“Trust in Yahweh with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight. Do not be wise in your own eyes, fear Yahweh and turn from evil. It will be healing to your body and refreshment to your bones.” ~Proverbs 3:5-8
Has it only been a year since I drove the dusty Tempo from the S Family’s house, down Crooked Branch Road and up our driveway for the first time? Only a year is gone and yet gone is a year of death and resurrection, of old and new, of past and present. Gone far behind us is Papa’s “ideal” job at Parkway Dental. Gone also the little home fellowship we began with the S Family. Gone are the days when I babysat for four blond, energetic kiddos. Gone are the days when I hung out on campus in the Sweetest Suite or walked into the Cafeteria at the side of Lauryn or Jacinda. Gone are Friday nights with Taylor and Nathan or Sunday afternoons with the gang. Gone are Wes and Audrey and their little Wednesday night Bible study. Because life doesn’t stay the same and things move on and people change.
Before me lies a future no more certain than the past has been, yet full of hope. Resurrected are my once buried dreams to live among the people lost in darkness that I might be able to show to them the true light. In a few months, my whole life has become a perfect preparation, a surprising equipping to do exactly what I’ve always desired—serve the low-income, low-education, sin-trapped people of the urban United States as serving Christ. Recreated are my relationships with my family—my father is my trusted friend, my mother has become a sensitive confidant, Josiah is a brother I can lean on and Lydia is a sister in Christ.
And Yahweh, in His supreme wisdom has been teaching me about wasted emotion—especially anxiety. My emotions, He reminds me constantly, are given as a precious treasure, to worship and enjoy Him forever. Yet how often I squander them in fear, guilt, anger, confusion, frustration and worry. What will tomorrow bring? Once Jesus sat on a sunny slope in the land of Israel and boldly proclaimed that it doesn’t matter! Quit worrying about tomorrow, He reminds me. Tomorrow has plenty of worries of its own. Instead of being wasteful of my emotions, I am to turn them to singing and praising and offering thanks. Then I will worship and enjoy Yahweh, even as He has intended. I turn to glance behind me at the past year, thinking how much emotion I have wasted worrying about situations that seemed cloudy or unclear, how many tears I spent weeping because I didn’t have the answers to quiet my soul. That was never what Yahweh intended. He intended me to enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise, saying each day was the day He had made. I will rejoice for He has made me glad!
A year of death and resurrection. And isn’t that the meaning of life? The sting of death is only in hopelessness, but while there is life there is hope. My hope is in knowing the Lord works all things for the good of those who love Him. To this promise I confidently cling and plunge ahead through each day, wondering what He’ll do next. But not allowing that question to consume me.
What will He do next?
Lord, Thou sought to teach me trust,
Faith in Thy good word is a must,
Yet often I flung down Thy word
And turned to other sounds I heard:
The sounds of fear and worry’s call
That tempted me to slip and fall
Yet Thou were always near to save
And resurrect me from each grave.
Showing posts with label Friday night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friday night. Show all posts
Friday, April 18, 2008
“What does ‘manna’ mean?” I asked, over the breakfast table. Papa leaned back in his chair and smiled. “What is it?” Blank stares passed from one person to the next before Mom finally ventured, “Bread from heaven…?” Papa’s grin widened as he clarified. “Manna means ‘What is it?’”
Sunlight poured over my kitchen work as Mom came in and poured herself a glass of milk. “I need to be drinking more of this,” she commented and I took the opportunity to ask about all the medical tests she’s been having lately. Many of them are just routine “woman” checks, but I sensed that all is not as she might wish. “My bone density scan was pretty…pretty bad,” she admitted. “Much worse than someone my age should be. I’m not quite osteoporosis, but almost.” And she started crying. “What can you do about it?” I asked, pushing away my mixing bowl and wrapping my arms around her. Nothing. She doesn’t weigh enough to make exercising very useful. Not that she should stop, of course. It just won’t help. More milk will never do it. Medication is on the horizon, but many doctors won’t even take the medications they prescribe. “So, what does that mean? What will it do to you? Are you going to fall and break your hips?” She wiped her eyes and grinned a little lop-sided. “I don’t really know. I don’t think it’s that bad. I just don’t like getting old.” Papa’s blood pressure has been up, too. Pretty high, I guess. “It pounds in my face, turning me red, and gives me headaches,” he explained to me as we walked along the quiet road. Stress always sends his blood pressure sky-rocketing. If I could, I would heal everything instantly, but in this I see the limit to my wisdom, for what valuable lessons might be all lose were there never a care in the world? A pain. An ache. A void.
I overheard Lydia announcing a loose tooth tonight. In this are our differing characters revealed: Lydia’s patience in waiting until each tooth falls out—the last one in several pieces, it was so far gone. My controlling lack of it, in ripping every one out as soon as it gave the first sign of a tell-tale wiggle—many still had part of the root. “I hath a looth tooth!” she proudly proclaimed several years ago, after discovering her first. “Oh!” I knelt in front of her. “Let me see!” And then, “Here you go” as I handed her the pearly white. Since then she has carefully refrained from sharing her news with me, until she was good and ready to be through with the drama of the wiggling stage. Tonight was her first molar. “No!” she said, firmly, as I followed her into the bathroom, but then she relented. “Just pull it out fast.” I grinned, rolled up my sleeves with an “All righty!” and out the tooth came. I suppose Lydia’s gratefulness bubbled over, since she offered me assistance later, as I balanced on the tip of my toes attempting to reach the top shelf of the cabinet. “Oops! Skin!” she exclaimed and yanked my skirt waistband up to my ribs. I’m not ticklish, but I nearly dropped the pot on her head.
“Penguins incubate their eggs by keeping them on their feet under their belly fat,” Taylor informed us. Thus began the discussion of penguins—particularly whether or not they are possessed of feathers. I’ve even seen them close up, and still always assumed they attired themselves much in the fashion of a whale or dolphin—you know, a tailored wet suit. “Don’t you remember what makes a bird a bird?” Papa remonstrated and quickly proved any doubters wrong with the nearest Encyclopaedia. That fact settled, Nathan and Taylor moved on to various other creatures and contraptions in God’s ingenious planet earth. “Those sure are some nice guys,” Mom commented, wiping crumbs from the counter after they’d left. “I wish the whole world were made up of a whole lot more guys like that. It would be a much more pleasant place.” “Yes,” I observed, sagely. “Much more quiet.”
