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.