Monday, January 10, 2011

“Have you ever in your life commanded the morning, and caused the dawn to know its place; That it might take hold of the ends of the earth, and the wicked be shaken out of it?” ~Job 38:12-13

I feel very small.

've been reading Job the last several days--just enjoying and marveling at God's power, recounted so eloquently, and none so eloquent as Himself. We marvel at the expanse of space. I think of the astronauts who said, "We went to space and God wasn't there. I guess He doesn't exist." Do they really think they could rocket out only as far as earth's own moon and expect to see God on a level with His own creation? He humbles Himself--He has to bend down--just to look at the things going on in heaven and earth. Ah! But He still is attentive to the cry of the humble. The rebuke Elihu gives Job was very fitting for me--"Do you think you are more just than God?" As I feel frustrated and cry out to God to know why He is doing some of what He is doing--a reminder that why isn't the point. The point is that He is right. So much wisdom! So much creativity. So much unanswerable sovereignty. Why'd He make the ostrich so dumb? It doesn't matter. That fact is that He did. And I LOVE all the scientific evidence in Job--that the earth was round...that the equater existed...that the heavens are stretching farther and farther apart...the science of ice...that lightening strikes one spot...the tides...I needed to just be reminded that God is completely out of my mental range of understanding and that He can't be far from me because I can't escape Him. I'll confess that, in the secret places of my heart, I've felt very lost and unfocused for the last several months. Like I've been caught in a time warp--not really connected to the present in this world, yet so distant from a God who does such things as I can't grasp. They hurt. They don't make sense. They seem pointless. They seem wasteful. I know that He is big and it is His prerogative to do what He wishes. And I know His purpose is His eternal glory. And it seems that small humans can wrestle and struggle and cry and plead to learn something from them, but really? Was it really necessary? Sure He can use them...but did He have to send them? That's when Elihu's rebuke spoke to me. Do I think I am more just than God? Because that is what my heart-cry implies. So much of what God holds up to Job as evidence of His power also seems pointless. Sending storms on deserts where no one even lives? Making the ostrich foolish--but impressive? Wait. Pointless? God used it to declare His power--and man's frailty. And I've felt distant because I don't even know what to pray, what to plead, what to ask that would be in keeping with His purposes. He isn't acting on my perception of ideal. I can worship Him as God. But I've felt distant from Him as my Lover. There is no difficulty honoring Him as Supreme, as He deserves. But He has seemed more terrible than beautiful, more righteous than merciful and more powerful than loving. Sometimes it is good to step back and recognize the Almighty as first and foremost that--Almighty. I am small. I am fragile. I am dying. And so I feel far from Him. Because He does not answer to me, or need my counsel, I feel at a loss for words, for thoughts, for emotions to know Him. But it is His power and His righteousness and the glory of His name that keeps me always under His care. Because He is huge He pursues me, not to destroy me in my weakness, but to strengthen and establish me.

Such is the stream of conscious tonight...

Suitable for me to feel small and fragile and helpless on a night such as this.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Before we can pray, "Lord, Thy Kingdom come," we must be willing to pray, "My Kingdom go." ~Alan Redpath

If there’s to be any drama in the house these days, I have to invent it. I never realized just how much Josiah was the life of the party.

Sometimes heroes fade into the past, not only in history, but also in my mind. Once upon a time, when the first flush of vision struck me, and when I was still wrestling with trying to make sense of it, I read every book about inner city missions I could find. As the vision matured in my teens, latching onto orphans and orphanages, I embraced singleness whole-heartedly and gathered biographies of Gladys Alward and Amy Carmichael. Slowly, time and circumstance and conviction eroded away the larger parts of those dreams, but a few of the books remain on my shelf. Lydia had been reading Amy’s biography, reminding me of anecdotes and events. And I have to confess, blushing as I do, that I think she might have been better balanced had she married. Still, every one of us has feet of clay. And the Lord used her work in a special way.

The story that struck me most was her account of one of her girls, young and simple, who gave her theological rendering of Satan’s fall. “In the beginning,” began Leela in unctuous tones, ‘the bad devil was good. He was an angel. He lived in heaven. One day all the angels came to sing to God. Then the devil was angry. He got angrier and angrier. He was very rude to God.” Here Leela seemed to freeze all over, and her voice sounded quite deep and awful. Irreverence was far from her intention. “That bad, bad devil said, ‘I won’t stand before God’s chair anymore, and I won’t sing to God anymore. I want to sit in God’s chair, and I want God to sing to me!’” There was a perfectly horrified pause, as the enormity of the transgression became evident. “So God took him and tumbled him down out of heaven and he was turned into the bad devil.” (A Chance to Die, pg. 192)

And there we have it. That simple declaration of the heart of idolatry. And a description that does, I am afraid, all to often fit me. Because even as I wrestled with dreams of inner city missions, I wanted to sit in God’s chair. And as I embraced singleness, I wanted God to sing to me. I wanted to do things my way and in my time instead of simply worshiping God. As I was created to do.

