude, I was TOTALLY about to say exactly THAT! I really thought it was Stinky Koalas!
Me: It's SHINY Koalas!
Micah: What's a shiny koala?
Julie S: It's a Koala that's been greased up!
Exo: Hair gel or pomade?
Me: Can't it be both?
Micah:It's hard to keep shiny koalas in trees, because they are naturally slippery.
Exo: You know it's a bad day when the sloth is beating you at the climbing game.
Audrey: Life is hard for the shiny koalas!
Julia M: That's why you usually find them on the ground!
Me: *genuinely pleased with the idea* Hee! Sploit!
Audrey: And they use the sparkly gel! It helps break up their outline on a sunny day.

It was fantastic. Just to clarify, I was trying to create this blog, needed a URL, and I used the first two words that popped into my head. It has no special or deep significance whatsoever, except maybe to show that I am too preoccupied with sparkly things and small fuzzy mammals.

Happy 4th everyone! It's good to be free. And hey, if you don't like living here, there's always Iran.

Type-A Blunders

"Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys."
-CS Lewis, "The Screwtape Letters"

CS Lewis embarked on the writing of The Screwtape Letters with the intention of showing how easily human thought and being can be twisted and manipulated. In a split second everything is different, though nothing in the physical world has changed. Very small changes in thought and habit can bring about massive chaos and destruction in a person's life. So why do we insist on thinking we can predict and change outcomes, when the minutiae of daily life so often escapes us? Despite our asinine type-A attempts to control every factor, crap happens. Little human self-help methods for attaining control fail miserably. Try what you will--charts, graphs, recorded reminders, a handy dandy notepad, or even just repeating the same routine over and over again, eventually, it will fail.

Human control strategies can't even overcome our own forgetfulness, much less the infinite possibilities that could unfold with a decision as simple as sitting down on a park bench or sneezing into your left sleeve rather than your right. When that happens, the unplanned unknown sneaks up on us and bites us, and there's not a thing we can do about it. We're thrown headlong into a maze of circumstances that there was no way we could plan for. Those are the consequences of being a human.

Fortunately, and against all odds, there is a Father in Heaven that knows we're scatterbrained doofuses who are one head blow away from playing with crayons for the rest of our lives. He created us to be His companions, and He wants us to be fully reliant on Him, not because He wants to control us, but rather quite the opposite, that He wants us to grow. He wants us to be able to function without hearing a word from His mouth every two seconds. This is desireable for us, too. Hey, let's me honest, the life of an Old Testament prophet was pretty uncool. Apparently, hearing the voice of God on a regular basis causes psychotic behavior, weird contests with idol worshipers, funky hair, and entomophagy (eating bugs. I know, I know, that's New Testament, but it's still in the Bible). So that's why we have concrete words printed in a handy little book that we can return to time and again. That is how we look around, see a desolate world that it seems God has abandoned, and despite the fact that everything in us is screaming to come up with a plan B before it's too late, we still obey. That's when we learn strength without the extra motivation of warm fuzzy feelings, which never hang around. That's the provision of God for a mean and unstable species who, half the time, has their fingers up their noses to the second knuckle while He's trying to speak.

For instance, I was driving to work today. In Bedford. From Crowley. About a 45 minute drive. Before I left I made sure to make up a nice little lunch, and told myself every minute or so while I was making it, "I have to put this into my bag, or I'll forget it." Put it in a tupperware container. "I gotta put this into my little tote bag, or I'll leave it here." Add salt, pepper, and garlic, the three ingredients for wholesale happiness. "Okay, so I'll stir this up, and then put the lid on and put it in my tote bag." Stir. "Tote bag, tote bag, tote bag."

Not surprisingly, I was IN Bedford before I realized I had left the food sitting on the counter. Shocking, I know. Next time I'll warn you with something big and shiny to let you know a jump scene is coming up. Anyway, that was the crap happening.