The book of First Samuel brought me face to face with another exemplary woman—Hannah. At a time when I keep asking Yahweh for favors, gifts and notice, her multiplied prayer for a son caught my attention. “Women shall be preserved through the bearing of children,” Paul comments, hundreds of years later. What did she need? Children to care for her in her old age. A true need. But her request is laced with humility and devotion to Yahweh. “If You will indeed look upon me and remember me and not forgive me, but will give me a son, the Yahweh of hosts, I will give him back to You!” Struck dumb by her words, I kept rereading the prayer that Yahweh delighted to answer. “Please be so kind as to give me a son, that I can give him back to You!” She wanted a son to serve Yahweh. Her desire to give back to Yahweh was honored and she bore a son who became a great prophet—even anointed Israel’s first two kings. And Yahweh’s blessing was multiplied to her through the births of five more children. This humble woman’s prayer was a testimony to me of what and how I should implore Yahweh of hosts—so that I might give back to Him, recognizing that I can only give what He has already given me.
Lord, may Thy grace dwell richly in me,
May I bring forth fruits that please Thee—
Children that will serve Thee wholly,
Dedicated to Thee only.
May the work of both my hands,
Be blessed of Thee to strongly stand.
And every blessing flowing from Thee,
Be offered up to bless Thee fully.
Sunlight poured over my kitchen work as Mom came in and poured herself a glass of milk. “I need to be drinking more of this,” she commented and I took the opportunity to ask about all the medical tests she’s been having lately. Many of them are just routine “woman” checks, but I sensed that all is not as she might wish. “My bone density scan was pretty…pretty bad,” she admitted. “Much worse than someone my age should be. I’m not quite osteoporosis, but almost.” And she started crying. “What can you do about it?” I asked, pushing away my mixing bowl and wrapping my arms around her. Nothing. She doesn’t weigh enough to make exercising very useful. Not that she should stop, of course. It just won’t help. More milk will never do it. Medication is on the horizon, but many doctors won’t even take the medications they prescribe. “So, what does that mean? What will it do to you? Are you going to fall and break your hips?” She wiped her eyes and grinned a little lop-sided. “I don’t really know. I don’t think it’s that bad. I just don’t like getting old.” Papa’s blood pressure has been up, too. Pretty high, I guess. “It pounds in my face, turning me red, and gives me headaches,” he explained to me as we walked along the quiet road. Stress always sends his blood pressure sky-rocketing. If I could, I would heal everything instantly, but in this I see the limit to my wisdom, for what valuable lessons might be all lose were there never a care in the world? A pain. An ache. A void.
I overheard Lydia announcing a loose tooth tonight. In this are our differing characters revealed: Lydia’s patience in waiting until each tooth falls out—the last one in several pieces, it was so far gone. My controlling lack of it, in ripping every one out as soon as it gave the first sign of a tell-tale wiggle—many still had part of the root. “I hath a looth tooth!” she proudly proclaimed several years ago, after discovering her first. “Oh!” I knelt in front of her. “Let me see!” And then, “Here you go” as I handed her the pearly white. Since then she has carefully refrained from sharing her news with me, until she was good and ready to be through with the drama of the wiggling stage. Tonight was her first molar. “No!” she said, firmly, as I followed her into the bathroom, but then she relented. “Just pull it out fast.” I grinned, rolled up my sleeves with an “All righty!” and out the tooth came. I suppose Lydia’s gratefulness bubbled over, since she offered me assistance later, as I balanced on the tip of my toes attempting to reach the top shelf of the cabinet. “Oops! Skin!” she exclaimed and yanked my skirt waistband up to my ribs. I’m not ticklish, but I nearly dropped the pot on her head.
“Penguins incubate their eggs by keeping them on their feet under their belly fat,” Taylor informed us. Thus began the discussion of penguins—particularly whether or not they are possessed of feathers. I’ve even seen them close up, and still always assumed they attired themselves much in the fashion of a whale or dolphin—you know, a tailored wet suit. “Don’t you remember what makes a bird a bird?” Papa remonstrated and quickly proved any doubters wrong with the nearest Encyclopaedia. That fact settled, Nathan and Taylor moved on to various other creatures and contraptions in God’s ingenious planet earth. “Those sure are some nice guys,” Mom commented, wiping crumbs from the counter after they’d left. “I wish the whole world were made up of a whole lot more guys like that. It would be a much more pleasant place.” “Yes,” I observed, sagely. “Much more quiet.”
The book of First Samuel brought me face to face with another exemplary woman—Hannah. At a time when I keep asking Yahweh for favors, gifts and notice, her multiplied prayer for a son caught my attention. “Women shall be preserved through the bearing of children,” Paul comments, hundreds of years later. What did she need? Children to care for her in her old age. A true need. But her request is laced with humility and devotion to Yahweh. “If You will indeed look upon me and remember me and not forgive me, but will give me a son, the Yahweh of hosts, I will give him back to You!” Struck dumb by her words, I kept rereading the prayer that Yahweh delighted to answer. “Please be so kind as to give me a son, that I can give him back to You!” She wanted a son to serve Yahweh. Her desire to give back to Yahweh was honored and she bore a son who became a great prophet—even anointed Israel’s first two kings. And Yahweh’s blessing was multiplied to her through the births of five more children. This humble woman’s prayer was a testimony to me of what and how I should implore Yahweh of hosts—so that I might give back to Him, recognizing that I can only give what He has already given me.
Lord, may Thy grace dwell richly in me,
May I bring forth fruits that please Thee—
Children that will serve Thee wholly,
Dedicated to Thee only.
May the work of both my hands,
Be blessed of Thee to strongly stand.
And every blessing flowing from Thee,
Be offered up to bless Thee fully.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Try cooking for an army of guests over the weekend while pretending nothing unusual is happening. It’s not terribly unusual for us to have a few extras, but we don’t really plan for them. “What’s with all the baking?” Josiah demanded. “I’m just in a baking mood,” Mom answered, shrugging. I smirked, unable to recall her ever being in a baking mood that left the whole kitchen covered in layers of flour, sugar and eggs and included monster casseroles. When the white minivan finally pulled up outside Thursday afternoon and the Willises spilled out, only Lydia was flabbergasted.