Tonight I sit and look back on the years of frustration and confusion, of wrestling and weeping, unable to really understand what are the passions in my heart and what must be done with them. All the moments that pierced me, the nights of insanity, the days of longing. The opportunities that were still-born, the years when nothing happened and the painful chiseling and reshaping. They weren’t meant to uproot the desires to help the orphan or to serve the poor or to save the perishing. They were meant to uproot uglier things that grew alongside those purer desires. Still do. Self-reliance. Impatience. Rejection of the mundane. Discontentment. Selfishness.

How often must I be brought to the place of repentance for my lack of trust? As often as I try to ascend the throne and dispense justice.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

No, I’m not excited about the Health Care bill that just passed.

Sarah and I talked a bit about it this afternoon, as I told her about Aunt Helen and Grandma’s visit. Aunt Helen is the completely good-intentioned and compassionate liberal who wants to see people helped and is, I think mistakenly, trusting in government to offer compassion. But government is a machine and can never offer what is truly needed—it’s not reason, it’s force. And when programmed “mercy” it will soon be short-charging everyone, dealing out merciless “healthcare” and reading out the death sentences of those deemed “unworthy” of the limited resources. Aunt Helen said I might be right, or I might be wrong. “We can’t see what will happen,” she said, “and it doesn’t have to happen that way.” She might be right, but history repeats itself and the history that has repeated itself so far shows exactly what I predict—in Nazi Germany, in Communist China, in Soviet Russia. It’s a strange thing to hear a person that I consider very intelligent and much my elder in experience and knowledge sharing their thoughts and be completely convinced that they are completely deluded. I hate it when the thought whispers through my brain, “That is not the truth because you know the truth...” It seems conceited and disrespectful for me to be so certain of the right when it so opposes those older than I. More and more often these days, I hear what is said, and I judge it and condemn it—in sorrow. It’s one of the most painful things for me to feel certain that someone I love or someone I respect is mistaken. Especially if the issue of mistake is an issue of obedience to God.

My Aunt is what everyone would consider a “good person.” This visit, I tried to think of her as a good, kind person, but when I listened to her speak, it wasn’t “good” things I heard come out. It was the weirdest sensation. She was not talking about evil things or wicked things, but all her words sounded hollow to me. Empty. Lost. Like they were falling from her lips into a black abyss of eternal worthlessness. She stooped a little, seeming weary, yet her eyes and words and heart stirred restless, looking for something new to conquer and to seek for fulfillment. I looked into her bright blue eyes and saw dissatisfaction. No peace.

It bothered her that Nick said that the American people are worshiping their government as a God—looking to the government for “salvation” instead of trusting God. “If that kind of religion demands that people be poor and unhealthy and groveling to worship God, then it’s not right!” she insisted. Ah, God doesn’t demand that we be poor and unhealthy and groveling to worship Him, but He does demand that we worship Him. And often, it is not until we are poor, unhealthy and groveling that we see just how small and helpless we are and fall on our faces and worship Him. For this reason, He is willing to allow us to be poor, unhealthy and groveling.

As I listened, at a loss how to explain to someone who does not love the Lord, how the Lord loves, my heart felt heavy. Someday, my Aunt will worship God, because that is what He has decreed. And all His creation attests to His worthiness of worship. I would to God that she should come to the place of worship before the day when every knee bows and, cruel though it sounds to the ears of flesh, I would even gladly see her poor, unhealthy and groveling if it brought her to that place before the day of judgment.

Do I not love her because I could wish this? I love her, with a small part of the mercy which Christ extends—patiently giving her yet another day, another year, to humble herself and submit to Him. She will one day submit, and oh how much better to do it now, whatever the means which bring that submission may be!

Several times before I have shared the gospel with her, hoping praying that she would turn to the Lord. She is kind and accepts my attempts as love, though I know she disagrees. As I’ve been studying Romans lately, so much of it pressed back on me—the description of how we are all shut up before God because our conscience teaches us from creation to worship Him—yet we seek other fulfillments and other gods. I’m sure my Aunt would say regarding eternity “We can’t really know.” She might feel like I am wasting life opportunities, though I know she is pleased to see people content and enjoying what they do. Yet my heart sinks knowing that she’s wrong, and not only that, but that I believe she does know, yet is resisting the Lord’s grace. I longed to tell her again of His mercy and compassion, waiting for her to turn to Him, yet she seemed more spiritually closed than I have ever before noticed.

