Thursday, my routine mail check produced a Victoria’s Secret magazine—still coming to us though we’ve tried and tried to shake them. I smuggled it into my bedroom, out of sight of the men in the family and stuffed it into my trashcan to await an opportune moment for me to send it to a fiery end. Today, I dug it out to wreck my vengeance on it. It all began when I ordered something for my sister-in-law, and checked the "Do not send me e-mail or magazines" option. Magazines began arriving a short time later, anyway. I called, demanding that they stop sending the advertisements. We moved, and again they found us.
Viciously I ripped the offending magazine to shreds. Why did they have to make this kind of “soft-core” pornography, anyway, and slip it into our homes under the pretense of selling us ladies’ items? There’s no doubt in my mind what the true purpose of such marketing can be. Are we marketing lingerie or women’s bodies? A woman can evaluate lingerie just as well on a manikin. There's no special appeal to her through the sexy poses. How many men and boys pick up a Victoria’s Secret magazine, never to buy a bra or bikini, but to be forever ensnared by the demons who inspire pornography? Overwhelmed by the truth of this marketing scheme, I fed the shreds to a dying fire, crying from sorrow and smoke. With the ashes of ruined women before me I vowed never to order from Victoria's Secret again.
After finishing the day’s work, I found myself flying down the woodland trail Josiah and I built. Out of condition, I was surprised to find myself not out of breath. In spite of jeans, work boots and a denim jacket I ran full out, nearly sprinting for over half a mile, until I came to the clearing and spied Josiah hunched over his Bible. Quickly I turned around and returned home.
I hold in my hand a note signed “The Sinner”--as if there were only one. It is an apology, simple, straightforward and humble and I know who the author is, in spite of the apparent anonymity. At this moment, with tears chasing each other down my cheeks, I am overwhelmed by one simple truth: I am equally worthy of the signature. How could I deserve an apology?
Lord, if I am grieved by sin
How more art Thou, so pure within?
And if a sin fills me with sorrow,
How much more must be Thy horror?
A miracle it is that I,
Who caused Thy perfect Son to die,
Should by His death be so forgiven
As to dwell with Thee in heaven.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Health and beauty magazines are pushing chocolate as “good for you”. Over the last month I’ve faithfully tried this “delicious cure” and discovered two things: it is not good for my belly or my skin. No more chocolate. The end.
Money matters claimed my attention this morning, as I organized my savings and checking/debit files, caught up my spending log and planned out a budget for next year. Admittedly my past attempts at budgeting have been something along the lines of allowing myself five dollars a month for spending and disposing of the rest more “wisely”. Up until the move I supported an international missionary. Now I have several purchases I’d like to make and I’m sorely tempted to cut back my giving. Once upon a time, the Lord laid it heavily upon my heart to empty myself of stinginess by emptying myself of the hoarded treasure, and I found joy in giving liberally. I face a dilemma: continue to give nearly everything to the Lord, trusting that He will supply for my dream of a digital SLR or cut back my giving and save for the camera, believing that God is providing for my desire in a predictable manner. It sounds obvious on paper, but is it really so clear? He provides for our needs and desires as often through regular means as through mysterious and miraculous. But one thing I know for sure: she who gives to the poor is lending to the Lord and He will pay her back.
Nick arrived safely “home” at Scottsburrow last night, under Zach’s careful guardianship. The quiet days are over and I do not regret it in the least. Over supper preparations of chopping, chopping, chopping onions, peppers, olives and chicken, I asked Nick who his heroes were. He paused for a moment, then answered, unhesitatingly, “Nathaniel.” He went on to share with me his testimony, and how the Lord had used Nathaniel to convict him of his need to repent during his first stay with us, two years ago over Christmas break. Since arriving on Arkansas soil, Nathaniel’s name has dropped multiple times and always, always it is with a tone of respect and honor, and I can think of at least three growing believers who thank him for the call to repentance which brought them to their knees. Four years ago the Lord transplanted Nathaniel here to use him and the testimonies I have heard are the proof of a life surrendered to the Master. Unpretentious, unassuming, Nathaniel sought the Lord and found His lost sheep. Now he is gone and we are here—continuing what he began. He planted, we water, but God causes the growth.
Lord, a simple tool is all I ask
That I might aid Thee with Thy task
Of harvesting a ripened world
And see Thy perfect plan unfurled.
I understand that when I choose
To be a tool that Thou can use
I’ve chosen to wait patient, still
And empty, so that Thou might fill.
Money matters claimed my attention this morning, as I organized my savings and checking/debit files, caught up my spending log and planned out a budget for next year. Admittedly my past attempts at budgeting have been something along the lines of allowing myself five dollars a month for spending and disposing of the rest more “wisely”. Up until the move I supported an international missionary. Now I have several purchases I’d like to make and I’m sorely tempted to cut back my giving. Once upon a time, the Lord laid it heavily upon my heart to empty myself of stinginess by emptying myself of the hoarded treasure, and I found joy in giving liberally. I face a dilemma: continue to give nearly everything to the Lord, trusting that He will supply for my dream of a digital SLR or cut back my giving and save for the camera, believing that God is providing for my desire in a predictable manner. It sounds obvious on paper, but is it really so clear? He provides for our needs and desires as often through regular means as through mysterious and miraculous. But one thing I know for sure: she who gives to the poor is lending to the Lord and He will pay her back.
Nick arrived safely “home” at Scottsburrow last night, under Zach’s careful guardianship. The quiet days are over and I do not regret it in the least. Over supper preparations of chopping, chopping, chopping onions, peppers, olives and chicken, I asked Nick who his heroes were. He paused for a moment, then answered, unhesitatingly, “Nathaniel.” He went on to share with me his testimony, and how the Lord had used Nathaniel to convict him of his need to repent during his first stay with us, two years ago over Christmas break. Since arriving on Arkansas soil, Nathaniel’s name has dropped multiple times and always, always it is with a tone of respect and honor, and I can think of at least three growing believers who thank him for the call to repentance which brought them to their knees. Four years ago the Lord transplanted Nathaniel here to use him and the testimonies I have heard are the proof of a life surrendered to the Master. Unpretentious, unassuming, Nathaniel sought the Lord and found His lost sheep. Now he is gone and we are here—continuing what he began. He planted, we water, but God causes the growth.
Lord, a simple tool is all I ask
That I might aid Thee with Thy task
Of harvesting a ripened world
And see Thy perfect plan unfurled.
I understand that when I choose
To be a tool that Thou can use
I’ve chosen to wait patient, still
And empty, so that Thou might fill.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Lydia and I slept under piles of blankets—really and truly. Flannel sheets, three blankets, one of which was electric (on high, of course), our new comforter and our old bedspread. The concept of climbing out of bed this morning was truly daunting. How did people manage so many years ago, back before propane and insulation, when fleece was only worn by sheep and thermal underwear would have been made from deerskins. Standing with your back to the fire, your nose still turns into an icicle that begins to drip when you turn around while your backside goes numb. I suppose fur coats were quite the rage. But the house is toasty now, even down the hallway into my bedroom.
“I’ll call you later in the week,” Lauryn told me on the phone yesterday. This morning, when I answered the phone she cheerfully informed me “It’s later in the week, now.” Shortly after lunch she arrived, with her new recording equipment in tow and we sat down to arrange a couple of lullabies. In awe of her musical knowledge I obediently imputed whatever notes she called out as she tinkered on the piano. By midafternoon we had to take a break to haul firewood to the porch. You must understand that Lauryn always dresses tre' chic and today was no exception. I offered the use of coveralls and a pair of mudboots, which decked m’lady out with an entirely new look, though not even coveralls could ever hope to diminish Lauryn in any way. As she put it in a remonstrance to Zach, who dared to suggest that she would have to disappear behind a husband some day “Submit, yes. But I will not be diminished!”
Lauryn and I, well, we’re both free spirits—independent thinkers. We get together and discuss things like marriage. Are you laughing at me? Why shouldn’t we discuss marriage? It’s important. I’m convinced that nobody’s ever ready, considering simple things like lack of experience, but I’m doing my best. I dove into Proverbs 31 to study out what I should be working on—really to be an excellent woman, daughter, wife or whatever the Lord has in mind for me—and came up with an interesting bit of a list. But what really stood out to me was the virtuous woman’s purpose: all of these virtuous things she does, not as a pursuit of charm, beauty, vanity, money or power, but because she pursues the Lord.
Lord, may I never so seek charm
As to bring my Bridegroom harm
And may my beauty never be
A thing that could tempt eyes from Thee.
May my diligence prove more
To freely give to all Thy poor
That I can live my life content,
For Thee, my time and talents spent.
“I’ll call you later in the week,” Lauryn told me on the phone yesterday. This morning, when I answered the phone she cheerfully informed me “It’s later in the week, now.” Shortly after lunch she arrived, with her new recording equipment in tow and we sat down to arrange a couple of lullabies. In awe of her musical knowledge I obediently imputed whatever notes she called out as she tinkered on the piano. By midafternoon we had to take a break to haul firewood to the porch. You must understand that Lauryn always dresses tre' chic and today was no exception. I offered the use of coveralls and a pair of mudboots, which decked m’lady out with an entirely new look, though not even coveralls could ever hope to diminish Lauryn in any way. As she put it in a remonstrance to Zach, who dared to suggest that she would have to disappear behind a husband some day “Submit, yes. But I will not be diminished!”
Lauryn and I, well, we’re both free spirits—independent thinkers. We get together and discuss things like marriage. Are you laughing at me? Why shouldn’t we discuss marriage? It’s important. I’m convinced that nobody’s ever ready, considering simple things like lack of experience, but I’m doing my best. I dove into Proverbs 31 to study out what I should be working on—really to be an excellent woman, daughter, wife or whatever the Lord has in mind for me—and came up with an interesting bit of a list. But what really stood out to me was the virtuous woman’s purpose: all of these virtuous things she does, not as a pursuit of charm, beauty, vanity, money or power, but because she pursues the Lord.
Lord, may I never so seek charm
As to bring my Bridegroom harm
And may my beauty never be
A thing that could tempt eyes from Thee.
May my diligence prove more
To freely give to all Thy poor
That I can live my life content,
For Thee, my time and talents spent.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
History reenacted itself today, at our bay windows. History, or at least, Shakespeare. The tragedy was that of Romeo and Juliet, star crossed lovers. Huddled in front of the wood stove, I was busily composing, arranging and modulating, when suddenly THUMP. Josiah, always eager for distractions during Math time, was out the door in an instant and returned a moment later with a limp female cardinal. He was just beginning a Hamlet-style soliloquy when another THUMP made us both jump. Again the door fanned, and Josiah returned, his other hand gently cradling the shivering form of our dear Juliet’s mate, his crimson feathers ruffled. What sad circumstances drove this innocent pair to seek to dash their brains out against the unyielding glass of our bay windows, I can’t even guess. The tragic scene ended with the burial of the female, who had clearly departed this vale of tears, and the return of the male to the wild once he regained his composure and ventured off of Josiah’s hospitable finger.
About noon, the drizzling rain caught a cold and drifted into snowflakes, spreading a delicate blanket over the pine forest, the yard, the road and anything else not too warm to resist. “Enjoy it,” I was told, when I boasted of what I’d brought home from Kansas with me. “It doesn’t happen often.”
I accomplished three things today: First, I finished our family newsletter, a task that somehow descended on me close to ten years ago. Secondly, I finished my arrangement of “We Three Kings”, complete with my new passion: snare drum, and sent it out accompanied by my Christmas Wishes, a day late. Thirdly, I spent the entire day in my pajamas. Which was the most unique, surprising, unpredictable? The last, of course.
Everything is so different from how I expected it to be. My closest friends are not the ones I’d thought I’d spend the most time with. My emotions have turned upside down. My schedule, my projects are not what I had in mind. Sometimes I can’t help wondering what other murky things lie waiting to be revealed—ugly, unexplainable, painful? Or do they only seem unpleasant because I can’t fathom them? We have lived here less than three months and already the earth begins to shift beneath my feet. What does the Lord have in mind?
Lord, ‘tis Thou who plans my path
And Thou wilt lead me with Thy staff,
But shadows lurk, and demons call,
I fear I’ll lose Thee, most of all.
Break my legs, Lord, if Thou must,
To teach this willful lamb to trust,
Then lift and carry me each day
That I may know this is Thy way.
About noon, the drizzling rain caught a cold and drifted into snowflakes, spreading a delicate blanket over the pine forest, the yard, the road and anything else not too warm to resist. “Enjoy it,” I was told, when I boasted of what I’d brought home from Kansas with me. “It doesn’t happen often.”