Four sleeping bags sprawling out across my bedroom floor, various and sundry pillows scattered abroad, soggy towels and wash cloths hanging limply in the bathroom, piles of clothing, books, Bibles and what-not spilling out of backpacks and shoes lying neglected at every doorway sent my pulse sky-rocketing. Messes don’t bother me terribly, as long as I’m busy, but the laundry room was torn apart, preventing me from fulfilling my Friday duty, supper was already thawing on the kitchen counter and I’d already vacuumed the house—what of it wasn’t occupied. I hardly felt like I deserved a “break” when Josiah proposed a rollicking game of military tactics. Besides, how am I supposed to enjoy playing when there are messes tripping me up every time I sneak in or out a house door? I completely missed the fact that the worst mess of the day was my attitude.
I finally found my purpose in life, after lunch, playing the mole for Miss Master Electrician Tabitha as she wired in a two-forty breaker for the convection oven/electric stove we brought from Kansas. “It’s actually pretty roomy underneath your house,” she informed me through the crackling walkie-talkies as I crawled through the entrance to the brief world underneath the house. As long as I kept my head between the floor joists, I could actually sit upright to push the thick wire through the hole she’d drilled. I heard her crinkling along the shreds of plastic as she came to check my work and switched off my flashlight, scrambling to lie across her pathway. “Abigail?” she called out through the darkness, her voice hesitant. “I need some light.” She continued at a slower pace. Hoping she’d crawl across me and scream, I held my breath and kept my head low. She must have lost her bearings and gone off crooked. “Abigail, where are you?” she demanded and bumped right into a cinderblock house support. Were I given to exaggeration, I’d insist the whole house shook. From the other side of the blocks, I started giggling and apologizing and flicked on my flashlight to see her rubbing her head and snickering. “I’ll thrash you later.” Willowy as she is, I’ve no doubt she can.
Shuttling a dozen people through showers left the poor well tired and confused and in need of rejuvenation several times. At last we all gathered, with the Tech students who’d come, for some singing and fellowship. At least, we tried to sing through our itchy-with-insulation or sawdust or catacomb grime voices. Inspired by one of the scripture songs, the guys dug out doxologies from scripture—praise for Yahweh and His glory.
In every moment, in every tiny piece of creation, Yahweh reveals Himself and part of His character. As I sat alone in the dark, listening to Tabitha drilling holes above my head, the beam from my LED illuminated dozens of dust particles and set them glowing like tiny stars. Fascinated, I watched them dance and flicker, moving through the darkness as beacons—not so different from the stars Yahweh flung abroad in the expanse above the earth, made of dust, yet glowing with His light. And not so different from me and the believers around me, from dust we came and to dust we will return. Yet Yahweh has shown His light abroad, illuminating us, making us beautiful through His glory, to reflect the light of His Son.
Lord, Thou art the light that shines,
Illuminating hearts and minds,
Teaches us to sing the praise
Of God, the Ancient One of days,
That gives to flesh a heart of trust,
Lends light and beauty e’en to dust
And calls a fallen man Thy friend.
To Thee alone be praise. Amen!
Four sleeping bags sprawling out across my bedroom floor, various and sundry pillows scattered abroad, soggy towels and wash cloths hanging limply in the bathroom, piles of clothing, books, Bibles and what-not spilling out of backpacks and shoes lying neglected at every doorway sent my pulse sky-rocketing. Messes don’t bother me terribly, as long as I’m busy, but the laundry room was torn apart, preventing me from fulfilling my Friday duty, supper was already thawing on the kitchen counter and I’d already vacuumed the house—what of it wasn’t occupied. I hardly felt like I deserved a “break” when Josiah proposed a rollicking game of military tactics. Besides, how am I supposed to enjoy playing when there are messes tripping me up every time I sneak in or out a house door? I completely missed the fact that the worst mess of the day was my attitude.
I finally found my purpose in life, after lunch, playing the mole for Miss Master Electrician Tabitha as she wired in a two-forty breaker for the convection oven/electric stove we brought from Kansas. “It’s actually pretty roomy underneath your house,” she informed me through the crackling walkie-talkies as I crawled through the entrance to the brief world underneath the house. As long as I kept my head between the floor joists, I could actually sit upright to push the thick wire through the hole she’d drilled. I heard her crinkling along the shreds of plastic as she came to check my work and switched off my flashlight, scrambling to lie across her pathway. “Abigail?” she called out through the darkness, her voice hesitant. “I need some light.” She continued at a slower pace. Hoping she’d crawl across me and scream, I held my breath and kept my head low. She must have lost her bearings and gone off crooked. “Abigail, where are you?” she demanded and bumped right into a cinderblock house support. Were I given to exaggeration, I’d insist the whole house shook. From the other side of the blocks, I started giggling and apologizing and flicked on my flashlight to see her rubbing her head and snickering. “I’ll thrash you later.” Willowy as she is, I’ve no doubt she can.
Shuttling a dozen people through showers left the poor well tired and confused and in need of rejuvenation several times. At last we all gathered, with the Tech students who’d come, for some singing and fellowship. At least, we tried to sing through our itchy-with-insulation or sawdust or catacomb grime voices. Inspired by one of the scripture songs, the guys dug out doxologies from scripture—praise for Yahweh and His glory.
In every moment, in every tiny piece of creation, Yahweh reveals Himself and part of His character. As I sat alone in the dark, listening to Tabitha drilling holes above my head, the beam from my LED illuminated dozens of dust particles and set them glowing like tiny stars. Fascinated, I watched them dance and flicker, moving through the darkness as beacons—not so different from the stars Yahweh flung abroad in the expanse above the earth, made of dust, yet glowing with His light. And not so different from me and the believers around me, from dust we came and to dust we will return. Yet Yahweh has shown His light abroad, illuminating us, making us beautiful through His glory, to reflect the light of His Son.
Lord, Thou art the light that shines,
Illuminating hearts and minds,
Teaches us to sing the praise
Of God, the Ancient One of days,
That gives to flesh a heart of trust,
Lends light and beauty e’en to dust
And calls a fallen man Thy friend.
To Thee alone be praise. Amen!