I was already running behind and would have been late if I had stopped somewhere, so I gritted my teeth nervously and pressed on. Maybe I would just order a plate from the kitchen when the patients were served dinner. That was my human type-A plan for control.

Everything on the patient menu was meat stuffed with meat with meat sauce and gravy on top, with sugar cubes dipped in honey for dessert. Those who know me know that meat and I are not on speaking terms, and really, REALLY need to cut back on the sugar. So much for the plan.

So I called up Jen Berger. Before I was even done asking her if she could please, maybe, if it wasn't too much trouble, and I completely understood if she couldn't, but I'd really like some food, she was all, "Do you want me to bring you some Subway? How about a footlong?" In an hour there was a fresh, tasty edible in my happy little hands.

And that's called Grace.

You see, despite our humanity and flaws and our "durr what was I supposed to be doing?" moments, God has a little tool He pulls out when things get really rough, and we've done nothing to merit being bailed out, but regardless can't make it another moment without help. It's called Grace. I've been using up enough for two people lately, but somehow, I think there's enough to go around. If not, I'm sure we can send Jen Berger out for more. I hear God's Grace is made fresh daily.
Okay, so I'm ending with a bad Subway/Grace renewal pun. What of it?
Go watch TV. Go!!

Mrs. Johnson, PLEASE take your medicine.

I've spent a lot of time working with dementia patients. The disease process is fascinating, but not as fascinating as the raw, uncovered look at the human psyche that it offers. Also, watching old people run down the hall in their birthday suit is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life.
I've always thought of dementia like looking at the world through a foggy kaleidoscope, only instead of colored glass beads and panels, there are memories and hallucinations blocking your view. Some patients live inside a house of horror, constantly plagued by the things they are seeing. Others float in an impenetrable cloud of bliss regardless of what's actually going on. Either way, they are still disabled and alienated from loved ones.

Faith apathy is kind of the same thing.
Now, hear me out, 'cause it's going to take me a while to get back around to the point on this one...
If I hear one more person...just ONE MORE, say "I'm basically a good person. I don't think God is going to send me to hell." I. Am going. To scream.
I don't care whether you believe in Jesus, Buddah, or the Great Pumpkin, when you die, don't expect overflowing mercy from a God you've chosen to ignore your entire life. Forget the facts of what happens to an apathetic believer while they're alive. After death, how do you expect to stand before Someone who is pure, blameless, righteous, all powerful, all mighty, Creator and Ruler of all, Alpha and Omega, and tell Him that pathetic crock of hooey!?
"Well, yeah, I've lived a nice, safe life, cheated on my wife and divorced her, dodged my taxes a few times, hit a dog and kept going because I didn't feel like stopping, only went to church when it made me look good, and only prayed when I was in big trouble. And really, I never thought about You unless I could help it. But I think I'm basically a good person, so move aside and let me into Your house. I want to eat alongside people who have suffered and died for you, the woman who prayed every day for her abusive husband, the man who forgave an unfaithful wife, the guy that went to church every single sunday, not because it made him look good, but because it was RIGHT. Wait, what? You're turning down my 'Basically a good person' argument? How could you?"
And for this God is called harsh and wrathful.
The irony is so rich I could go on all day, but that's not my main point. Besides, CS Lewis said that when taking into account what we know of the nature of God, "the question should not be 'Why are so few saved?' but rather 'How are any saved at all?'" Salvation is a beautiful fluke.
My point here is that there are more serious implications than what apathy does to us here on earth, which is in itself very sobering to think about.
A few weeks ago, my homegroup got into the "once saved, always saved" discussion, and it made me HOPPING mad*. How can someone who has been born be unborn? If the steps for salvation were really, truly taken, how can they be untaken? Answer: THEY CAN'T!
However, there is such a thing as starving oneself into ineffectiveness. Again, a case of forgetful freed men, walking around like prisoners. Sure, you can do it. But WHY? Not only are you depriving yourself of healing, joy, and purpose, but you're keeping yourself from having any connection with other people that might help you slog through this world. Not to mention, one day, you're going to have to look the Almighty in the eye and explain why you chose to just sit back and do nothing while the faithful suffered for His name.
I don't exclude myself from this ranting. I'm just as much in danger as anyone else.
Whether or not you're happy with your life, whether or not you feel loved, the reality is not changed.
Like dementia, whether you're happy or sad, you're still sitting in a wheelchair drooling on yourself and being showered by strangers.
The difference? Dementia patients can't HELP IT!