I accomplished three things today: First, I finished our family newsletter, a task that somehow descended on me close to ten years ago. Secondly, I finished my arrangement of “We Three Kings”, complete with my new passion: snare drum, and sent it out accompanied by my Christmas Wishes, a day late. Thirdly, I spent the entire day in my pajamas. Which was the most unique, surprising, unpredictable? The last, of course.
Everything is so different from how I expected it to be. My closest friends are not the ones I’d thought I’d spend the most time with. My emotions have turned upside down. My schedule, my projects are not what I had in mind. Sometimes I can’t help wondering what other murky things lie waiting to be revealed—ugly, unexplainable, painful? Or do they only seem unpleasant because I can’t fathom them? We have lived here less than three months and already the earth begins to shift beneath my feet. What does the Lord have in mind?
Lord, ‘tis Thou who plans my path
And Thou wilt lead me with Thy staff,
But shadows lurk, and demons call,
I fear I’ll lose Thee, most of all.
Break my legs, Lord, if Thou must,
To teach this willful lamb to trust,
Then lift and carry me each day
That I may know this is Thy way.
Christmas Day, Tuesday, December 25, 2007
My Christmas Day revelation began this morning when I climbed into the shower, and was completed as I packed my bags for the trip home. I am a nerd. Only a nerd would forget to pack enough extra underwear while managing a meticulous book bag—complete with multiple books, Bibles, highlighters, pens, notebooks, laptop and every cord needed for enjoying the same. And the definition of the word “meticulous” leaves the comparative weights of the two bags to the reader’s imagination.
It seems I always write my thorns in the flesh, my struggles, the hard things. It’s true, because I write them to get them out of my system. The good things, the happy things I want to savor, to keep, but not to evaluate, pick apart, weigh out and measure. But I do want to remember them, and for the sake of memorial, I should record them with equal determination.
The trip home was shortened by sleep, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” and lighthearted teasing. Said Mom after switching drivers, “Ooh! I left my keys in the back.” Papa looked up from his book and waited for the punchline. “Do you want to go somewhere right away or should I crawl back there and get them?” Fishing his keys out of his back pocket, Papa wondered, “If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just ask?” Mom shrugged. “I just wanted you to say, ‘Oh here, sweetheart. You can use mine.” The corners of Papa’s mouth twitched as he handed the keys over. “I see,” he said, then added “Sweatheart.”
A few minutes later I heard him clear his voice as he studied the GPS. “I bet you didn’t realize what happens when the sun goes down.” We all perked up, waiting for some nifty, new information his toy would provide. “It gets dark.” Bewildered, Josiah and I looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “Stick around me,” Papa advised, “And you’re likely to learn a lot.”
The heavy cooler banged against my legs as I stopped short on the porch, my mouth dropping open. The first one to the house, I knew the French door standing wide open could mean only one thing: it had been standing open for the past five days. My stomach flip-flopped as I walked into the dark house, but the only obvious intruders were a couple of crinkly leaves.
Before leaving Grandma’s house this morning, we watched “The Nativity Story”, courtesy of Nathaniel and Lauren. I was struck by the picture it painted of Joseph “a righteous man” who also exhibited impressive mercy and instant obedience. Inspired, I searched out everything the Bible had to say about this surrogate father of Christ and found very little. Not a single word. Not one. In spite of having a non-speaking part in the drama of the incarnation, this man’s actions spoke with profound eloquence. As a righteous man, he could not marry Mary and smear his own reputation by acknowledging her child his own. And yet, he would not accuse her, see her stone and free himself to marry another. Instead, sacrificing his own happiness, since he would not be able to marry later, he intended to divorce her quietly and spare her life and that of her child. Joseph was a man of God—unable to live with sin, unwilling to destroy the sinner. In the footsteps of his namesake, Joseph receives three dreams from the Lord, and immediately rises from his bed and obeys—even at risk to himself, his reputation and his business. May I be just, abhorring the presence of sin in my own life, yet merciful to those caught in its snare, and always, instantly, unquestioningly obedient to the Word of the Lord.
Lord, Thy mercy overlooked
The sins Thou’d written in Thy book
Until the time that Thou could send
Thy Son to seek and save all men.
May I, too, be quick to see
The need of all humanity
For the mercy Thou would give
That those who judge themselves might live.
It seems I always write my thorns in the flesh, my struggles, the hard things. It’s true, because I write them to get them out of my system. The good things, the happy things I want to savor, to keep, but not to evaluate, pick apart, weigh out and measure. But I do want to remember them, and for the sake of memorial, I should record them with equal determination.
The trip home was shortened by sleep, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” and lighthearted teasing. Said Mom after switching drivers, “Ooh! I left my keys in the back.” Papa looked up from his book and waited for the punchline. “Do you want to go somewhere right away or should I crawl back there and get them?” Fishing his keys out of his back pocket, Papa wondered, “If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just ask?” Mom shrugged. “I just wanted you to say, ‘Oh here, sweetheart. You can use mine.” The corners of Papa’s mouth twitched as he handed the keys over. “I see,” he said, then added “Sweatheart.”
A few minutes later I heard him clear his voice as he studied the GPS. “I bet you didn’t realize what happens when the sun goes down.” We all perked up, waiting for some nifty, new information his toy would provide. “It gets dark.” Bewildered, Josiah and I looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “Stick around me,” Papa advised, “And you’re likely to learn a lot.”
The heavy cooler banged against my legs as I stopped short on the porch, my mouth dropping open. The first one to the house, I knew the French door standing wide open could mean only one thing: it had been standing open for the past five days. My stomach flip-flopped as I walked into the dark house, but the only obvious intruders were a couple of crinkly leaves.
Before leaving Grandma’s house this morning, we watched “The Nativity Story”, courtesy of Nathaniel and Lauren. I was struck by the picture it painted of Joseph “a righteous man” who also exhibited impressive mercy and instant obedience. Inspired, I searched out everything the Bible had to say about this surrogate father of Christ and found very little. Not a single word. Not one. In spite of having a non-speaking part in the drama of the incarnation, this man’s actions spoke with profound eloquence. As a righteous man, he could not marry Mary and smear his own reputation by acknowledging her child his own. And yet, he would not accuse her, see her stone and free himself to marry another. Instead, sacrificing his own happiness, since he would not be able to marry later, he intended to divorce her quietly and spare her life and that of her child. Joseph was a man of God—unable to live with sin, unwilling to destroy the sinner. In the footsteps of his namesake, Joseph receives three dreams from the Lord, and immediately rises from his bed and obeys—even at risk to himself, his reputation and his business. May I be just, abhorring the presence of sin in my own life, yet merciful to those caught in its snare, and always, instantly, unquestioningly obedient to the Word of the Lord.
Lord, Thy mercy overlooked
The sins Thou’d written in Thy book
Until the time that Thou could send
Thy Son to seek and save all men.
May I, too, be quick to see
The need of all humanity
For the mercy Thou would give
That those who judge themselves might live.
Christmas Eve, Monday, December 24, 2007
If I have an addiction, it is embodied in the form of an inconspicuous stick of gum. Gum is the solace I seek before diving into any grueling task: running several miles, sewing a dress, shopping, drumming or peeling potatoes—huge pots full, like today. When I wheedlingly asked Grandma if she had a hidden stash of the needed item, she responded, “Sure. And get me a piece, too. We might as well live dangerously.”
The snow drifted up several inches high under the edge of Grandma’s roof. As I stood at the window, looking longingly out into the brilliant sunshine, I remembered the year, not so long ago, when the drifts mounted up to better than five feet. Josiah and I scrambled up the TV antenna and jumped off the roof, to land safely in the piles of snow beneath. I don’t believe we’ll have enough padding this year for a repeat performance.
About half of the Knox family dropped by, in shifts, to say “hello” and “Merry Christmas”. Kansas still holds some of the most precious people God has made.
By about five o’clock Nathaniel and Lauren had arrived, and the rest of the family followed shortly after. You know how Christmas goes: talk, laugh, reminisce, eat a huge meal, eat tons of dessert, read the Christmas story, open gifts. Grandma threw in a fun twist by adding a game that soon had us all laughing. The house was mostly quiet again by eight-thirty or so.
I drummed for a little while, until Grandma protested. As I sat quietly, listening to Papa and Grandma discuss people, places and events, my drumsticks clicked and Grandma exclaimed, “Well, Abigail!” Instantly Papa commanded, “Abigail, shut your eyes.” I always feel so humiliated when he treats me like a five-year-old. He didn’t even know what Grandma had exclaimed about, and she was only teasing. Perhaps he only wants to keep me a little child, and so treats me like one—sometimes. Later, after an explanation of the affair, he said, simply, “Well, it never hurts you to close your eyes.” If he only knew. My imagination is powerful, and, if I concentrate hard enough I can remember the tiniest glimmer of repentance. Grandma made amends, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
It’s past eleven now, and Nathaniel and Papa show no promise of quitting the living room, where I am to bed down after being booted out of the guest room by my brother and sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall bid them Merry Christmas at the same time I wish them a good night.
I wish I could claim some beautiful spiritual revelation for Christmas Eve. Quite frankly, I hardly had a thought to myself, and my Bible reading was barely long-enough to support a spiritual midget. How could Christmas have become so distorted that the day I should celebrate my Lord and Savior the most is so wrapped up in “other things” that I give little more than a nod in His general direction?
Lord, I claim to celebrate,
But tell Thee Thou wilt have to wait
For many things of many hues
Are claiming what, to Thee, is due.
God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,
When finally we cease this din,
I pray before we seek our rest
We’d thank Thee for Thy gift—the best.
The snow drifted up several inches high under the edge of Grandma’s roof. As I stood at the window, looking longingly out into the brilliant sunshine, I remembered the year, not so long ago, when the drifts mounted up to better than five feet. Josiah and I scrambled up the TV antenna and jumped off the roof, to land safely in the piles of snow beneath. I don’t believe we’ll have enough padding this year for a repeat performance.
About half of the Knox family dropped by, in shifts, to say “hello” and “Merry Christmas”. Kansas still holds some of the most precious people God has made.
By about five o’clock Nathaniel and Lauren had arrived, and the rest of the family followed shortly after. You know how Christmas goes: talk, laugh, reminisce, eat a huge meal, eat tons of dessert, read the Christmas story, open gifts. Grandma threw in a fun twist by adding a game that soon had us all laughing. The house was mostly quiet again by eight-thirty or so.
I drummed for a little while, until Grandma protested. As I sat quietly, listening to Papa and Grandma discuss people, places and events, my drumsticks clicked and Grandma exclaimed, “Well, Abigail!” Instantly Papa commanded, “Abigail, shut your eyes.” I always feel so humiliated when he treats me like a five-year-old. He didn’t even know what Grandma had exclaimed about, and she was only teasing. Perhaps he only wants to keep me a little child, and so treats me like one—sometimes. Later, after an explanation of the affair, he said, simply, “Well, it never hurts you to close your eyes.” If he only knew. My imagination is powerful, and, if I concentrate hard enough I can remember the tiniest glimmer of repentance. Grandma made amends, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
It’s past eleven now, and Nathaniel and Papa show no promise of quitting the living room, where I am to bed down after being booted out of the guest room by my brother and sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall bid them Merry Christmas at the same time I wish them a good night.
I wish I could claim some beautiful spiritual revelation for Christmas Eve. Quite frankly, I hardly had a thought to myself, and my Bible reading was barely long-enough to support a spiritual midget. How could Christmas have become so distorted that the day I should celebrate my Lord and Savior the most is so wrapped up in “other things” that I give little more than a nod in His general direction?
Lord, I claim to celebrate,
But tell Thee Thou wilt have to wait
For many things of many hues
Are claiming what, to Thee, is due.
God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,
When finally we cease this din,
I pray before we seek our rest
We’d thank Thee for Thy gift—the best.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Telephone. Telegraph. Tell a girl. The three ways of modern communication, they say. (Of course, that nifty tongue-twister was written during a modern date that is rather a long time ago.) Which, I suppose, is simply of another proof of my lack of femininity. I can keep a secret. Just try me. For six months I talked to Lauren every day, counseling her to focus on the Lord and forget about Nathaniel, knowing the whole time that he planned to ask her to marry him. Folks who wondered about their honeymoon would say, “I bet Abigail knows,” and I’d just shrug my shoulders. Secrets don’t make friends, they say. But “they” are wrong. The person who can keep a secret will have many friends, because they have proven their trustworthiness.
So, when we pulled up to the Day’s house this morning and noticed a Toyota car with Texas tags and the words “Mac and Cheese” chalked across the back window, Mom exclaimed “It’s Lauren and Nathaniel!” and Papa remarked, “I bet Abigail was in on this one.” And he was not mistaken. It was good to be among the Southeast Kansas saints again, although the meeting was a small one.