Friday, March 14, 2008
Morning found Lydia and I the sole occupants of our roomy home. No doubt the quiet served her well, since she finished her math early and came to me, asking to play some games Mom had heard of on the internet. I hooked her up to the Hallmark site and settled in for my Bible study, but a few technical difficulties made me rethink. Ultimately, the game allowed her to interact with other kids in a “safe” environment, chatting with prepared comments and playing interactive games. Harmless, no? My mind flitted to those I knew who had become addicted to internet gaming, some even finding outlets through these games for worse addictions. Harmless, perhaps. Safe, possibly. But when do the grey areas turn black? Where do we learn to love that which can later lead us down paths of pain or impurity? A story from the ancient readers I slogged through in my early years rose before me: the young boy whose father gave him sugar with a drop of alcohol. Once he drank it for the sugar, later it became a habit he could not break, and he died in a drunken stupor in a gutter. I know I have an overactive imagination. I know I might be blowing things out of proportion, “But Lydia,” I said. “I don’t think I want you playing this game. I don’t think it’s a good habit to start.” Smiling cheerfully at me, she said, “Okay. Do you have any other ideas?”
Our evening group was still on the puny side, but we’d gained back Nathan. Who can pattern our conversations? Tonight we turned to childhood stories. For my part, my parents told my embarrassing events—how I’d repeatedly gotten in trouble for gorging on candy. Apparently their wisdom broke me of it. It’s a rare day that any form of candy tempts me now. What a sneaky little girl I was. I wonder, am I still so devious?
Reading of the Israelites incessant grumbling in the wilderness always prickles me. Poor Moses, saddled with the responsibility of leading such a stubborn, rebellious people. And held to such high expectations himself! I come to the Meribah with him and behold his frustration as he brings water from a solid stone, but this time he was commanded to speak to the stone. Instead, he rebuked the people and struck the stone. The water gushed forth, but the Lord was displeased. “You have not believed in Me,” he said, “to treat Me as holy in the site of Israel. You will not enter the land.” God is serious about His word. He is serious about His people’s obedience, especially that of the leaders. It’s sobering to realize that God, in His power, can still offer fresh water to others through our failings, but the consequences may still keep us from enjoying His blessings. We serve the Lord, not through making up “worship” schemes of our own, but through obedience.
Today, most powerfully, I know the Lord is good and does good.
Lord, Thou art good and doeth good,
Whate’er my mind misunderstood.
The plans Thou hast are made to last
And guard the future as the past.
Since Thou hast saved my soul from hell
Thou will withhold no good, as well.
I trust Thou knowest what is best,
And in Thy promise find my rest.
Our evening group was still on the puny side, but we’d gained back Nathan. Who can pattern our conversations? Tonight we turned to childhood stories. For my part, my parents told my embarrassing events—how I’d repeatedly gotten in trouble for gorging on candy. Apparently their wisdom broke me of it. It’s a rare day that any form of candy tempts me now. What a sneaky little girl I was. I wonder, am I still so devious?
Reading of the Israelites incessant grumbling in the wilderness always prickles me. Poor Moses, saddled with the responsibility of leading such a stubborn, rebellious people. And held to such high expectations himself! I come to the Meribah with him and behold his frustration as he brings water from a solid stone, but this time he was commanded to speak to the stone. Instead, he rebuked the people and struck the stone. The water gushed forth, but the Lord was displeased. “You have not believed in Me,” he said, “to treat Me as holy in the site of Israel. You will not enter the land.” God is serious about His word. He is serious about His people’s obedience, especially that of the leaders. It’s sobering to realize that God, in His power, can still offer fresh water to others through our failings, but the consequences may still keep us from enjoying His blessings. We serve the Lord, not through making up “worship” schemes of our own, but through obedience.
Today, most powerfully, I know the Lord is good and does good.
Lord, Thou art good and doeth good,
Whate’er my mind misunderstood.
The plans Thou hast are made to last
And guard the future as the past.
Since Thou hast saved my soul from hell
Thou will withhold no good, as well.
I trust Thou knowest what is best,
And in Thy promise find my rest.
Friday, March 7, 2008
I never denied being a messy cook, as my sweatshirt certainly attested. Beating chicken breasts into humble submission is hardly the cleanest task, but the results were well worth the effort. As soon as I’d finished creating some sort of spinach/cheese/chicken wraps, I escaped the house to run through the woods. Melting snow slid off of pine branches, schlopping and plopping around me at every turn, providing greater amusement in dodging the cold missiles. But two snow days in one week seems a little extravagant. It’s like having three Saturdays spread throughout the week—which might sound nice in theory, but in practicality leaves me feeling inside out and disoriented.
Apparently our popularity is dwindling. Taylor was the lone occupant of our eight-foot pew. Of late he’d seemed lost and weighed down in a cloud of thought, but the cloud must have dissipated, leaving him at his ease tonight. If people are books, Taylor is hard to read past the title page and rarely gives the chance for study. As Zach says, “Dude! I never know what the guy is thinking.” Zach wears his heart on his sleeve. Josh is transparent. Nick comes with a commentary, by the author himself. And the girls—well, even Jacinderella simply lays it out to me in modern English. But Taylor is an enigma--quiet enough to study everyone else at his leisure.
Papa shared some insights to answer a question I’d come across in Psalm sixty-six yesterday—on the topic of Yahweh’s enemies feigning obedience. He took us through several passages about the millennial reign of Jesus, when all the earth will be subject to Him as the divine ruler, for a thousand years, while Satan is bound in the bottomless pit. Fascinating is the reminder that obedience is only for real when it springs from the heart. During this time, there will be those who can see the Lord, who know Him from a distance, but do not know Him intimately. How anyone could rebel against the Creator escapes my understanding, but even greater, how they could rebel against the perfect judge, while He reigns on earth. Some day every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess that Jesus is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. I’m delighted I’ve been privileged to worship Him now. How awesome are His works!
Lord, Thou blesses all with light,
And understanding wrong and right,
Thou blesses all alike with rain.
But I have heard Thee call my name
And hearing, have been blessed to bow
And worship at Thy throne room now.
I wait the day when all will join me
Praising Thee, on bended knee.
Apparently our popularity is dwindling. Taylor was the lone occupant of our eight-foot pew. Of late he’d seemed lost and weighed down in a cloud of thought, but the cloud must have dissipated, leaving him at his ease tonight. If people are books, Taylor is hard to read past the title page and rarely gives the chance for study. As Zach says, “Dude! I never know what the guy is thinking.” Zach wears his heart on his sleeve. Josh is transparent. Nick comes with a commentary, by the author himself. And the girls—well, even Jacinderella simply lays it out to me in modern English. But Taylor is an enigma--quiet enough to study everyone else at his leisure.