Suddenly to me, the things she said that seemed like they were “close to the truth” or even open or tolerant of the truth, became stark lies. “We can’t really know,” is not openness to the possibility of God’s view of eternity. It is rejection of what He has proclaimed as truth—that He will one day judge the earth in righteousness. We could argue that it’s a difference of opinion and each is entitled to her own opinion. God has given us the ability to form opinions. Yet God is absolute and one of us is wrong. And it will separate us for eternity.

So I weep.

Monday, May 4, 2009

It shouldn’t be too complicated getting a tetanus booster. Maybe I just complicate everything. It shouldn’t have been too complicated to pull nails from the old decking boards in our barn.

But I managed to step on the edge of a board and felt the sharp point of a rusty nail slide right through my inch-thick boot soles and through the padded sole of my foot. “Ah…” I took a deep breath. “I just put a nail through my foot.” Tommy looked up quickly from the board he was wrestling with on the dusty floor and said cheerfully, “Well, I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shots.” Josiah shook his head and sighed. “Um, actually,” I answered, slowly removing my boot and staring at the quickly spreading bloody spot on my striped socks, “I haven’t had one since I was eleven. That’s when I ripped my leg open on a rusty nail in the pond dock.”

So I limped inside and, while the boys finished pulling nails from the pile of lumber, I washed my wound and poured in peroxide. Mom just went about fixing lunch and Papa continued Bible studying. My parents are clearly given to panic. Will having a nail-pierced foot make me more like Christ?

After a year and a half in Arkansas, I still don’t have a doctor. I haven’t needed one. Really, the wound looked pretty good, so all I was concerned about was the tetanus shot. Tetanus is not something to fool with. I lost a baby goat to tetanus—actually, I spent days treating her, getting up with her at night and trying to get her through before Josiah and I finally put her out of her misery. Misery it was, too, stiff-legged and resembling a rocking-horse with spasms shaking her until she bleated in pain. Not something I want to risk getting.

The health department said they’d give me a booster—Thursday. Another doctor we called needed to see me—to the tune of a hundred twenty dollars. The ER, well, that would be expensive. Backi suggested telling the Health Department what had happened, which prompted them to say that I need to see a doctor. Finally the Millard-Henry clinic said I could walk in and get a shot from the shots nurse.

It sounded too good to be true.

It was.

Dathan and Josiah dropped me off before heading over to see Donnie. And then I discovered that I had to be an established patient. The doctor on call couldn’t even see me that day and it would cost several hundred dollars for an appointment.

See, I’m an adult daughter, not a full-time student, so I have no medical coverage. Which makes getting a tetanus shot difficult. Just a shot, that’s all I needed.

I arrived at Choices a little late. The only client on the schedule was an abortion-minded girl who hadn’t shown up the week before. I was limping by the time I showed Becki my foot. “Do you think I can wait for a shot?” She cringed. “I hate to mess around with tetanus.” But she was impressed with how clean the hole was. “It’s deep,” she told me. “I can see into it. It’s at least an inch deep. That must hurt a lot.” I shrugged. Actually, it wasn’t too bad.

And in walked a frightened little couple. “Can I help you?” I asked and they exchanged glances. “I sure hope so,” the young man told me, chewing on a lip ring. “We think she’s pregnant.” I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: never judge a book by it’s cover. Ponytails and piercings often cover the kinder hearts—beware the people who look like they have it all together. Those are often the most hard-hearted of all.

I’m forced to draw a curtain before much of my visit with them. I spent two hours with this couple and when the girl on the schedule came in, Sherry had to see her instead. At the beginning they wanted an abortion—it seemed like the quick fix. But never did they truly want that abortion. They had some true concerns and some real fears, but as we talked the Lord worked to show them truth, to relieve their fears and also to open the way to show Himself to them—as a very real Creator and sustainer of life. They left clutching an ultrasound picture—the best ultrasound picture I’d seen, though it was only seven weeks—and planning to come back to discuss adoption. In their eyes and words I could see and hear sincere conviction—that child would live!

As Josiah and I crowded into Dathan’s pick-up, I praised the Lord, entirely forgetting the possibility that I might die a miserable death of tetanus since I’d never gotten that all-important shot. The Lord can heal. The Lord is in control. He can move hearts. He is the Creator and sustainer of life and my life is in His hands.