Back at Grandma’s, after supper, Papa expressed his displeasure with the growth attempts of his two sons. “I was hoping to have two big sons hanging around me for bodyguards,” he complained, a twinkled in his blue eye. “Well,” Josiah shot back, “why’d you marry her?” We all looked at my mom, who had proudly announced only that morning that she had gained weight—and now weighed ninety-seven pounds. Always the peacemaker, I volunteered to grow and become the coveted bodyguard, to the amusement of everyone present. At twenty years and five foot even, I’m afraid the only parts of my body still growing are my toenails and hair. A straightening the other day revealed that my hair is now long enough to converse comfortably with my waistline, a revelation I haven’t quite digested and classified as good or bad yet.
I spent several hours, huddled over my laptop alongside Papa, downloading version and commentaries for my E-sword program and discussing things that have been haunting me for days. After evenings like tonight, I think back to the impetuous moments when I whine and wail about not understanding him and him not understanding me and communication and the lack thereof and all things of which the daughter of a godly man can complain, and wonder how Satan can be so clever to so deceive me.
Ravi Zacharias joined us for the drive to church this morning, with a message from one of the minor prophets on worship—in Spirit and in truth. I listened, wrapped up in his quaint accent and the power of his message, as he shared how worship must be according to God’s truth: intimate, but still reverent. “You call me Father, but where is my honor?” He spoke of the Indian word for father, and pointed out how they never use it without adding a term of respect—like saying, “Papa, sir.” Our relationship with God is the same: He is our loving Father, but we must never forget that He is almighty Creator. Then he began to share a vignette from the life of Eric Liddell. “God has made me for a purpose, but He has also made me fast. When I run, I feel His pleasure.” We worship God by doing everything for His glory, whether it is running—or writing. He doesn’t seek to strip us of our identity and be worshiped by robots. He wants us to use the talents and gifts He has given to each of us to worship Him privately, and to proclaim His excellence to all creation.
Lord, Thou made me for a purpose
To be overwhelmed by worship.
And I see Thy perfect plan
Manifest in who I am.
Prayer and praise are just a start
For the worship of the heart.
Talents that Thou gives are holy
When my life is yielded wholly.
So, when we pulled up to the Day’s house this morning and noticed a Toyota car with Texas tags and the words “Mac and Cheese” chalked across the back window, Mom exclaimed “It’s Lauren and Nathaniel!” and Papa remarked, “I bet Abigail was in on this one.” And he was not mistaken. It was good to be among the Southeast Kansas saints again, although the meeting was a small one.
Back at Grandma’s, after supper, Papa expressed his displeasure with the growth attempts of his two sons. “I was hoping to have two big sons hanging around me for bodyguards,” he complained, a twinkled in his blue eye. “Well,” Josiah shot back, “why’d you marry her?” We all looked at my mom, who had proudly announced only that morning that she had gained weight—and now weighed ninety-seven pounds. Always the peacemaker, I volunteered to grow and become the coveted bodyguard, to the amusement of everyone present. At twenty years and five foot even, I’m afraid the only parts of my body still growing are my toenails and hair. A straightening the other day revealed that my hair is now long enough to converse comfortably with my waistline, a revelation I haven’t quite digested and classified as good or bad yet.
I spent several hours, huddled over my laptop alongside Papa, downloading version and commentaries for my E-sword program and discussing things that have been haunting me for days. After evenings like tonight, I think back to the impetuous moments when I whine and wail about not understanding him and him not understanding me and communication and the lack thereof and all things of which the daughter of a godly man can complain, and wonder how Satan can be so clever to so deceive me.
Ravi Zacharias joined us for the drive to church this morning, with a message from one of the minor prophets on worship—in Spirit and in truth. I listened, wrapped up in his quaint accent and the power of his message, as he shared how worship must be according to God’s truth: intimate, but still reverent. “You call me Father, but where is my honor?” He spoke of the Indian word for father, and pointed out how they never use it without adding a term of respect—like saying, “Papa, sir.” Our relationship with God is the same: He is our loving Father, but we must never forget that He is almighty Creator. Then he began to share a vignette from the life of Eric Liddell. “God has made me for a purpose, but He has also made me fast. When I run, I feel His pleasure.” We worship God by doing everything for His glory, whether it is running—or writing. He doesn’t seek to strip us of our identity and be worshiped by robots. He wants us to use the talents and gifts He has given to each of us to worship Him privately, and to proclaim His excellence to all creation.
Lord, Thou made me for a purpose
To be overwhelmed by worship.
And I see Thy perfect plan
Manifest in who I am.
Prayer and praise are just a start
For the worship of the heart.
Talents that Thou gives are holy
When my life is yielded wholly.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
I asked for some “real” winter weather for Christmas, and my wish was granted in full. Shortly after arriving at Grandma’s today, the misty rain began to fall as frozen BBs which later feathered into snowflakes. The atmosphere proved complete with the characteristic loss of electricity. Someone please tell me what mischievous imp made off with my mind while I packed for a traditional “white Christmas” and persuaded me I wouldn’t need snow clothes?
Were I to record the entire day, it would simply be a repetition of wasted time. I wasted time ineffectually trying to set up the free dial-up e-mail I’d ordered for the Willises, and only managed to fit in one Christmas Carol with Tabitha. I wasted time watching a “Christian Comedy” DVD with my family. For the few moments of stellar humor there was plenty of coarse jesting, irreverence and making light of serious things. Have I simply grown boring? One thing I know for sure: I am bored. I am bored with the entertainment industry, with constant noise, with news that glorifies sin by plastering it up for us to gape at. I have enough sin of my own. Why do I need to be constantly reminded of the vices of a world that grieves my Master?
And yet, I seem equally bored with my God’s holy word. I’ve been slogging through Ezekiel for days now, desperately trying to find something in the book that I can relate to, that speaks to me of God, my Father, trying to fathom a man who appeared to his countrymen as a religious freak. I read, I scratch my head, I reread, I pull my hair, I read, I reread again, I would bite my nails if that were one of my many nasty habits. This man bakes weird bread, lies on his side naked, watches dry bones rejuvenated and speaks of blood and guts. In this valley of dry bones, God says to me, “Abigail, can your spirit breathe again? Can your spirit live again to delight in my word again?” And I answer, “Ah, Lord God, for only You know.” And then it happens—the rush of wind, the whisper of breath through my soul. Suddenly the constant noise and motion of the TV in the other room has lost it’s deceptive pull, suddenly I know that Ezekiel was written for me. Even in my spiritual draught, the Lord can revive me and make me a warrior for Him. And with His power flowing through me, I don’t mind be weird. I don’t mind being called to do weird things. I don’t mind being made a spectacle of. In light of God’s glory, I can devour His word, and it will be as sweet as honey to me.
Lord, when I have lost the vision
‘Tis not Thou who needs revision
‘Tis my heart that needs reviving.
Only Thou can so enliven.
So I pray that Thou would breathe
Into my draught so I believe
That all Thy word is all I need
And come to Thee again, to feed.
Were I to record the entire day, it would simply be a repetition of wasted time. I wasted time ineffectually trying to set up the free dial-up e-mail I’d ordered for the Willises, and only managed to fit in one Christmas Carol with Tabitha. I wasted time watching a “Christian Comedy” DVD with my family. For the few moments of stellar humor there was plenty of coarse jesting, irreverence and making light of serious things. Have I simply grown boring? One thing I know for sure: I am bored. I am bored with the entertainment industry, with constant noise, with news that glorifies sin by plastering it up for us to gape at. I have enough sin of my own. Why do I need to be constantly reminded of the vices of a world that grieves my Master?
And yet, I seem equally bored with my God’s holy word. I’ve been slogging through Ezekiel for days now, desperately trying to find something in the book that I can relate to, that speaks to me of God, my Father, trying to fathom a man who appeared to his countrymen as a religious freak. I read, I scratch my head, I reread, I pull my hair, I read, I reread again, I would bite my nails if that were one of my many nasty habits. This man bakes weird bread, lies on his side naked, watches dry bones rejuvenated and speaks of blood and guts. In this valley of dry bones, God says to me, “Abigail, can your spirit breathe again? Can your spirit live again to delight in my word again?” And I answer, “Ah, Lord God, for only You know.” And then it happens—the rush of wind, the whisper of breath through my soul. Suddenly the constant noise and motion of the TV in the other room has lost it’s deceptive pull, suddenly I know that Ezekiel was written for me. Even in my spiritual draught, the Lord can revive me and make me a warrior for Him. And with His power flowing through me, I don’t mind be weird. I don’t mind being called to do weird things. I don’t mind being made a spectacle of. In light of God’s glory, I can devour His word, and it will be as sweet as honey to me.
Lord, when I have lost the vision
‘Tis not Thou who needs revision
‘Tis my heart that needs reviving.
Only Thou can so enliven.
So I pray that Thou would breathe
Into my draught so I believe
That all Thy word is all I need
And come to Thee again, to feed.
Friday, December 21, 2007
One thing I don’t miss about Kansas: the wind. I woke to the world, in time to take over the wheel and navigate Highway 400. A wave of nostalgia swept over me as I scanned the horizon—something I’d not done since we moved from the land of the big sky in October. But I was soon reminded, during a walk with Damaris, that wide open spaces come with wind—in abundance. Hair that was long and curly when I headed out resembled something of a discarded bird’s nest when I returned.
Road trips have evolved enormously from the days when I was a youngster. Imagine me, pointing my cane and muttering, “When I was a youngster, we listened to cassette tapes and colored in coloring books, and kept plenty of quarters around for payphones on trips home for Christmas.” I spent most of this trip, busily catching up on e-mails connected on my laptop through an AT&T wireless device. Papa read out our speed, elevation, time, longitude and latitude from the GPS wired into our windshield—in between chatting on his Bluetooth, of course while Mom enjoyed the Christmas music I’d ripped to an mp3 player. The only improvement I could think up would be “in-flight” fueling.
Upon reaching the Willises, I had high hopes that someone would comment how much I’ve grown. No such luck. Some growth simply isn’t measured in inches.
The uprooting, far from setting me back, has caused me to turn my face toward the Son and bloom with all my might. I left such a short time ago, a sheltered Kansas girl. I return, overwhelmed by the smallness of the world and the enormity of my Lord. I left, wondering what the Lord had in store for me. I return, knowing His plan remains the same as always—to glorify Him.
But I find I sympathize with my Savior “A prophet is without honor in his hometown and among his own relatives.” Is it a circle? Because I know my own family, my own hometown will watch me critically, smiling and patting me on the head as an eternal little girl, I close myself up inside, shrink back into the stature of a child and try to hide behind memories. It is hardest to share my heart with those who share my life.
Have I grown? I dare not stand next to the measuring tape my own family would hold.
Lord, Thou plants and Thou dost prune
And though the outcome seems not soon
The perfect plan that Thou hast drawn
Becomes more clear with each new dawn.
The measuring tape that others hold
Is not the stature I uphold.
I’ll never reach these plans, save one:
The measure of Thy perfect Son.
Road trips have evolved enormously from the days when I was a youngster. Imagine me, pointing my cane and muttering, “When I was a youngster, we listened to cassette tapes and colored in coloring books, and kept plenty of quarters around for payphones on trips home for Christmas.” I spent most of this trip, busily catching up on e-mails connected on my laptop through an AT&T wireless device. Papa read out our speed, elevation, time, longitude and latitude from the GPS wired into our windshield—in between chatting on his Bluetooth, of course while Mom enjoyed the Christmas music I’d ripped to an mp3 player. The only improvement I could think up would be “in-flight” fueling.
Upon reaching the Willises, I had high hopes that someone would comment how much I’ve grown. No such luck. Some growth simply isn’t measured in inches.
The uprooting, far from setting me back, has caused me to turn my face toward the Son and bloom with all my might. I left such a short time ago, a sheltered Kansas girl. I return, overwhelmed by the smallness of the world and the enormity of my Lord. I left, wondering what the Lord had in store for me. I return, knowing His plan remains the same as always—to glorify Him.
But I find I sympathize with my Savior “A prophet is without honor in his hometown and among his own relatives.” Is it a circle? Because I know my own family, my own hometown will watch me critically, smiling and patting me on the head as an eternal little girl, I close myself up inside, shrink back into the stature of a child and try to hide behind memories. It is hardest to share my heart with those who share my life.
Have I grown? I dare not stand next to the measuring tape my own family would hold.
Lord, Thou plants and Thou dost prune
And though the outcome seems not soon
The perfect plan that Thou hast drawn
Becomes more clear with each new dawn.
The measuring tape that others hold
Is not the stature I uphold.
I’ll never reach these plans, save one:
The measure of Thy perfect Son.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Kitchens have a nasty habit of growing smaller the longer you are trapped in them. Mom and I spent the day cooking. I managed to escape the kitchen now and then—for a bit of drumming while my meatballs burned and stuck to the pan, a run to my room to write down a phrase until the timer on my pumpkin bread called me back, for a walk while everyone else ate lunch, to clear out my head and eyes and enjoy the beautiful woods God made. Frankly, it is my firm belief that cooking and eating nearly classify as wastes of precious time. Yet, sadly I must confess, that I do both very well at times.