Papa shared some insights to answer a question I’d come across in Psalm sixty-six yesterday—on the topic of Yahweh’s enemies feigning obedience. He took us through several passages about the millennial reign of Jesus, when all the earth will be subject to Him as the divine ruler, for a thousand years, while Satan is bound in the bottomless pit. Fascinating is the reminder that obedience is only for real when it springs from the heart. During this time, there will be those who can see the Lord, who know Him from a distance, but do not know Him intimately. How anyone could rebel against the Creator escapes my understanding, but even greater, how they could rebel against the perfect judge, while He reigns on earth. Some day every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess that Jesus is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. I’m delighted I’ve been privileged to worship Him now. How awesome are His works!
Lord, Thou blesses all with light,
And understanding wrong and right,
Thou blesses all alike with rain.
But I have heard Thee call my name
And hearing, have been blessed to bow
And worship at Thy throne room now.
I wait the day when all will join me
Praising Thee, on bended knee.
Leap Year! Friday, February 29, 2008
I’d barely gone to sleep last night when the phone rang. Twice. A harsher sound, I can hardly imagine. Soon I discovered that, while I was refocusing and refueling with the Creator of the Universe, He was handling some important business I’d left undone elsewhere—perfectly. As always. What an amazing multi-tasker He is. He wrapped up the rest of the issue today with beauty, precision and the ease of One Who knows what He is about.
Random observation for the day: I rediscovered why I never use recipes anymore. Mom left me with a pile of new recipes to use for weekend preparation and, to my deepest distress, the process cost me at least twice as much time.
Our “profitable discourse” (as John Bunyan would have it) tonight brought us to the question of eternity and rewards. I could barely keep from wriggling with delight, since Amber had just plied me with questions about eternity, rewards and punishments for believers a few days ago. But my joy quickly turned to horror and sorrow as we turned to Jesus’ words about practicing righteousness before men, to be seen by them—and the praise of men that is the only reward for such actions. Precious Master, I convince myself that I desire only Your praise, only Your delight, and yet I “serve” You with my head turned over my should to know if anyone saw. “Did anyone notice that wonderful thing I did?” or “The Lord allowed me to share with so-and-so today,” I confide, secretly wondering if my listener can see the halo above my head. Perhaps they also see the craft wire holding up my façade.
Wretched girl that I am, how can I be free to serve the Lord, not in pretense, but in truth?
Lord, within my heart dwells pride
Which I try desperately to hide,
But Thou who searchest heart and mind
This wicked guest will always find.
I beg Thee, Lord, to search my soul
And anywhere Thou finds a hole
By which his entrance he might make,
I beg Thee, Lord, that place to break.
Random observation for the day: I rediscovered why I never use recipes anymore. Mom left me with a pile of new recipes to use for weekend preparation and, to my deepest distress, the process cost me at least twice as much time.
Our “profitable discourse” (as John Bunyan would have it) tonight brought us to the question of eternity and rewards. I could barely keep from wriggling with delight, since Amber had just plied me with questions about eternity, rewards and punishments for believers a few days ago. But my joy quickly turned to horror and sorrow as we turned to Jesus’ words about practicing righteousness before men, to be seen by them—and the praise of men that is the only reward for such actions. Precious Master, I convince myself that I desire only Your praise, only Your delight, and yet I “serve” You with my head turned over my should to know if anyone saw. “Did anyone notice that wonderful thing I did?” or “The Lord allowed me to share with so-and-so today,” I confide, secretly wondering if my listener can see the halo above my head. Perhaps they also see the craft wire holding up my façade.
Wretched girl that I am, how can I be free to serve the Lord, not in pretense, but in truth?
Lord, within my heart dwells pride
Which I try desperately to hide,
But Thou who searchest heart and mind
This wicked guest will always find.
I beg Thee, Lord, to search my soul
And anywhere Thou finds a hole
By which his entrance he might make,
I beg Thee, Lord, that place to break.
Friday, February 22, 2008
“Hello, Princess,” Mom smiled at me as I breezed through the French doors.
“Princess?” I echoed. I certainly didn’t feel like a princess.
“You just look like a princess,” she offered, taping snowman paper around Nathaniel’s birthday present.
I glanced down at my bulky coat, muddy boots and windblown hair. I’m not sure what she was seeing, but at the moment I’d have cheerfully accepted the title “Court Jester” as long as it reminded me I belonged in the King’s family.
For the first time in many moons, the house was warm when I woke up this morning—because I’ve transferred my residence to the couch and awakened several times during the night to stoke up the fire. Now I have a thorough understanding of why Josiah has such a hard time getting up every morning.
We spent most of the day giving Grandma the grand tour of RussVegas, including lunch in the Caf. Perhaps I’m getting old before my time, but I was exhausted by the time we got home and I started a quick supper before our expected company arrived at seven. I managed to snag an opportunity to ply Papa with a question that has been plaguing me for a couple of days. When Yahweh first led the people of Israel out of Egypt, Moses took the priests and seventy elders of Israel up into Mount Sinai and they all beheld Yahweh, and did not die. How could this be when Moses later pleads to see God’s glory and God tells him, “You can’t see my face and live”? Going over the description together, we noted that God is not described—it only says that under His feet the pavement was sapphire, pure like the sky. These men must not have seen His face—only what was under His feet. Later, as I ran through the woods I found myself pleading with the Lord, reminding Him how much I want to see Him. I see His handiwork all around me in the rough bark of the pines, the slender points of the needles that break down to become fine, red dirt. He said the earth is His footstool—is it the same sky I gaze up at that is under His feet? Yet, it’s not enough. I long for the intimacy which Adam forfeited, which I forfeited by following in the likeness of his sin. Praise Him! I have a confident assurance that God will mercifully restore that fellowship in full one day.
Lord, Thy glory is revealed
From faith to faith, on earth, but still
I want to see Thy face and live,
To see fulfilled that Thou forgives,
To walk with Thee, as with a friend
In glory that will know no end.
I wait in hope, for Thou art just,
And discipline my heart to trust.
“Princess?” I echoed. I certainly didn’t feel like a princess.
“You just look like a princess,” she offered, taping snowman paper around Nathaniel’s birthday present.
I glanced down at my bulky coat, muddy boots and windblown hair. I’m not sure what she was seeing, but at the moment I’d have cheerfully accepted the title “Court Jester” as long as it reminded me I belonged in the King’s family.
