Monday, April 21, 2008

My version of Windows Movie Maker doesn’t support MPEG2’s. That would have seemed like a random, useless fact, had I not spent the whole afternoon bent over my laptop with Jacinderella, imploring, pleading and trying to bribe it into cooperation. Even free conversion downloads proved a disappointment. While we waited for downloads, uploads, acrossloads, inloads, outloads, offloads and onloads, we behaved like the immature girls we are. Jacinderalla hates being reminded how others are scared of her. I think it’s hilarious. Scared of my Jacinderella? Whatever…Okay. Maybe I’m a little scared, too, when she gives me certain looks. “The South Beach Diet?” She suspiciously pulled the book off my desk. “Uh, yeah,” I answered. “I can explain.” The Librarian at Tech had given me a similar look and probed: “This must be for a research paper, right?” The explanation is simple: Papa asked me to start it with him because I’m the only one in the family who wouldn’t shrivel up and die on a diet. Actually, I think I might. No fruit or dairy in the first phase? Giving up bread and starches is no problem, but I exist on fruits and dairy. In a dearth of other things to talk about, I bravely showed her the language I’d written when I was fifteen. Acacian. I don’t know why it came to mind. It began simply as one of my million codes and grew until it was going to be a whole allegory, with a world of its own. I wasn’t even familiar with Lord of the Rings. Or Gaelic, both of which it resembles. Logistically, it might be pretty difficult to speak, since most of the vowels are silent, vowel sounds being part of the consonants. Or difficult, at least, to understand. But I became very proficient in writing it, back in the day, and even ensnared Josiah in note passing for a time. “This is insane. You could sell this,” Jacinderella commented. I shrugged. I was thinking I’d keep it around for kicks and maybe teach it in the catacombs should America ever become hostile to Christianity.

The new lawn mower is a manual transmission. Of sorts. No gas pedal. Just a brake/clutch and six speeds. I slid the lever into sixth, eased off on the clutch and went flying across the yard at breakneck speed. Well. Fast for a lawnmower, at least. I still can barely hold the seat down, but at least our terrain here is no where near as jostling as back in Kansas. I can’t count all the times the mower died because I zipped through a rut and bounced right off the seat.

A horrible confession escapes me tonight. I followed Lydia into our room to read Ephesians before bed and couldn’t remember the last time I’d read with her. Always some “interference” or “excuse.” We did so well through John and First John, but I’ve completely let it slide to the side of my pathway. Isn’t this just the story of my life. “You started well. Who hindered you from finishing?”

In the midst of our family study through Exodus, as we’ve listened through the details of the bloody sacrifices, I came again upon David’s understanding of God’s true desire: “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise.” Which would be comforting, except that it reminds me that I’ve come again to that place where the well has run dry. Where I realize I’m chasing everything but the Lord. Where the fire in my heart begs to be fanned. Psalm fifty-one always finds me here, disappointed in myself, pleading for a steadfast and willing spirit. Rules, schedules and liturgies turn stale without the holy passion of a heart fixed on Yahweh. Which heart I lack.

Lord, I’ve wandered from Thy feet,
The place where we were wont to meet,
Yet even here, where’er I be
I know that Thou wilt come to me.

So, Father, I implore Thee now,
To grind up every golden cow
And grant to me a heart of praise
To worship Thee through all my days.

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