While in the woods I discovered a large cat paw print. Larger than a house cat. “No worries,” I told myself, and myself raised her eyebrows. “I’ve faced down a wildcat before.” Myself chuckled back, recalling the day so many years ago when I came face to face with a bobcat as he hunted in our old woods back home in Kansas. As we stared at each other, two fireballs of fur and fear, I stood up to my full height and began barking at the top of my lungs. The bobcat retreated in haste and I continued my walk. I was still chuckling to myself when a crash came from the woods and I jerked my head up in time to see three enormous white tails bouncing down the side of the hill.
Sleeper joined us for supper and to pick Nick up for the holidays. Papa surprised us all with a pop quiz on Christians and the Mosaic Law. I missed more than I care to confess, and we all enjoyed a hearty discussion of the matter, followed by some good teaching and some great quotes. I am grateful to be under a Law of Grace, by the blood of Jesus Christ. I am also increasingly aware of how little scripture I know by heart and how little I can draw upon when in a pinch. The foundation for my life is in that book—how can I hope to live a life pleasing to the Lord while so ignorant of His Word?
The disjointed ramblings I scribbled down last night--the workings of an exhausted mind, are beyond my own comprehension today. I cried myself to sleep last night, weeping for the others and myself and woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a train. Slowly I opened my eyes to discover they were not swollen, and then climbed out of bed to fix an early breakfast, pondering the many times I've been told no. As I worked, the thought came to me: No is not a punishment. The force of this simple statement hit me with such amazing ferocity that it nearly stole my breath. No is not a punishment. It’s not a divine spanking when the Lord says “no”. It’s not something to be dreaded. His plans always work out—for the good of those who love Him. For Him to answer my prayers with a “no” should not cause me tears, it should not disturb me or make me miserable. It should bring me peace, knowing that the Lord has heard and answered. And whatever He has is better. Don’t say it tritely. Really listen. I thought what I wanted was good. The Lord said, “no, I’ve got something better in mind. Because you are called according to My purpose.” Where is my cause for sorrow? Where is my excuse for depression? Where is my reason for pitying myself? When the Lord says “no” it is not a punishment, just a redirection. He’s simply blocking me off from the wrong direction and heading me in the right direction again.
Chains fell off my heart and mind. For the first time in a long time I felt completely freed of a burden I’d been carrying, which had grown heavier and heavier of late. Anything to which the Lord says “no” is simply not what He has for me, and I can accept that joyfully as His loving protection. The rest of the day I floated around on the joy of knowing I am a daughter of the King and my heart is like water in His hands, to turn wherever He wishes.
Later, I passed a picture of a much younger Abigail, reposing placidly on the bookshelf in the library. “Little girl,” I sought to advise the innocent-eyed child. “Life is hard. Living is dangerous. Loving is risky. The only true reward is in the Lord. Pursue Him.”
Lord, may I ever, always be
Content to know Thy will for me.
And when I know Thy will in full
Pursue it gladly, heart and soul.
And when Thy will seems distant still
Remind me, waiting, is Thy will.
And when Thy will is dim or worse
Remind me to pursue Thee first.
While in the woods I discovered a large cat paw print. Larger than a house cat. “No worries,” I told myself, and myself raised her eyebrows. “I’ve faced down a wildcat before.” Myself chuckled back, recalling the day so many years ago when I came face to face with a bobcat as he hunted in our old woods back home in Kansas. As we stared at each other, two fireballs of fur and fear, I stood up to my full height and began barking at the top of my lungs. The bobcat retreated in haste and I continued my walk. I was still chuckling to myself when a crash came from the woods and I jerked my head up in time to see three enormous white tails bouncing down the side of the hill.
Sleeper joined us for supper and to pick Nick up for the holidays. Papa surprised us all with a pop quiz on Christians and the Mosaic Law. I missed more than I care to confess, and we all enjoyed a hearty discussion of the matter, followed by some good teaching and some great quotes. I am grateful to be under a Law of Grace, by the blood of Jesus Christ. I am also increasingly aware of how little scripture I know by heart and how little I can draw upon when in a pinch. The foundation for my life is in that book—how can I hope to live a life pleasing to the Lord while so ignorant of His Word?
The disjointed ramblings I scribbled down last night--the workings of an exhausted mind, are beyond my own comprehension today. I cried myself to sleep last night, weeping for the others and myself and woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a train. Slowly I opened my eyes to discover they were not swollen, and then climbed out of bed to fix an early breakfast, pondering the many times I've been told no. As I worked, the thought came to me: No is not a punishment. The force of this simple statement hit me with such amazing ferocity that it nearly stole my breath. No is not a punishment. It’s not a divine spanking when the Lord says “no”. It’s not something to be dreaded. His plans always work out—for the good of those who love Him. For Him to answer my prayers with a “no” should not cause me tears, it should not disturb me or make me miserable. It should bring me peace, knowing that the Lord has heard and answered. And whatever He has is better. Don’t say it tritely. Really listen. I thought what I wanted was good. The Lord said, “no, I’ve got something better in mind. Because you are called according to My purpose.” Where is my cause for sorrow? Where is my excuse for depression? Where is my reason for pitying myself? When the Lord says “no” it is not a punishment, just a redirection. He’s simply blocking me off from the wrong direction and heading me in the right direction again.
Chains fell off my heart and mind. For the first time in a long time I felt completely freed of a burden I’d been carrying, which had grown heavier and heavier of late. Anything to which the Lord says “no” is simply not what He has for me, and I can accept that joyfully as His loving protection. The rest of the day I floated around on the joy of knowing I am a daughter of the King and my heart is like water in His hands, to turn wherever He wishes.
Later, I passed a picture of a much younger Abigail, reposing placidly on the bookshelf in the library. “Little girl,” I sought to advise the innocent-eyed child. “Life is hard. Living is dangerous. Loving is risky. The only true reward is in the Lord. Pursue Him.”
Lord, may I ever, always be
Content to know Thy will for me.
And when I know Thy will in full
Pursue it gladly, heart and soul.
And when Thy will seems distant still
Remind me, waiting, is Thy will.
And when Thy will is dim or worse
Remind me to pursue Thee first.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Sometimes the beginning is the most boring place to start. The beginning to my day certainly was no exception. RussVegas was crowded, busy, full of people and all that goes along with such things. I experienced my first train, cutting right through the middle of town and stopping traffic for four lights back, and keeping us stopped through six light changes. Congestion refers to more than just a head cold.
I knocked on the Dobies’ door shortly after eleven, and then stepped to the side to hide. I seem to have a nasty habit of hiding in, around or behind doors. When Judy opened the door, she stood there, quietly gazing out onto the empty porch until I popped out and said, “Uh…boo!” Inside, I did Amber’s hair while we all laughed and talked, then the two of us girls headed out for an impromptu picture shoot with an impromptu photography lesson. We wound up by looking at First Corinthians eleven—the head covering passage—followed by John chapter five. Sadly, twenty years have passed since I left Amber’s house, and I can barely remember what Jesus spoke about: His witnesses—His works, the Holy Spirit, the Father and Scripture and John. Amber is beginning to desire to read on her own again, and I need to be a bit more forceful in confirming that.
TCBY slipped in and out of my mind as I headed for Lauryn’s house, so I pulled into the drive-through to order an ice-cream cone—a super rare treat. “May I take your order?” came the polite albeit crackly voice over the intercom. First I requested a White Chocolate Mousse cone, but it was not meant to be, due to the popularity of the item. “Do you have the eggnog, then?” I asked. Once again, I seemed to have good taste—if popularity defines good. “Let’s try the strawberry cheesecake,” I offered. “Okay! Come right forward to the first window and we’ll have that for you immediately.” Slowly I pulled forward to the little sliding, glass window. How long does it take to dip up a cone with frozen yogurt? I sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Inside I could see workers scurrying madly about, but no one appeared at the magical window. Confused, I wondered if I’d driven to the right window. A car pulled up behind me, circled around past me and disappeared around the side of the building. “They must know where they’re going,” I thought, feeling blonde, and followed—clear around the building—to see them parked and talking placidly to a worker outside. “Well, that wasn’t right.” I shrugged, shifted into reverse and backed back around the building to the original window, still waiting empty and forlorn. Just then a TCBY guy came scampering around the building from where I’d just come, waving an ice-cream cone. “Was this the right window?” I asked, rolling down my window. “Yeah,” he said. “Very sorry about that. We’re just running super busy today.” He handed me my cone and backed away. “This one’s on us. Enjoy!” I did, of course, but if I’d known ahead of time I’d have ordered a waffle cone.
The blessing was an interesting one to ponder. I have desires. Natural, usually. Innocent, mostly. It’s not wrong for me to pursue my desires, providing they don’t conflict with the Lord’s word. But often He says “no”. Sometimes even several times. Does it mean what I asked was wicked? No. Does it mean I should give up? No. It means I should seek Him and keep pursuing desires that He’s not closed the door on, praying that He will give me His desires, trusting that what He has in mind is better. I should even pray that He would close doors on desires that may not be His will. Was the strawberry cheesecake cone better than the White Chocolate Mousse one? You bet. It was free. It might sound ridiculous to pull spiritual lessons from an ice-cream parlor, but I think the Lord would have everything remind me of Him and His truths. Was it God’s will that I have a free cone? Honestly, I don’t believe God cares what flavor of ice-cream I eat, but He does have lessons for me, in everything, if I will keep my heart open. And thanking Him for the special, little gift is undeniably appropriate. Somehow, it was also precious to me, in light of immediately following events.
I arrived at Lauryn’s house and dove right in, helping her with the darling Christmas ornaments she was decorating for her Junior High girl’s class. We’d not been working long when she began to share what was happening in her life. And here, in the fashion of classic British literature, I draw the curtain over the ensuing scene.
During supper dishes, the Lord reminded me how I had made a request which He had answered in a very specific way today. A huge burden lifted from my heart as I realized my prayer had been answered. It never ceases to amaze me how faithfully He answers, if I only am alert to recognize His answer.
Mom walked in to my room, demanding a fine for the clothes she picked up off my desk chair after my hurried departure this morning. They were sorted last night, and awaiting ironing. All sorts of sharp comments about late fees for the grocery list she was stuffing into my pocket as I walked out the door slithered about my mind like snakes. I bit them back and paid her, feeling humiliated somehow, as always. Perhaps it’s because I’m twenty years old, and still must bow to my parent’s standards of a clean room. As soon as she left, I burst into tears. Huge sobs that racked my whole being set me trembling from head to toe. Awash once more in the feeling of worthlessness, the lies that I am not good enough, so completely, undeniably alone after an emotionally charged day, I cannot deny myself the relief of tears.
Two truths I know: I know that God does not cause temptation or evil. And I know that He causes all things to work for good to those who love Him. To those promises I cling, knowing that He is at work, both to will and to work for His good pleasure. In Him all things hold together.
Lord, Thy holiness holds true
In everything Thou’ll ever do
Thou will not cause this child to fall
And Thou wilt hear my every call.
And Thou dost work my circumstance
To write Thy own divine romance
That everything my life may bring
Will drive me to Thy arms, my King.
I knocked on the Dobies’ door shortly after eleven, and then stepped to the side to hide. I seem to have a nasty habit of hiding in, around or behind doors. When Judy opened the door, she stood there, quietly gazing out onto the empty porch until I popped out and said, “Uh…boo!” Inside, I did Amber’s hair while we all laughed and talked, then the two of us girls headed out for an impromptu picture shoot with an impromptu photography lesson. We wound up by looking at First Corinthians eleven—the head covering passage—followed by John chapter five. Sadly, twenty years have passed since I left Amber’s house, and I can barely remember what Jesus spoke about: His witnesses—His works, the Holy Spirit, the Father and Scripture and John. Amber is beginning to desire to read on her own again, and I need to be a bit more forceful in confirming that.
TCBY slipped in and out of my mind as I headed for Lauryn’s house, so I pulled into the drive-through to order an ice-cream cone—a super rare treat. “May I take your order?” came the polite albeit crackly voice over the intercom. First I requested a White Chocolate Mousse cone, but it was not meant to be, due to the popularity of the item. “Do you have the eggnog, then?” I asked. Once again, I seemed to have good taste—if popularity defines good. “Let’s try the strawberry cheesecake,” I offered. “Okay! Come right forward to the first window and we’ll have that for you immediately.” Slowly I pulled forward to the little sliding, glass window. How long does it take to dip up a cone with frozen yogurt? I sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Inside I could see workers scurrying madly about, but no one appeared at the magical window. Confused, I wondered if I’d driven to the right window. A car pulled up behind me, circled around past me and disappeared around the side of the building. “They must know where they’re going,” I thought, feeling blonde, and followed—clear around the building—to see them parked and talking placidly to a worker outside. “Well, that wasn’t right.” I shrugged, shifted into reverse and backed back around the building to the original window, still waiting empty and forlorn. Just then a TCBY guy came scampering around the building from where I’d just come, waving an ice-cream cone. “Was this the right window?” I asked, rolling down my window. “Yeah,” he said. “Very sorry about that. We’re just running super busy today.” He handed me my cone and backed away. “This one’s on us. Enjoy!” I did, of course, but if I’d known ahead of time I’d have ordered a waffle cone.