For the first time in many moons, the house was warm when I woke up this morning—because I’ve transferred my residence to the couch and awakened several times during the night to stoke up the fire. Now I have a thorough understanding of why Josiah has such a hard time getting up every morning.
We spent most of the day giving Grandma the grand tour of RussVegas, including lunch in the Caf. Perhaps I’m getting old before my time, but I was exhausted by the time we got home and I started a quick supper before our expected company arrived at seven. I managed to snag an opportunity to ply Papa with a question that has been plaguing me for a couple of days. When Yahweh first led the people of Israel out of Egypt, Moses took the priests and seventy elders of Israel up into Mount Sinai and they all beheld Yahweh, and did not die. How could this be when Moses later pleads to see God’s glory and God tells him, “You can’t see my face and live”? Going over the description together, we noted that God is not described—it only says that under His feet the pavement was sapphire, pure like the sky. These men must not have seen His face—only what was under His feet. Later, as I ran through the woods I found myself pleading with the Lord, reminding Him how much I want to see Him. I see His handiwork all around me in the rough bark of the pines, the slender points of the needles that break down to become fine, red dirt. He said the earth is His footstool—is it the same sky I gaze up at that is under His feet? Yet, it’s not enough. I long for the intimacy which Adam forfeited, which I forfeited by following in the likeness of his sin. Praise Him! I have a confident assurance that God will mercifully restore that fellowship in full one day.
Lord, Thy glory is revealed
From faith to faith, on earth, but still
I want to see Thy face and live,
To see fulfilled that Thou forgives,
To walk with Thee, as with a friend
In glory that will know no end.
I wait in hope, for Thou art just,
And discipline my heart to trust.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Tonight I accomplished something of rare and immense proportions. I choked on a yawn. I spluttered helplessly for agonizing minutes before recovering and the best offer of help I received from my amused audience was a resounding thump on the back from Josiah.
With an energetic plop, Josh seated himself at the piano, demanding that I teach him to play “something beautiful.” Such a demand is quite beyond me, though I determined to give it my best. He’s a natural. With a little explanation I had him building chords and picking out scales. If I’m not mistaken I promised him regular lessons. One of these days my enthusiastic nature is going to get me in over my head. Oh wait. It already has. Most embarrassing is the fact that I must be one of the worst pianists out there. How am I supposed to teach what nobody ever taught me? My version of music theory is this: play whatever sounds good. If it doesn’t sound good, just keep trying until you find something that does. This is a perfect explanation for why all my songs sound the same: I found something that sounded good. Once.
Forward. Move forward. I’ve developed a mantra, as I climb back out of the valley into the heights. If I were asked, “How do you know God exists,” my jaw would drop to keep my feet company and my shock could power a factory. Those whom the Lord has carried can never doubt Him. At least not doubt His existence. I find I am still all to inclined to doubt His wisdom. Why’d He ever write the book of Numbers and place it in the Holy Canon, anyway? Why am I here, now, doing this? Move forward. Move forward. But right now, in my rush to be doing things, is it possible I’m missing something? Jesus bid His disciples watch and pray in the garden. They should have been savoring those last moments with Him. They should have been pouring out their hearts and souls to God to strengthen them for the hour to come, even as Jesus was doing. I’m in a terrible hurry to get on to the next thing. God knows best. I need the present to prepare me for the future.
Lord, Thy ways are always best
So if Thou bids me feed and rest
Then I will feed and rest and pray:
Enjoy Thy presence now—today.
Who knows what troubles may increase,
Or when again I’ll know such peace?
I’ll sit and listen at Thy feet,
And of this bread of life I’ll eat.
With an energetic plop, Josh seated himself at the piano, demanding that I teach him to play “something beautiful.” Such a demand is quite beyond me, though I determined to give it my best. He’s a natural. With a little explanation I had him building chords and picking out scales. If I’m not mistaken I promised him regular lessons. One of these days my enthusiastic nature is going to get me in over my head. Oh wait. It already has. Most embarrassing is the fact that I must be one of the worst pianists out there. How am I supposed to teach what nobody ever taught me? My version of music theory is this: play whatever sounds good. If it doesn’t sound good, just keep trying until you find something that does. This is a perfect explanation for why all my songs sound the same: I found something that sounded good. Once.
Forward. Move forward. I’ve developed a mantra, as I climb back out of the valley into the heights. If I were asked, “How do you know God exists,” my jaw would drop to keep my feet company and my shock could power a factory. Those whom the Lord has carried can never doubt Him. At least not doubt His existence. I find I am still all to inclined to doubt His wisdom. Why’d He ever write the book of Numbers and place it in the Holy Canon, anyway? Why am I here, now, doing this? Move forward. Move forward. But right now, in my rush to be doing things, is it possible I’m missing something? Jesus bid His disciples watch and pray in the garden. They should have been savoring those last moments with Him. They should have been pouring out their hearts and souls to God to strengthen them for the hour to come, even as Jesus was doing. I’m in a terrible hurry to get on to the next thing. God knows best. I need the present to prepare me for the future.
Lord, Thy ways are always best
So if Thou bids me feed and rest
Then I will feed and rest and pray:
Enjoy Thy presence now—today.
Who knows what troubles may increase,
Or when again I’ll know such peace?
I’ll sit and listen at Thy feet,
And of this bread of life I’ll eat.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Empty nest syndrome is technically supposed to be limited to homing pigeons, right? Call me bird-brained, if you like, but I’m feeling rather lonely without many of the regulars. Zach seems to have vanished up the flue like a reverse Santa, and when Taylor called this evening to say that he and Nathan were going to dinner with Tim, who is back for a visit, I knew we’d be alone tonight, with no one to give Nick a ride out. We whipped up a sort of jam session regardless, and I contented myself with bongos since my voice has gone the way of the buffalo. On the heels of our attempted singing, we cracked open Pilgrim’s Progress and continued our own progress alongside Christian and Faithful as they met up with Talkative and bandied words with him a while.
Through the haze of distant English and confusing conversation, Bunyan made a fascinating point regarding the laws of clean and unclean. “Animals that both chew cud and split the hoof.” It’s not enough, he held, to chew cud, to talk of God and the work and word of God, of salvation, of holiness and of the walk. The hoof must also be cloven, the pathway walked, in order to be clean and a fit sacrifice for God.
Lord, I chew upon Thy word
But has my heart both heard and heard?