*I would like to make the disclaimer that my homegroup has consistently proven themselves to be capable of respectful arguing and productive give-and-take. Just because I got mad doesn't mean that someone there MADE me cranky. The issue itself teed me off. That is all. Why are you still reading? Go watch TV! GO!

Attention, All Personnell, Incoming Wounded

Extra points to anyone who gets the reference in the title.
I have a theory. It's not flattering, it's not pretty, it's not graceful or beautiful, but it works. It works like the world's ugliest farm mule works. Like a critter that knows its one purpose in life is to be useful.
If you've ever seen Fifth Element with Bruce Willis and Milla Jovovich, you might remember the scene where the police are running an inspection on Bruce Willis' apartment building. They turn the camera on inside his room and ask the clearly homosapien Willis, "Sir, are you classified as human?"
His reply is classic. "Negative, I am a meat popsicle."
Irreverent, but somehow very true. Probably even more true than the script writer knew. I think, somehow, Bruce Willis might know. Even if he is running around with women half his age in leather pants, I think he's smarter than he come off. Anyway. My theory is this:
I am a meat suit.
I SAID it wasn't pretty.
I was put on this earth, and have since spent a lot of time studying the human body. Looked at from one angle, we are beautifully complex, mysterious creatures. In another light, we are nothing more than masses of pumping, digesting, metabolizing, respiring meat. The base elements of the human body can be listed on your fingers and toes, and the shopping bag price is somewhere around twenty bucks. The substances are easily found at any chemist's shop. Watch Full Metal Alchemist. It's true! Independantly corroborated, of course.
And yet, with all the high-tech equipment we have at our disposal, scientists cannot instill life artificially into one single cell. That's okay, because we wouldn't know what to do with it if we created it, anyway. Best case scenarios include organ replication, fertility treatments, and parkinson's research. But those wouldn't be the primary goals. Our Creator knew what was up when He said "Let them be ham-fisted at trying to do My job, and let them constantly make buffons of themselves if they try."
Pretty awesome decree. Nevertheless, I'm not trying to devalue His creation. As I said, we are beautifully complex, fearfully and wonderfully made. But without that divine spark, we are nothing more than meat suits lying here and metabolizing. We are made with only one empty space--the little cavern in our guts that has imprinted on it, "Insert God Here."
Nature abhors a vaccum. If we don't fill it with the One who created us, we will fill it with another, lesser god. We will worship created things, instead of the Creator. Nursing has taught me that if you put a human into an unnatural position, or try to make the human body fit into a space that doesn't conform to it, horrible, terrible injury will result. Plus, the patient's on the call light, like, every five minutes whining.
And yet, we walk around watching people with heart injuries as though it's their fault, as though they'll eventually get better.
News flash: when a meat suit gets injured, it's more than a fashion faux pas.
Whether we like it or not, we're all medics, trying to get through this life without getting hit with bullets like self-loathing, depression, and despair, dragging life's casualties off the front lines and applying pressure to wounds like death of a loved one, family troubles, and failed relationships. If all goes well, we keep the meat suit safe until it can heal, and our friend gets up and fights again.
We may be working these meat suits like we own 'em, but the Holy Spirit has more than a little say. He's not happy when we hunker in the bunker and clench in the trench. Get up. Fight! Keep low, but keep moving.
I myself am naturally inclined to lie low and hope everything goes away, and doing so makes my commander hopping mad. There are others out there being battered and brutalized. Inaction is inexcusable. Also cowardly, and will give you wrinkles. And cancer.
No, really. Prevent cancer by not being a wuss!