The blessing was an interesting one to ponder. I have desires. Natural, usually. Innocent, mostly. It’s not wrong for me to pursue my desires, providing they don’t conflict with the Lord’s word. But often He says “no”. Sometimes even several times. Does it mean what I asked was wicked? No. Does it mean I should give up? No. It means I should seek Him and keep pursuing desires that He’s not closed the door on, praying that He will give me His desires, trusting that what He has in mind is better. I should even pray that He would close doors on desires that may not be His will. Was the strawberry cheesecake cone better than the White Chocolate Mousse one? You bet. It was free. It might sound ridiculous to pull spiritual lessons from an ice-cream parlor, but I think the Lord would have everything remind me of Him and His truths. Was it God’s will that I have a free cone? Honestly, I don’t believe God cares what flavor of ice-cream I eat, but He does have lessons for me, in everything, if I will keep my heart open. And thanking Him for the special, little gift is undeniably appropriate. Somehow, it was also precious to me, in light of immediately following events.
I arrived at Lauryn’s house and dove right in, helping her with the darling Christmas ornaments she was decorating for her Junior High girl’s class. We’d not been working long when she began to share what was happening in her life. And here, in the fashion of classic British literature, I draw the curtain over the ensuing scene.
During supper dishes, the Lord reminded me how I had made a request which He had answered in a very specific way today. A huge burden lifted from my heart as I realized my prayer had been answered. It never ceases to amaze me how faithfully He answers, if I only am alert to recognize His answer.
Mom walked in to my room, demanding a fine for the clothes she picked up off my desk chair after my hurried departure this morning. They were sorted last night, and awaiting ironing. All sorts of sharp comments about late fees for the grocery list she was stuffing into my pocket as I walked out the door slithered about my mind like snakes. I bit them back and paid her, feeling humiliated somehow, as always. Perhaps it’s because I’m twenty years old, and still must bow to my parent’s standards of a clean room. As soon as she left, I burst into tears. Huge sobs that racked my whole being set me trembling from head to toe. Awash once more in the feeling of worthlessness, the lies that I am not good enough, so completely, undeniably alone after an emotionally charged day, I cannot deny myself the relief of tears.
Two truths I know: I know that God does not cause temptation or evil. And I know that He causes all things to work for good to those who love Him. To those promises I cling, knowing that He is at work, both to will and to work for His good pleasure. In Him all things hold together.
Lord, Thy holiness holds true
In everything Thou’ll ever do
Thou will not cause this child to fall
And Thou wilt hear my every call.
And Thou dost work my circumstance
To write Thy own divine romance
That everything my life may bring
Will drive me to Thy arms, my King.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Sometimes the beginning is the most boring place to start. The beginning to my day certainly was no exception. RussVegas was crowded, busy, full of people and all that goes along with such things. I experienced my first train, cutting right through the middle of town and stopping traffic for four lights back, and keeping us stopped through six light changes. Congestion refers to more than just a head cold.
I knocked on the Dobies’ door shortly after eleven, and then stepped to the side to hide. I seem to have a nasty habit of hiding in, around or behind doors. When Judy opened the door, she stood there, quietly gazing out onto the empty porch until I popped out and said, “Uh…boo!” Inside, I did Amber’s hair while we all laughed and talked, then the two of us girls headed out for an impromptu picture shoot with an impromptu photography lesson. We wound up by looking at First Corinthians eleven—the head covering passage—followed by John chapter five. Sadly, twenty years have passed since I left Amber’s house, and I can barely remember what Jesus spoke about: His witnesses—His works, the Holy Spirit, the Father and Scripture and John.
TCBY slipped in and out of my mind as I headed for Lauryn’s house, so I pulled into the drive-through to order an ice-cream cone—a super rare treat. “May I take your order?” came the polite albeit crackly voice over the intercom. First I requested a White Chocolate Mousse cone, but it was not meant to be, due to the popularity of the item. “Do you have the eggnog, then?” I asked. Once again, I seemed to have good taste—if popularity defines good. “Let’s try the strawberry cheesecake,” I offered. “Okay! Come right forward to the first window and we’ll have that for you immediately.” Slowly I pulled forward to the little sliding, glass window. How long does it take to dip up a cone with frozen yogurt? I sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Inside I could see workers scurrying madly about, but no one appeared at the magical window. Confused, I wondered if I’d driven to the right window. A car pulled up behind me, circled around past me and disappeared around the side of the building. “They must know where they’re going,” I thought, feeling blonde, and followed—clear around the building—to see them parked and talking placidly to a worker outside. “Well, that wasn’t right.” I shrugged, shifted into reverse and backed back around the building to the original window, still waiting empty and forlorn. Just then a TCBY guy came scampering around the building from where I’d just come, waving an ice-cream cone. “Was this the right window?” I asked, rolling down my window. “Yeah,” he said. “Very sorry about that. We’re just running super busy today.” He handed me my cone and backed away. “This one’s on us. Enjoy!” I did, of course, but if I’d known ahead of time I’d have ordered a waffle cone.
The blessing was an interesting one to ponder. I have desires. Natural, usually. Innocent, mostly. It’s not wrong for me to pursue my desires, providing they don’t conflict with the Lord’s word. But often He says “no”. Sometimes even several times. Does it mean what I asked was wicked? No. Does it mean I should give up? No. It means I should seek Him and keep pursuing desires that He’s not closed the door on, praying that He will give me His desires, trusting that what He has in mind is better. I should even pray that He would close doors on desires that may not be His will. Was the strawberry cheesecake cone better than the White Chocolate Mousse one? You bet. It was free. It might sound ridiculous to pull spiritual lessons from an ice-cream parlor, but I think the Lord would have everything remind me of Him and His truths. Was it God’s will that I have a free cone? Honestly, I don’t believe God cares what flavor of ice-cream I eat, but He does have lessons for me, in everything, if I will keep my heart open. And thanking Him for the special, little gift is undeniably appropriate. Somehow, it was also precious to me, in light of immediately following events.
I arrived at Lauryn’s house and dove right in, helping her with the darling Christmas ornaments she was decorating for her Junior High girl’s class. We’d not been working long when she began to share what was happening in her life. And here, in the fashion of classic British literature, I draw the curtain over the ensuing scene.
During supper dishes, the Lord reminded me how I had made a request which He had answered in a very specific way today. A huge burden lifted from my heart as I realized my prayer had been answered. It never ceases to amaze me how faithfully He answers, if I only am alert to recognize His answer.
Mom walked in to my room, demanding a fine for the clothes she picked up off my desk chair after my hurried departure this morning. They were sorted last night, and awaiting ironing. All sorts of sharp comments about late fees for the grocery list she was stuffing into my pocket as I walked out the door slithered about my mind like snakes. I bit them back and paid her, feeling humiliated somehow, as always. Perhaps it’s because I’m twenty years old, and still must bow to my parent’s standards of a clean room. As soon as she left, I burst into tears. Huge sobs that racked my whole being set me trembling from head to toe. Awash once more in the feeling of worthlessness, the lies that I am not good enough, so completely, undeniably alone after an emotionally charged day, I could not deny myself the relief of tears.
Two truths I know: I know that God does not cause temptation or evil. And I know that He causes all things to work for good to those who love Him. To those promises I cling, knowing that He is at work, both to will and to work for His good pleasure. In Him all things hold together.
Lord, Thy holiness holds true
In everything Thou’ll ever do
Thou will not cause this child to fall
And Thou wilt hear my every call.
And Thou dost work my circumstance
To write us a divine romance
That everything my life may bring
Will drive me to Thy arms, my King.
I knocked on the Dobies’ door shortly after eleven, and then stepped to the side to hide. I seem to have a nasty habit of hiding in, around or behind doors. When Judy opened the door, she stood there, quietly gazing out onto the empty porch until I popped out and said, “Uh…boo!” Inside, I did Amber’s hair while we all laughed and talked, then the two of us girls headed out for an impromptu picture shoot with an impromptu photography lesson. We wound up by looking at First Corinthians eleven—the head covering passage—followed by John chapter five. Sadly, twenty years have passed since I left Amber’s house, and I can barely remember what Jesus spoke about: His witnesses—His works, the Holy Spirit, the Father and Scripture and John.
TCBY slipped in and out of my mind as I headed for Lauryn’s house, so I pulled into the drive-through to order an ice-cream cone—a super rare treat. “May I take your order?” came the polite albeit crackly voice over the intercom. First I requested a White Chocolate Mousse cone, but it was not meant to be, due to the popularity of the item. “Do you have the eggnog, then?” I asked. Once again, I seemed to have good taste—if popularity defines good. “Let’s try the strawberry cheesecake,” I offered. “Okay! Come right forward to the first window and we’ll have that for you immediately.” Slowly I pulled forward to the little sliding, glass window. How long does it take to dip up a cone with frozen yogurt? I sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Inside I could see workers scurrying madly about, but no one appeared at the magical window. Confused, I wondered if I’d driven to the right window. A car pulled up behind me, circled around past me and disappeared around the side of the building. “They must know where they’re going,” I thought, feeling blonde, and followed—clear around the building—to see them parked and talking placidly to a worker outside. “Well, that wasn’t right.” I shrugged, shifted into reverse and backed back around the building to the original window, still waiting empty and forlorn. Just then a TCBY guy came scampering around the building from where I’d just come, waving an ice-cream cone. “Was this the right window?” I asked, rolling down my window. “Yeah,” he said. “Very sorry about that. We’re just running super busy today.” He handed me my cone and backed away. “This one’s on us. Enjoy!” I did, of course, but if I’d known ahead of time I’d have ordered a waffle cone.
The blessing was an interesting one to ponder. I have desires. Natural, usually. Innocent, mostly. It’s not wrong for me to pursue my desires, providing they don’t conflict with the Lord’s word. But often He says “no”. Sometimes even several times. Does it mean what I asked was wicked? No. Does it mean I should give up? No. It means I should seek Him and keep pursuing desires that He’s not closed the door on, praying that He will give me His desires, trusting that what He has in mind is better. I should even pray that He would close doors on desires that may not be His will. Was the strawberry cheesecake cone better than the White Chocolate Mousse one? You bet. It was free. It might sound ridiculous to pull spiritual lessons from an ice-cream parlor, but I think the Lord would have everything remind me of Him and His truths. Was it God’s will that I have a free cone? Honestly, I don’t believe God cares what flavor of ice-cream I eat, but He does have lessons for me, in everything, if I will keep my heart open. And thanking Him for the special, little gift is undeniably appropriate. Somehow, it was also precious to me, in light of immediately following events.
I arrived at Lauryn’s house and dove right in, helping her with the darling Christmas ornaments she was decorating for her Junior High girl’s class. We’d not been working long when she began to share what was happening in her life. And here, in the fashion of classic British literature, I draw the curtain over the ensuing scene.
During supper dishes, the Lord reminded me how I had made a request which He had answered in a very specific way today. A huge burden lifted from my heart as I realized my prayer had been answered. It never ceases to amaze me how faithfully He answers, if I only am alert to recognize His answer.
Mom walked in to my room, demanding a fine for the clothes she picked up off my desk chair after my hurried departure this morning. They were sorted last night, and awaiting ironing. All sorts of sharp comments about late fees for the grocery list she was stuffing into my pocket as I walked out the door slithered about my mind like snakes. I bit them back and paid her, feeling humiliated somehow, as always. Perhaps it’s because I’m twenty years old, and still must bow to my parent’s standards of a clean room. As soon as she left, I burst into tears. Huge sobs that racked my whole being set me trembling from head to toe. Awash once more in the feeling of worthlessness, the lies that I am not good enough, so completely, undeniably alone after an emotionally charged day, I could not deny myself the relief of tears.
Two truths I know: I know that God does not cause temptation or evil. And I know that He causes all things to work for good to those who love Him. To those promises I cling, knowing that He is at work, both to will and to work for His good pleasure. In Him all things hold together.
Lord, Thy holiness holds true
In everything Thou’ll ever do
Thou will not cause this child to fall
And Thou wilt hear my every call.