Or has the power of Thy text
Been lost upon my intellect?
Teach me to seek out Thy truth,
Not as a psychologic proof
But, that I would both chew and eat
And, reading, motivate my feet.
Through the haze of distant English and confusing conversation, Bunyan made a fascinating point regarding the laws of clean and unclean. “Animals that both chew cud and split the hoof.” It’s not enough, he held, to chew cud, to talk of God and the work and word of God, of salvation, of holiness and of the walk. The hoof must also be cloven, the pathway walked, in order to be clean and a fit sacrifice for God.
Lord, I chew upon Thy word
But has my heart both heard and heard?
Or has the power of Thy text
Been lost upon my intellect?
Teach me to seek out Thy truth,
Not as a psychologic proof
But, that I would both chew and eat
And, reading, motivate my feet.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Not only should you not judge a book by its cover, but you should also beware judging by its language. Josiah and I ventured out to buy wood from yet another source and found our seller chewing tobacco, destroying the English language, cordial, kind, with amazing customer service and one of the most naturally born gentlemen I’ve met. “Aroun’ here,” he mumbled, sending out a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground, “we don’t let ower leddies work. We’ll handle it, ma’am. Won’t take us long.” I protested that standing by while he and Josiah loaded the pick-up made me feel useless. “Not useless,” he chided. “Yer doin’ the drivin’.” Whatever qualms I might pick with the South, the folks down here treat each other with respect, and chivalry turns up in even the least promising places.
As we passed the High School on the way home, we noticed Zach’s pick-up parked near the road and remembered he’d be speaking to the Christian Student Union. We said a quick prayer, pulled in, left a note under the wiper and continued on our way. Some people are simply predictable. “It will mean a lot to him,” Josiah and I told each other. “He’ll call us when he finds it.” Should we have been surprised when the phone rang mid-afternoon and Zach’s voice came over the line? “Thanks for the note,” he said, “it meant a lot to me.”
I suffer from a severe guilt complex. Please say you didn’t notice. I’m forever finding fault with myself and hearing my name fills me with dread that I will be rebuked. As if I were rebuked often. When Papa asked me for his SLR camera, which I have used for several years now and was packed with my things during the move, I felt a funny little knot of fear work itself into my vocal chord. As it vanished behind his bedroom door, I worked my nimble thoughts, trying to untie the straining throat, until he came out and asked to see me in his room. “What did I do wrong?” I wondered. “How was I not taking good enough care of it?” Backpack, lenses, filters, camera and cleaning supplies lay scattered across the bed. “See this?” he asked, waving his hand over the extend of my photography experience. I took a breath, waiting for the punch line. “It’s all yours.” Some moments hang on the edge of eternity before finally dripping through the chasm of time. If time hadn’t caught it’s breath along with me, I’m sure I’d have suffocated and this journal entry would have never existed. Instead I gathered the precious pieces into my arms, carried them into my room and deposited them on my own bed to be cleaned and put away after supper.
I launched out on a journey through the entire Bible today. In the past—the far, far past—I used to attempt the straight through read, only to find myself bogged down in Leviticus and Numbers. If by some miracle I reached solid ground back in Dueteronomy, I was sure to skip Song of Solomon (it wierded me out) and usually wind up on repeat mode in Psalms and Proverbs. Hopefully I shall reach my destination in Revelation this time. So far the simple truth of the gospel has stood out in perfect relief: fallen man, saved through believing God as evidenced by obedience. Tragedy to triumph—in order to bring God glory. And blessings—He blesses those who obey Him.
Lord, may I ever, eager be
To magnify Thy will in me,
That all who chance to read my story
Pause and give Thee all the glory.
May I prove that I am Thine
By making known Thy greatest sign:
Changing water into wine
By changing worthless lives like mine.
As we passed the High School on the way home, we noticed Zach’s pick-up parked near the road and remembered he’d be speaking to the Christian Student Union. We said a quick prayer, pulled in, left a note under the wiper and continued on our way. Some people are simply predictable. “It will mean a lot to him,” Josiah and I told each other. “He’ll call us when he finds it.” Should we have been surprised when the phone rang mid-afternoon and Zach’s voice came over the line? “Thanks for the note,” he said, “it meant a lot to me.”
I suffer from a severe guilt complex. Please say you didn’t notice. I’m forever finding fault with myself and hearing my name fills me with dread that I will be rebuked. As if I were rebuked often. When Papa asked me for his SLR camera, which I have used for several years now and was packed with my things during the move, I felt a funny little knot of fear work itself into my vocal chord. As it vanished behind his bedroom door, I worked my nimble thoughts, trying to untie the straining throat, until he came out and asked to see me in his room. “What did I do wrong?” I wondered. “How was I not taking good enough care of it?” Backpack, lenses, filters, camera and cleaning supplies lay scattered across the bed. “See this?” he asked, waving his hand over the extend of my photography experience. I took a breath, waiting for the punch line. “It’s all yours.” Some moments hang on the edge of eternity before finally dripping through the chasm of time. If time hadn’t caught it’s breath along with me, I’m sure I’d have suffocated and this journal entry would have never existed. Instead I gathered the precious pieces into my arms, carried them into my room and deposited them on my own bed to be cleaned and put away after supper.
I launched out on a journey through the entire Bible today. In the past—the far, far past—I used to attempt the straight through read, only to find myself bogged down in Leviticus and Numbers. If by some miracle I reached solid ground back in Dueteronomy, I was sure to skip Song of Solomon (it wierded me out) and usually wind up on repeat mode in Psalms and Proverbs. Hopefully I shall reach my destination in Revelation this time. So far the simple truth of the gospel has stood out in perfect relief: fallen man, saved through believing God as evidenced by obedience. Tragedy to triumph—in order to bring God glory. And blessings—He blesses those who obey Him.
Lord, may I ever, eager be
To magnify Thy will in me,
That all who chance to read my story
Pause and give Thee all the glory.
May I prove that I am Thine
By making known Thy greatest sign:
Changing water into wine
By changing worthless lives like mine.
Friday, January, 4, 2008
Midafternoon and I returned from a walk and sat down to grade Josiah’s math, suddenly aware of an intense headache. As I tried to push it out of my mind and concentrate on checking over his problems, it slowly began to dawn on me that my head had hurt before I went for a walk. In fact, the longer I tried to remember when it had started, the farther back I could remember it simply being there. After reaching as far back as remembering an ache before Dathan arrived on Wednesday, I gave up.