And Thou dost work my circumstance
To write us a divine romance
That everything my life may bring
Will drive me to Thy arms, my King.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
I have not a blow dryer to my name. Mom very generously gave me the one from Josiah’s bathroom, but he showed up demanding its immediate return. I can’t quite visualize the necessity of a blow dryer for ½ inch long hair, but I returned the item in question to its rightful owner and added a blow dryer to my rather lengthy wish-list. My wish-list being defined as the running list of items I think, “Oh, that would be nice to have”, but never get around to buying. Buying things is such a waste of time and money, anyway.
Josiah informed me of an interesting conversation he had with Zach, after the Bible study last night. A very lengthy discussion of being careful around girls led Zach to comment: “But I never worry about Abigail. Dude, she’s just like a sister. No,” a pause. “Worse. She’s like a mom.” The concept of such filial affection from a twenty-two-year-old is rather novel, but I suppose it’s better than the alternatives.
We reported a jail-break today. Our sticky, spotted salamander escaped his cage sometime this afternoon and is now at large in our house. He is armed and extremely dangerous, and it will be a pity should he be squished.
The price of produce these days is almost steep enough for a black diamond ski slope. My grocery list vanished somewhere between Dollar General and the Supermarket. In this world of modern conveniences, I called home and strolled the store, stocking up as Mom relayed the list over the phone. When I think of the inventions of my lifetime, I am struck with awe: cell phones, internet, computers not to mention electronic gadgets like mp3 players, CD players, DVD players, ipods, iphones, PDAs and all the ridiculous sorts of toys that have complicatedly simplified our lives. At any given moment, the average person could erupt with multiple alarms. Once upon a time, people lived tranquil, quiet lives, and had good excuses for not keeping in better touch.
D-town is a town of trust. So many of the shops are so careless—it would be so easy to lift something. Strangely, the thought has entered my head on multiple occasions lately. Not actually to steal something, I don’t believe, since there’s no struggle or deliberation involved, but almost more of a shock at how easily I could pocket something and continue on my merry way. Only, I would be rather less than merry. I remember the only time I ever took something from a store—it was a fake flower, lying forlornly on the cold, tile floor, and my four-year-old mind reasoned that it would never be missed or cared about. Surely the Hobby-Lobbyists would just sweep it up and throw it away anyway. So I rescued the poor blossom from an untimely demise. Mom discovered my heroic effort halfway out to the car and turned me around, marched me back inside and made me return the flower with an elaborate apology. Something like, “Sniffle…I’m sorry I took this…sniffle…it was on the floor…sniffle, sniffle…I’ll never do it again. SNORT.” Why do I do what is right? Why do I shudder at the thought of taking something that is not mine? Is it a fear of punishment that keeps the thought spinning through my mind, polishing it like a stone in a tumbler, but never allowing it to hatch? Is it my conscience that would never allow me to enjoy something taken through deceit? Is it a fear of disappointing my parents? A horror of displeasing my Heavenly Father? All these facets are in place to keep me from sin—like a hedge of thorns around me, keeping me on a path of purity. It’s the same way with many sins—lying, sexual sins, sins of excess, rebellion. But how often I forget that these same hedges guard the pathway to keep me from secret sins? I trample my conscience, I push away fears of punishment from the One Who sees what is done in secret, and I indulge in sins that stain my heart—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life. I shrink in horror from breaking the commandments against lying, murdering, stealing and fornication and glibly go my way, trampling underfoot the two greatest commands: to love God first, and my neighbor as myself. Oh, that I would shrink from impurity of heart as quickly as I shudder at impurity of actions.
Lord, Thou art a perfect Master,
Which would seem a huge disaster,
Had Thou not been born of dust
So as to sympathize with us.
May my life not be a lie
As studied to please human eye
But lived in perfect purity
To bring delight to even Thee.
Josiah informed me of an interesting conversation he had with Zach, after the Bible study last night. A very lengthy discussion of being careful around girls led Zach to comment: “But I never worry about Abigail. Dude, she’s just like a sister. No,” a pause. “Worse. She’s like a mom.” The concept of such filial affection from a twenty-two-year-old is rather novel, but I suppose it’s better than the alternatives.
We reported a jail-break today. Our sticky, spotted salamander escaped his cage sometime this afternoon and is now at large in our house. He is armed and extremely dangerous, and it will be a pity should he be squished.
The price of produce these days is almost steep enough for a black diamond ski slope. My grocery list vanished somewhere between Dollar General and the Supermarket. In this world of modern conveniences, I called home and strolled the store, stocking up as Mom relayed the list over the phone. When I think of the inventions of my lifetime, I am struck with awe: cell phones, internet, computers not to mention electronic gadgets like mp3 players, CD players, DVD players, ipods, iphones, PDAs and all the ridiculous sorts of toys that have complicatedly simplified our lives. At any given moment, the average person could erupt with multiple alarms. Once upon a time, people lived tranquil, quiet lives, and had good excuses for not keeping in better touch.
D-town is a town of trust. So many of the shops are so careless—it would be so easy to lift something. Strangely, the thought has entered my head on multiple occasions lately. Not actually to steal something, I don’t believe, since there’s no struggle or deliberation involved, but almost more of a shock at how easily I could pocket something and continue on my merry way. Only, I would be rather less than merry. I remember the only time I ever took something from a store—it was a fake flower, lying forlornly on the cold, tile floor, and my four-year-old mind reasoned that it would never be missed or cared about. Surely the Hobby-Lobbyists would just sweep it up and throw it away anyway. So I rescued the poor blossom from an untimely demise. Mom discovered my heroic effort halfway out to the car and turned me around, marched me back inside and made me return the flower with an elaborate apology. Something like, “Sniffle…I’m sorry I took this…sniffle…it was on the floor…sniffle, sniffle…I’ll never do it again. SNORT.” Why do I do what is right? Why do I shudder at the thought of taking something that is not mine? Is it a fear of punishment that keeps the thought spinning through my mind, polishing it like a stone in a tumbler, but never allowing it to hatch? Is it my conscience that would never allow me to enjoy something taken through deceit? Is it a fear of disappointing my parents? A horror of displeasing my Heavenly Father? All these facets are in place to keep me from sin—like a hedge of thorns around me, keeping me on a path of purity. It’s the same way with many sins—lying, sexual sins, sins of excess, rebellion. But how often I forget that these same hedges guard the pathway to keep me from secret sins? I trample my conscience, I push away fears of punishment from the One Who sees what is done in secret, and I indulge in sins that stain my heart—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life. I shrink in horror from breaking the commandments against lying, murdering, stealing and fornication and glibly go my way, trampling underfoot the two greatest commands: to love God first, and my neighbor as myself. Oh, that I would shrink from impurity of heart as quickly as I shudder at impurity of actions.
Lord, Thou art a perfect Master,
Which would seem a huge disaster,
Had Thou not been born of dust
So as to sympathize with us.
May my life not be a lie
As studied to please human eye
But lived in perfect purity
To bring delight to even Thee.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Imagine one of those little, bug-eyed chihuahuas. Once they start shivering, they simply can’t stop. That’s a pretty good visual of me right now. This house is pretty drafty, not to mention sprawling, and we’ve not been here long enough to accumulate a stash of seasoned firewood. This morning dawned bitterly cold, albeit sunny, and the temperature inside was no great improvement on that outside. Before he left, Papa gave me the task of calling into the faithful Dial-a-trade to see if my extraordinary radio talents could scare up any seasoned firewood. Which done, I worked at my desk, a faithful secretary, awaiting the truckloads of incoming phone calls I knew would be rolling in. The phone rang and I answered, politely. “Yeah,” came a high-pitched drawl from the other end. “I’ve got me some good, seasoned pine here, I’ll sell ya for seventy-five a rick.” “I’m sorry,” I answered, “I don’t need pine, I need a hardwood that’ll give more heat.” Across the line came gales of laughter, and a familiar voice. “This is the Papa. She fell for it, Gene!”
Our newest guest acquisition comes as a spotted salamander, discovered in a cold, little heap by Mom as she gathered an armload of firewood for her bedroom stove. The little fellow was quickly transported inside where he alternately curls into a ball in the sunshine on the floor or hides under anything handy—Josiah’s math book, my sweater and the big pillow. My mind goes back to article I once wrote on the Siberian Newt—a salamander who’s been known to freeze alongside woolly mammoths, only to scurry away again once thawed.
I dove into Sibelius after supper—a supper consisting of my first attempt at Indian food—to orchestrate my Christmas wishes. Arranging “We Three Kings” has proven challenging. I can hear so much more in my head than I can get down on paper, such is my limited knowledge of the intricate workings of music. In other words, I might be a great composer, if only I knew anything about writing music. Please take note of the obvious sarcasm before you pity my ignorance. The song itself is one which I used to think trite and childish—especially since the myth of three wise men simply springs from the three gifts. But the line, “King and God and sacrifice”, denoting the spiritual significance of the three gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh caught my attention this year and set me pondering. Interesting how I’ve heard it said that Jesus was prophet, priest and King. He was also King and God and sacrifice. The parallels are breathtaking: King of Kings. Prophet and God—speaking for Himself about Himself, because He needs no greater testimony. Most outstanding, both priest and sacrifice. The old testament speaks of the need for spotless gifts, for purified priests, for sacrifices offered to make the priest holy enough to enter the Holy of Holies. In Jesus we have a priest, the only perfect man, entering the Holy of Holies to sacrifice Himself. On the altar, before God, He laid aside all that was divine and holy, took on all that was wicked and sinful, and gave His own life, the ransom for many. When He cried out, “It is finished! Paid! Done!” the curtain covering the most Holy Place was torn in two pieces, from top to bottom, permitting access to those sprinkled by the precious blood of the Lamb of God. Today, though I may not present Him with gold and frankincense and myrrh, I can recognize Him as King and God and Sacrifice, and worship Him for His worthiness to fill all three offices.
Lord, Thou left Thy throne on high,
To shroud Thy deity and die,
The sacrifice for every sin,
That, sprinkled, we might enter in.
And by Thy sacrifice to claim
A people called by Thy own name.
Three times holy, Great I am:
Worthy God and King and Lamb.
Our newest guest acquisition comes as a spotted salamander, discovered in a cold, little heap by Mom as she gathered an armload of firewood for her bedroom stove. The little fellow was quickly transported inside where he alternately curls into a ball in the sunshine on the floor or hides under anything handy—Josiah’s math book, my sweater and the big pillow. My mind goes back to article I once wrote on the Siberian Newt—a salamander who’s been known to freeze alongside woolly mammoths, only to scurry away again once thawed.
I dove into Sibelius after supper—a supper consisting of my first attempt at Indian food—to orchestrate my Christmas wishes. Arranging “We Three Kings” has proven challenging. I can hear so much more in my head than I can get down on paper, such is my limited knowledge of the intricate workings of music. In other words, I might be a great composer, if only I knew anything about writing music. Please take note of the obvious sarcasm before you pity my ignorance. The song itself is one which I used to think trite and childish—especially since the myth of three wise men simply springs from the three gifts. But the line, “King and God and sacrifice”, denoting the spiritual significance of the three gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh caught my attention this year and set me pondering. Interesting how I’ve heard it said that Jesus was prophet, priest and King. He was also King and God and sacrifice. The parallels are breathtaking: King of Kings. Prophet and God—speaking for Himself about Himself, because He needs no greater testimony. Most outstanding, both priest and sacrifice. The old testament speaks of the need for spotless gifts, for purified priests, for sacrifices offered to make the priest holy enough to enter the Holy of Holies. In Jesus we have a priest, the only perfect man, entering the Holy of Holies to sacrifice Himself. On the altar, before God, He laid aside all that was divine and holy, took on all that was wicked and sinful, and gave His own life, the ransom for many. When He cried out, “It is finished! Paid! Done!” the curtain covering the most Holy Place was torn in two pieces, from top to bottom, permitting access to those sprinkled by the precious blood of the Lamb of God. Today, though I may not present Him with gold and frankincense and myrrh, I can recognize Him as King and God and Sacrifice, and worship Him for His worthiness to fill all three offices.
Lord, Thou left Thy throne on high,
To shroud Thy deity and die,
The sacrifice for every sin,
That, sprinkled, we might enter in.
And by Thy sacrifice to claim
A people called by Thy own name.
Three times holy, Great I am:
Worthy God and King and Lamb.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
I never even cracked my Bible in private today. It’s a horrible thing to have to record, but I get some sort of penance satisfaction from pointing the finger at myself. Perhaps it’s my personality that demands someone to reprimand, and when no one else is available, I pounce on myself. Honestly, though, it is pitiful that I’ve not read the Word today. I cuddled by my parent’s fire, Bible in hand this morning, and promptly drifted to sleep. Sure, I got fed during church by Papa, Don and Nick, all sharing good stuff—about the gifts we have in Christ Jesus. And sure, I played and sang praise songs with Josiah and Zach this afternoon. But I didn’t gather my Bread from Heaven first thing in the morning and I’m sure my spirit has been ill-fed today on account of it. “Tomorrow,” I promise myself, and my Bible, and the Lord. “Tonight I want to finish up my journal, climb into bed and cuddle in to sleep, sleep, sleep. After all, doesn’t the Lord give His loved one’s sleep?” Sure, He does. And He says to meditate on my bed and be still. What better way to meditate than after a hearty spiritual meal? Sadly, I don’t feel hungry. When fasting, you know, the longer you go, the less you desire food. I can’t bear for my spiritual system to go into starvation mode, no longer demanding sustenance. I can’t make up the tomorrow for not eating today. I think of the famine for God’s word—in other countries where believers stay awake all night to read as much as they can, never sure when a Bible will be again available to them. Never sure when they will have time again to sit and read the precious Word of God. Tonight before I go to sleep, I will take the time to read God’s word, in case I never have another chance.
Lord, because it seems less filling,
See my hardened heart, unwilling
To get up and gather early,
Taste Thy bread so pure and holy.
But Thy precious bread from heaven,
Free from sin’s pervading leaven,
Unlike manna in the desert
May be gathered now and ever.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
The deer in this region must all be a part of a “Befriend Your Neighbors, the Humans” club. They camp in our front yard, hang out on the edge of our woods, use specific crosswalks at all hours of the day and tonight, as Josiah and I walked along the road, two of them peered curiously back at us from the horse pen where they were contentedly grazing alongside the horses.
Wal-mart is seeing more of me than I’d ever wish on anyone. And I can’t claim I’m enjoying putting the poor store through such misery, either. Mom and I took Nick in to work this morning, did a bit of shopping and price comparing, and came home in time for me to have a couple of hours at home before I turned around and headed back in to pick him up.
The discussion around the supper table included the date of Zach’s birthday—coming right up and deserving a special surprise. The sixteenth, Mom insisted. The twenty-first, Nick countered. “He said it was the nineteenth,” I contradicted, and won. My memory is hardly to be envied. I can peg birthdays when asked, recount conversations, describe outfits, hairdos and even list eye colors, but I can’t seem to remember to do simple tasks. And what we ate for supper last night is a mystery to me, even though I fixed it. Which means I might serve apples three meals in a row, if not reminded. I know I simple need to work on prioritizing my memory—setting mental alarms for important assigned tasks instead of clinging to random facts and figures. How do I organize this mass storage device into something truly useful?
My computer speakers are wafting the strains of the Lord of the Rings soundtrack—melancholy claims a large portion of the emotions in these pieces. My spirit responds to the sorrow, the huge feeling of loss. Somehow in my heart I can almost glimpse what Eden must have been like—in complete fellowship with God, walking with Him daily, sharing thoughts, learning His ways, in innocence, joy and purity. Here that fellowship is shattered, broken, restored to a dim reality by Jesus, but the longing for full fellowship overwhelms me, bittersweet. I long to hide from the battles facing me, the decisions awaiting me, the pain and scars that come from living in a broken world. I long to flee the reality of what I have been called to do: sacrifice my life, war against principalities who hate me with a hatred that shrivels my flesh, and desperately, relentlessly seek the Way the Truth and the Life. Only can I triumph through the power of the eternal God. Only can I hope through the truth of His resurrection, that promises to me a share in His victory. Only through His righteousness can this fallen world ever be redeemed.
Lord, helpless e’en to seek Thy face
I cling to Thy redeeming grace.
Awash in my unworthiness,
Who am I that Thou should bless?
But Thou dost bless with life in Thee
That stretches to eternity,
This gift, Thou would forget to send
Only could Thy own life end.
Friday, December 14, 2007
We wound up spending most of the day in town, shopping. I managed to make it into the Choices clinic while Sherry and Christy were actually both there. Two comfy armchairs faced each other across a dimly lit counseling room where I met with Sherry and discussed possibilities for volunteering. Being interrogated, probed to be sure I was a believer, a virgin and had a passion for working with girls in crisis pregnancies or kids in schools could have easily been labeled awkward. “Pray about it, fill out the paperwork and call us,” she said. Why is it that, when I ask the Lord to find me a spot to serve Him, I resist the one He has opened up? It nags me as simply too perfect. Perfect fits scare me.
Amber and her mom arrived at the same time we did, and I whisked on the fastest supper in the history of Scottsburrow. Having those two at our table is more enjoyable every time. Soon we were joined by Nick and Josh and sang Christmas carols and read the Christmas story. Zach, Oly and Lauryn showed up in time for our classic video of a dramatic portrayal of a Magi’s servant’s experience with the Christ Child. As we sat, discussing different issues afterwards, Papa suggested that we give up on our pondering and fall to our knees.
As friends were shuffling out the door to depart, Amber suddenly came running back, crying that her Mom had fallen. We all rushed out the door to help Judy up and see if she was hurt. As Zach had helped her down the stairs to the vehicle, she had slipped in the wet grass and fallen. “I’m okay,” she croaked, fighting her bronchitis, “Just tell her to stop crying.” Amber calmed down quickly, as soon as she heard her mother was fine. Those two are exemplary in their devotion to each other.
My emotions have steadied into a level that nearly frightens me. It seems unnatural to feel so regulated—as if I must be living in denial of something, teetering on the edge of an emotional abyss. I pray and pray for emotional control, and then when I have my emotions under control I feel as if I’m out of control simply because I’m feeling nothing dramatic or desperate. Silliness, I know, but it does concern me that when I become steady, my passion seems to fizzle and die. I want to live passionately, devotedly, enthusiastically, just not on a roller-coaster.
I’ve entered a wilderness with the Word again—it seems hot and dry and heavy to me, my mind dull and uncomprehending. I read the same passages over and over again, trying to learn, to take in, to experience, to become excited about God’s work, but the deadly stillness in my soul only echoes back my confusion. In this distance, who has moved? Not the Lord. Never the Lord. If I draw near to Him, He will draw near to me. If it is the devil holding us apart, I have only to resist him, firm in my faith, and he will flee from me.
Lord, I seek to know Thee still
To know Thy heart, to know Thy will,
I seek to know Thy precious word
May this desperate prayer be heard.
Cloudiness distorts Thy water,
Distance chills Thy frightened daughter,
I draw near because I must!
Teach this fragile child to trust.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Zach and Taylor brought over the recording equipment that Nathaniel is buying from Taylor. It's currently tucked away in Josiah's closet, getting absolutely no use. Is it beyond reasonable that I would want to give it the pleasure of keeping busy? Nathaniel seems to think so. He ordered me in no uncertain terms to "keep my hands off of it!" Even warned me he'd be fingerprinting it when he picked it up. Of course, I could wear a pair of latex gloves.
True to the typical Lodes style, Tedd and Emily arrived an hour late, laden with delicious Indian food and infectious smiles. They eagerly joined in the canning of the apple butter Mom and I had started this morning, and shared stories from their overseas experiences. I successfully passed of Lauren’s cap and gown, saved for Miss Emily to use this Saturday by the “Gently Used cap and gown distribution center of D-town”. And only Papa could be blamed for keeping them past the nine-o’clock curfew. It’s our loss to see them moving on from RussVegas.
Stephen caught my attention today. His opponents couldn’t handle him because of his wisdom, grace and enthusiasm. Those would be wonderful charges laid to my case. It’s a bit daunting, as well, to realize that if I am filled with the Holy Spirit, the world will hate me and will likely rush at me with grinding teeth demanding my death. They won’t be gathered around, applauding, wishing me well, taking celebrity shots—they’ll be pitching rocks.
Lord, I stand here, ready, willing
To receive Thy Spirit’s filling.
Overflow me with Thy wisdom,
Grace and power, those that listen
Will be made to love or hate Thee
Since they simply can’t debate Thee.
If I preach Thy precious story
Thou wilt stand and gain the glory.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
I’m getting the hang of town. “Big girl,” I mentally patted myself on the back, in true Papa fashion, after successfully finding an out of the way shop he’d sent me to. The shopping, I have down almost to an art—Lowe’s first (I don’t care for Lowe’s), Wal-Mart next (I despise Stuff-mart), then the little things (I wish little errands would disappear off the face of the earth). My enthusiasm is nearly painful.
Amber and I met for breakfast (if you can call it breakfast at 10 AM) at the Waffle House for our weekly “Double A” meeting. She was toting her own Bible, which is a small, but sure step. The Lord is working, I do believe. We read through John 3-4, which is a pretty tough read, and had some good discussion. Nicodemus and the woman at the well both asked good questions—a sure sign of a tender heart. Amber asks good questions, too, so I know she’s paying attention. God’s word is faithful, even in small doses. It will work in all of us.
Ross Pendergraft, the friendly campus library, was packed with sleepy crammers. I walked past Nathan just in time to see him jerk his head back up from a doze and grin sheepishly at me. Finals week is certainly one part of college I don’t envy.
Kathryn swiped me in for lunch with her and April, and various and diverse other friends drifted in and out, until I’d seen nearly all of the “regulars”—Jacinda, Shoko, Zach, Oly, Taylor, Matt and Lauryn. When Zach asked how I was doing, I couldn’t resist a “Worse, thank you.” Gasps and giggles followed with the accusation that Oly was rubbing off on me, much to his obvious delight. Lauryn was the last to arrive. When she called me back and found out that I was already in the Caf, her voice dripped with disappointment—until I promised to wait for her. It’s always a lively crew. Zach threw food at everyone. I wish I could claim this was something new and exciting.
It seems I always happen to be on hand to accompany Lauryn on her recording excursions at Taylor's. We goof beyond belief. Lauryn and I, that is. I crack lame jokes, which she kindly laughs at, she pokes fun at Taylor, and he politely puts up with our silliness. The frightening thing is when he’s engrossed in mixing, headphones on and we start chatting away about cultural differences between here and home. Suddenly he turns around and says, “What do you mean when you say mush-mouth? Like me?” His ears are amazing. Thankfully, neither of us had divulged anything embarrassing. Lauryn discovered the Facebook group I made in protest of her proposed haircut: “Goldie should never sever her locks”. She's considering joining.
Emily’s keychain turned out a success. “Is it me?” she asked, and, honestly, it does bear a striking resemblance—at least in the fact that it has lots of curly hair.
Choices, the crisis pregnancy clinic, claimed my attention an hour early and I arrived only to discover that Sherry had neglected to tell me they were closed on Wednesday. I called and talked to her anyway, and found out some more details. They’ve been praying for another person to pair up with a girl named Meagan in the Abstinence program they take to public schools, and I do believe she thinks I’m the one. I’m afraid I might be. Here’s the glitch. Honestly, truly and from my inner heart, I don’t want to do it. My mind rebels against the thought of going anywhere near a public school—as if the building itself could defile me. And talk about abstinence? Sure, I advocate abstinence, but, um, you want me to talk about it? Ick. I’m such a prude. The whole concept is a world beyond my comfort zone. And I’ve never really had to decide to do something that I thought I should do that I didn’t want to do. As if that makes any sense. But most emotional topics don’t.
This dry run proved a good result—I slipped back into Summit on the heels of a kind young man, took the elevator back up to the fifth floor and walked back into the girl’s room for a splendid surprise. Or something. They couldn’t have been too excited to see me, since they all dispersed a short time later and left April and me alone—perfect. Her plan? “Let’s pray.” First, of course, we shared about the issues eating each of us, then we joined hands and took our burdens to the Lord. Praying with April is like taking my sister by the hand and running into the lap of my Heavenly Father, who alone could give such amazing gifts and unite such different people.
Lord, Thy wisdom is supreme
When Thou took people so extreme
And melded them into one body,
Thou made something called and holy.
By Thy gift of unity
Will all men know we’re part of Thee:
The body of Thy precious Son,
And us in Thee, Thou three-in-one.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
It’s been raining now for nearly a week. Days on end without rain still fill my stomach with little, anxious butterflies. The flood is still too recent in my memory, even though I know the concept of flooding where we are, or even being flooded in, is pretty far-fetched.
Shopping in D-town has taken on a very distinct pattern. Adventure is not a word I would normally use to label my outings. Today was no exception. I returned my book to the library, unread. I just can’t seem to sit down and read a book these days—unless it’s my Bible. Restlessness is certainly not conducive to reading. I also made a daring excursion into the bead store—and spent far too long picking out supplies for the Christmas gifts I made for the girls who are headed home this weekend. They turned out pretty decently—necklace and earring sets for three of them, and a curly-headed key-chain for Emily.
I wish I could say I’d made a point of sharing my faith. I offered the bank clerk a million dollar bill, which she said she’d seen before, so I desisted. I asked the bead store lady about the Christmas Carols she was playing, and then fell silent. That was the extent of my eternal shopping. Why is it that D-town seems to be such a formidable harvest to me? The excuse “I don’t want to keep them from their job” isn’t coinciding with an eternal perspective. Why am I so slow to do this one thing I can’t do in heaven?