With the extra effort of a few phone call reminders, we wound up with a neat little crowd for the evening. After some singing, Papa began to share the Biblical view of fellowship: who we should and shouldn’t fellowship with, and how we maintain fellowship--fellowship being defined as a sharing in Christ. It boils down to three basic rules:
*I fellowship with those in fellowship with Christ.
*I do not fellowship with those not in fellowship with Christ.
*To maintain fellowship, I will walk with Christ and imitate Him.
Undoubtedly the study has been inspired by the (at least temporary) separation between us and the S Family over “doctrinal” issues. As we searched the scripture, we could find no grounds for this being a division. If the others are feeling as I am, they are wondering who will be kind enough to pull this sword from their hearts. I might pretend to be wise. I might pretend to be possessed of understanding, but there are many things in this life, in this Christian walk, which I do not understand. One of the greatest being how it is possible for people who love the Lord and His word, to come to such differing persuasions about Him and His word. Secondly, how these differing persuasions can so hinder fellowship between those who live their lives with the same purpose. Honestly, I am tired of talking about the differences. Inwardly I cringe when the subject comes up and we take note of disagreements—why widen the gap? Suppose God does create people for the sole purpose of destruction? If He is God, and I know He is just and good, then whatever He does is just and good. It’s a truth He’s been hammering in to me lately with such force that to ignore it would be worse than ignoring a sledgehammer to my head. Do I need answers to the universe packaged up in neat little theological packages? I need only a few simple truths. God is God. He does what He pleases. Who am I to answer back? Will the faultfinder contend with God? Not I.
Lord, if Thou should show Thy plans
I’m vain to think I’d understand.
If I had counseled at time’s dawn
The end of time would there be drawn.
And man would not have passed the floor
To claim Thy perfect Son’s life blood.
I dare not press Thee to reply
Because Thou art my God, not I.
With the extra effort of a few phone call reminders, we wound up with a neat little crowd for the evening. After some singing, Papa began to share the Biblical view of fellowship: who we should and shouldn’t fellowship with, and how we maintain fellowship--fellowship being defined as a sharing in Christ. It boils down to three basic rules:
*I fellowship with those in fellowship with Christ.
*I do not fellowship with those not in fellowship with Christ.
*To maintain fellowship, I will walk with Christ and imitate Him.
Undoubtedly the study has been inspired by the (at least temporary) separation between us and the S Family over “doctrinal” issues. As we searched the scripture, we could find no grounds for this being a division. If the others are feeling as I am, they are wondering who will be kind enough to pull this sword from their hearts. I might pretend to be wise. I might pretend to be possessed of understanding, but there are many things in this life, in this Christian walk, which I do not understand. One of the greatest being how it is possible for people who love the Lord and His word, to come to such differing persuasions about Him and His word. Secondly, how these differing persuasions can so hinder fellowship between those who live their lives with the same purpose. Honestly, I am tired of talking about the differences. Inwardly I cringe when the subject comes up and we take note of disagreements—why widen the gap? Suppose God does create people for the sole purpose of destruction? If He is God, and I know He is just and good, then whatever He does is just and good. It’s a truth He’s been hammering in to me lately with such force that to ignore it would be worse than ignoring a sledgehammer to my head. Do I need answers to the universe packaged up in neat little theological packages? I need only a few simple truths. God is God. He does what He pleases. Who am I to answer back? Will the faultfinder contend with God? Not I.
Lord, if Thou should show Thy plans
I’m vain to think I’d understand.
If I had counseled at time’s dawn
The end of time would there be drawn.
And man would not have passed the floor
To claim Thy perfect Son’s life blood.
I dare not press Thee to reply
Because Thou art my God, not I.
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.
Friday, November 16, 2007
My cry: A new song. I find myself on my knees, begging, pleading with the Lord for a new song. I want, more than anything, to sing myself out before Him. How long has it been since my soul wrung out the rhymes that proclaimed my love for my Savior? A gift it always has been and always will remain, and I am utterly incapable of commanding it to serve me.
I rose early this morning, donned town clothes, filled my purse and headed to work with Papa, only to arrive at an empty dental clinic. He’d forgotten that the clinic was closed today, since both dentists would be gone. Together we ran Mom’s errands and returned home around ten o’clock. After a huge run-around at the Con Agra Variety store, we finally managed to come home with the food Mom had already paid for. It’s a truly strange thing that my dad would always think of the “common sense” things no one else does. He has such presence of mind to always get names, receipts, or whatever else he could possibly need to get good customer service later.
Each place we went, the Spirit reminded me to share the good news, and each place I hushed him. “I can’t do this in front of my dad!” I retorted. “I’m much to self-conscious in front of him. It would only flop.” As if I control how the gospel is received. As if the God who accomplished it once, with my father present, can’t accomplish it again. And then the opportunity was past, and the rest of the day was spent working outside in the beautiful day God made.
That is, until the Days’ van pulled up, overflowing with children and cheer. What followed was a very busy settling in, an enormous taco salad dinner, with liberal amounts for everyone, including the table and chairs and the quickest sixteen person meal clean-up ever in an effort to get ready by seven for anybody who showed up for the first installment of “Friday night at Scottsburrow”.
At eleven o’clock, Papa finally ushered the boys out, but April had elected to spend the night, to my infinite delight. As we dressed (or undressed, perhaps) for bed, we started talking and she began to share with me the new drama in her life. I prayed for her right then, and gave some simple counsel—the best I felt I could offer on the Lord’s behalf. I hope I spoke truth. I do believe that my greatest fear is misrepresenting the Lord. What a terrible thing with terrible consequences. All I truly desire is to live a life useful to the Lord, to speak words that are truth and to be with the Lord eternally. Simple, it seems. The last one I am assured of. The first two I must pursue with a calculated desperation. I hope I am finally beginning to step out in trusting obedience, but the battle is a desperate struggled. Complacency is so comfortable. Passion is so consuming, it leaves me smoke-blackened and crumbling every evening, and I can hardly seem to keep myself refueled. More and more my only hope is in the Lord, because I become more helpless every day.
Lord, when I am helpless, then
Am I the farthest from my sin
For ‘tis my pride that keeps me slave.
When I am humble, Thou dost save.
When I am broken, I am whole.
When I am empty, I am full.
The contradiction baffles me,
But not incarnate deity.