Lord, I get so caught up in
Myself, which is a grievous sin
And use excuses for my sin:
“I just can’t inconvenience them.”
To inconvenience them or me
Could purchase their eternity.
With my secure eternity,
The truth? I think too much of me.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Guess where I flung the soggy leaves from the gutters I cleaned this afternoon. Down onto the porch that I swept yesterday. If life is not a circle—an endless round of jobs—then I’ve somehow missed the definition of a circle.
Itchy feet and the restless urge have overtaken me again. I must be getting too settled in. Rain or mist has been the pervading weather for the last several days, leaving me sunless and cabin-locked, for the most part. This evening found me turning circles in the living room. It isn’t quite long enough for cartwheels, unfortunately. I started into Job this morning, but my mind feels completely saturated, like a sponge so soggy it can’t absorb any more. Asked what the Lord is teaching me, my mouth hangs open like a door with a loose hinge, and I can’t squeeze even one drop of refreshing water from my mind. Where do I even begin? I’ve been soaking it up, enjoying the time of solitude up here on the mountain, learning of the Lord. Now I’m ready to bound down into the valley again, desperate to seek and save His lost lambs. “My people perish for lack of knowledge” He says. “There’s a famine for hearing the word of the Lord.” “Beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news.” My spirit wanders around inside me. I catch myself daydreaming witnessing opportunities, replaying conversations, rethinking what I should have said. I want to go out, to seek, to serve, to give myself a sacrifice.
I’ve got to start at home.
Lord, I’m here where Thou hast placed me
Restlessness and doubt still chase me.
Am I needed here at home?
For Lord, the urge to roam has grown.
And I can justify desires
By claiming Thou hast lit the fires.
But Thou hast bid me be content
Where’er it is that Thou hast sent.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
It was a misty-moisty morning—and afternoon—and evening. Even though church felt short, my body ached all over from sitting still. Don shared on the importance of doctrine and Papa read a synchronized Christmas story. I wish there was more about Mary. She must’ve been a devoted girl, since she was chosen to carry God’s Son—His gift to the world. Her attitude as portrayed through her words is inspiring: “I am Yahweh’s handmaid. Be it done as you have said.” I, too, have been chosen to carry God’s Son—His gift to the world—though in a different way. May I always be humble, pure, eager to submit the Yahweh, quick to say, “I am Yahweh’s handmaid. May it be done as He says.”
The hot tub seemed inviting for the first time since I’d cleaned it, so I turned the heat up on it and changed into bathing attire, excited about a warm, bubbly soak. Very slowly the temperature rose from seventy degrees until it was finally eighty-seven. Outside it grew darker, colder and less inviting. Finally we gave up waiting and waded in. Eighty-seven degrees is not a warm hot-tub on a cold, rainy day. I huddled in front of a jet, careful to stay as much under the water as possible, for nearly twenty minutes before climbing out and dashing inside. My legs were covered in tiny, red bumps and I shivered out of my soggy clothes and into the shower. Once dressed, I could barely remember every feeling so cozy. It’s an interesting phenomenon how often we forget how good we have it, until we experience something worse.
While waiting on Tabby’s weekly phone call, I slogged through Hosea. It’s a pretty discouraging book, most of the time, and I can hardly wonder. God must have felt pretty discouraged with Israel’s unfaithfulness, as Hosea must have felt pretty discouraged with his wife’s. The words “faithful” and “loyal” are repeated over and over and over again. Always, I am convicted of my own unfaithfulness—how quick I am to run to other dreams and desires, to carve out idols and worship them. God says “I will betroth you to Me forever; Yes, I will betroth you to Me in righteousness and in justice, in lovingkindness and in compassion, and I will betroth you to Me in faithfulness. Then you will know Yahweh.” In the same way, I have been betrothed to Christ, and should walk in righteousness, justice, mercy, compassion and faithfulness, even as He has shown those toward me. And then we have the plea, “Come, let us return to Yahweh! Let us know, let us press on to know Yahweh.” The picture in Hosea may be a bleak one, but it is only because Israel’s deeds prevent her from repenting. To those who turn upward and eagerly press to know the Lord, He delights to answer and to take them again in His loving arms.
Lord, Thou only asked that I would be
A loyal, faithful bride for Thee,
But Thou are of such mercy, Lord,
That even I can be restored.
Though I have wandered time again
Into the arms of self and sin
I know that Thou wilt always be
Waiting for me faithfully.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Papa and Josiah fixed the wiring to my outlets, so after a few days without electricity in my room, I can flip a switch again and say, “Let there be light!”
But my heart is elsewhere. I called Caitydid a few minutes ago, just to chat. I know she’s been drifting her own way, turning a deaf ear to the Lord, and I honestly couldn’t help it. I just had to start asking questions. I can’t bear to see her caught in the lies of the enemy. I’ve shared with her before, but the Lord wouldn’t let me make small talk. I had to share again. It was like wringing out my soul to press her for answers, to hear her say she just couldn’t humble herself to repent, to know that she is making a choice that will separate her from me for eternity. Even more terrifying, that will separate her from God for eternity. Why are we so proud? Why do we seek to accomplish on our own what we know we can never succeed in, to the eternal torment of our souls? Why do we risk eternal regret to resist momentary humiliation? Lord God, I don’t understand! How do You reach the soul that is convicted of sin, but refuses forgiveness? What a terrible, miserable existence that must be, choked by the murderous fingers of pride. And yet, how often do I also turn my back on my God, the God I claim to serve, and tarry in the arms of pride, drinking deeply of self-love.
Lord, my tears, my bleeding heart
Can never even fill a part
Of all the agony Thou tasted.
Let not Thy precious gift be wasted!
Her decision, God on High,
Is hers alone to make, but I
Must let my thoughts and actions prove
That I am purchased by Thy love.
Friday, December 7, 2007
We hosted the largest group yet for “Friday Night at Scottsburrow”. The Delta Force arrived in formation, along with the inseparable Emily and LinN, the faithful Josh, the devoted Nick and Matt and Nathan to boot. The tape tonight dealt with faithfulness—in finances and in time. Papa was full of fun, made myriads of wisecracks and teased to the max. And he neglected to chase everyone out until near eleven.
I spent the morning with Daniel—a man, recognized in heaven as a “man of esteem”. As I read I tried to pick out what it was that earned him this title, from a heavenly messenger. As a youth, he purposed to please God, and then sought the approval of his authorities for his goals. And God blessed him and granted him favor with his authorities. Later on, his purpose to please held strong. His enemies, in jealousy, commented that were they to find anything wrong with him, it would have to be in his worship of God. And so he was thrown to the lions. His enemies knew that his worship would remain steadfast, regardless of the circumstances. God allowed the wicked edict, and the unjust punishment in order to glorify Himself when He rescued Daniel from the mouths of the lions. Daniel sought the Lord untiringly, in spite of sickness, fatigue and spiritual warfare and was rewarded with understanding from the Lord. When he discovered that Jeremiah had prophesied the end of the captivity in his time, he bowed his knees before God, confessing his sins and the sins of his nation and pleading the Lord’s compassion—praying according to God’s known will. God said he had humbled himself and set himself to understand God’s word. As soon as Daniel started praying, the Lord heard him and sent answers—because He esteemed him. God esteemed a man. He thought highly of him. The very last verse is a message from God saying, “Go your way to the end; then you will enter into rest and rise again for your allotted portion at the end of the age.”
I must purpose to be like this man whom God esteemed: set my heart to please God, to serve those He has placed me under with humility and wisdom, to worship God with diligence, in spite of obstacles, to be guilty only of worshipping Him, to pray according to God’s will, repenting for myself and others, to set my heart to understanding His word.
Lord, I purpose now to please Thee
It becomes my solemn duty
To be so in love with Thee
That visions of Thy glory fill me.
May the fault of faithful worship
Be the only cause for cursing.
Set my heart to understand Thee
That I may proclaim Thy beauty.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Five o’clock found me already awake, drifting in and out of coherent thought. I bounced out of bed, showered and started collecting things for a day in RussVegas with Papa. It started out slowly, trying to get the shopping done and I wound up on the Tech Campus shortly after eleven. I tried to call Emily, but couldn’t get through for some odd reason, and resorted to Miss Lauryn. “Hey!” she greeted me. “Are you on campus?” I answered in the affirmative and she went on, “Do you want to get lunch now or at one?” Inside I was laughing so hard. I tailed a Summit resident through the high security doors, rode the elevator up and entered her room in a bounce. She called Emily to invite her to lunch with us, and texted Zach “Lunch with me and my sis at one?” His response: “In the Café? Sure!”
I struck out for the library where I planted myself at a table and searched, unsuccessfully for offline e-mail for the Willis clan. Before long a tall, dark-headed guy came in, located me and set up camp at a table across from me, where he had a perfect angle of my face. He accomplished very little. I truly wished for Josiah’s recommended sign: “Study Something Else”.
My phone vibrated showing Zach’s name. Why is he calling me? Answer it or not, I deliberated. He knows better than to just call me, so maybe it’s legitimate. “Why are you calling me?” I demanded. “Uh…” his response. “Is this Abigail? Why are you whispering?” My turn to stutter. “Uh…I’m the library.” Realization dawned for us both at the same time. “You’re on campus? So I don’t suppose Josiah’s anywhere handy?” Quickly I forgave him for calling me and quickly we hung up.
Lauryn was printing out a John Piper article on hearing God’s voice—through His word— in the 21st century when I emerged from the upper stories of the Library. She showed me Zach’s most recent text message: “I can’t wait to have lunch with my hero.” Obviously he mistakenly believed Lauryn meant her birth sister—amazing Emyleigh, whom he adores. As we walked out of the library, he joined us and suspiciously demanded, “Is it really you Lauryn was talking about?” His chagrin was quite apparent.
Tedd and Emily L. joined us halfway through lunch and Emily asked me, “Who was it that called me?” I shrugged. “When?” She said, “Earlier. She said, ‘Do you want to have lunch with Abigail and I at one?’” And then I started laughing. Lauryn is so funny! She called the wrong Emily and got us a double date. But poor Emily W. doesn’t even know I was present and accounted for today.
Here’s where it gets good. I met Amber at Hastings and wound up with a free drink. I rarely buy coffee because it’s so expensive and has no redeeming qualities, but when the clerk came over to me asking if I wanted an iced coconut mocha, I didn’t turn him down. We dove into John and read the first two chapters. Amber and her mom were very busy today, but she didn’t want to miss it. We're both really enjoying spending time together. We discussed how we need to fill our jars with the water of the Word so Jesus can turn them into sweet wine. Also how we should cleanse our temples so that we may be houses of prayer. We talked and prayed and stood up to leave.
As Amber paid for her drink, I noticed that the woman behind us had a shaved head, and I complimented her on her hat. She responded eagerly and took off her hat to show me her head. She was on her fourth ovarian cancer bout, but didn’t seem bothered by it. “I’ve already outlived what my gynecologist thought,” she said with pleasure. The opening was too perfect. I asked her about life after death. “I’ll go to heaven,” she responded with conviction. “Does everyone go to heaven?” I asked. “No, sadly,” she responded and began to tell me how only those who believe and trust the Lord will reach heaven. A little more conversation proved her faith was placed in the person and work of Jesus and we’d found a sister.
Papa and I arrived home safe and sound and we all enjoyed a splendid meal, seasoned by grace. After swapping stories the whole family joined hands and prayed. We prayed for Amber and her mom.
About an hour ago the phone rang and Amber’s excited voice came over the line. “I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour!” She then related how she and her mom had gone to the Laundromat, and she’d been inspired to strike up a conversation with a lady there. That target proved to be a believer, but a bystander was listening intently. Amber turned to her and asked, “What about you?” Soon she was embroiled in a discussion with a woman obviously embroiled in a cult. At a loss, she gave up. It was then that her mom stepped in, quoting verse after verse of scripture. Later she was surprised at herself and could only give all the glory to the Lord.
Amber excitedly recognized two things—that the Lord could work through anyone, and also that her mother’s diligent study of scripture as a young woman had paid off. It was still hidden in her heart. Excited again about the Word of the Lord, she and her mother were looking up scriptures together. “I wonder if my Bible’s forgotten what I look like?” Amber said over the phone. Then she giggled. “I’m so excited!”
The Lord is so powerful! Praise Him!
Lord, Thou art a God who’s near
Not far, Thou art a God who hears
And answers, Thou wilt always prove
The power of Thy matchless love.
And Lord, Thy word is such a light
A lamp, that grows forever bright
And clear, when we trust and obey
The Word Thou spoke that matchless day.