Father, Thou art life and ever living
Thou gives life and in Thy giving
Thou gives all that I might need
To be conformed to Thee indeed.

Every moment death might claim,
But I am claimed by Thy own name
Which is a confidence I have
That I will live beyond the grave.

Christmas Eve, Wednesday, December 24, 2008

“Someone you care about seeks reconciliation.” Behold the introspective depth of the Chinese fortune cookie. I don’t believe I ever keep any sort of ongoing quarrels with anyone I care about. I don’t believe. Do I? Perhaps I’m silly, but my thoughts did turn to the passage in Matthew—if you are offering your gift to God and there remember that your brother has anything against you, leave your gift. First be reconciled to your brother and then worship. I spent the rest of the afternoon lost in a desperate attempt to recall anything I might have done to offend anyone. My mind seemed a blank slate, though I know I am often unkind, judgmental and disrespectful. Even more often in thought than word.

I was busily working in the kitchen when Grandma made some comment about my love of cooking. I paused with the salt shaker half tipped before I dropped a bomb that would rattle her timbers. “I don’t like cooking.” Her eyebrows shot up with the speed of bottle rockets. “What do you mean you don’t like cooking?” she demanded. I fumbled for words. “I don’t really like to cook.” Obviously I didn’t really come up with any. “Well,” her voice came out in a huff, “for someone who doesn’t like to cook, you certainly do a lot of it.” I shrugged. “Well, yeah. I have to. I mean, cooking has to be done, so I do it. But I don’t particularly like it. That’s why I never use recipes. I just go for simple and quick.” She shook her head. “All this time I thought you really enjoyed cooking. What do you like to do?” “Actually,” I grinned from ear to ear, feeling foolish. “I really like to clean.” Again her eyebrows nearly bounced off her hairline. “You like to clean? I never heard of such a thing! I just do it because it has to be done.” How is it that I so successfully get everything almost entirely backwards?

After supper we worked a puzzle, drank fizzing apple cider, ate chocolates and opened gifts. Mine from Grandma was a suspiciously hard, flat shape—with a defined binding. With a couple of quick rips came my Christmas revelation: she’d given me a cookbook. Perhaps I should seek reconciliation with Grandma? She just chuckled as I held it up to thank her. “Well,” she said. “You may not like cooking, but at least I had something to wrap up. If I gave you only a check, you’d never spend it and I wouldn’t have the fun of watching you open something.” I’m sure it must have been entertaining watching my face as I unwrapped a cookbook, knowing the whole time that I’d just made the declaration that, contrary to popular opinion, I don’t like cooking.

Sometimes I say really stupid things.

We read the familiar “Christmas Story” and rattled off to our own rooms.

I wish I could enjoy cooking. It just seems like an exorbitantly necessary waste of time, for the most part, and as quickly as it’s done it’s gone with nothing to show for it. I know that was contradictory. So are my feelings toward cooking. I know that the Lord has called me to cook, as a service to my family, and I struggle to keep my mind on the task at hand. Cooking’s not so bad as long as I don’t have to think about it. The thought of making menus makes me break out in goosebumps. Talking about recipes bores me. I take no pride in meal preparation. I should. I should embrace every aspect of making a home as something of eternal value. Jesus never considered Himself beyond the call of feeding multitudes. Is a servant greater than her Master?

Lord, revive my heart, renew my mind
To trust in Thee, and trusting find
That joy in doing what is right—
A sacrifice for Thy delight.

Teach my hand my faith to prove
By taking captive to Thy love
The scornful thoughts that, bitter, lurk
And hate to do Thy daily work.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

It seems we’ve been invaded by hoards of bristly orange and black caterpillars--food for the vast array of lizards who scamper in and out around the well house. The birds have arranged themselves into a praise team to sing twenty-four-seven to Almighty God from the verdant boughs. Even the ticks were out rejoicing on a day like this. I never realized just how many of the nasty hitch hikers I picked up until today, when a pair of white pants revealed tag-alongs of all shapes and sizes.

Donnie’s younger brother, Tommy, joined us for church today. When I first met him, nearly four years ago, he was one of those people I thought I could very happily live without ever seeing again. He’s grown up a bit, matured a lot and become considerably more pleasant. And met the Lord in the interim, I’d guess, from the testimony he shared at lunch.

Papa taught from First Timothy three—the requirements for elders in the assembly. He boiled it down to four basic themes: male, mature, moral and a martyr (literally, a witness of Christ). But is this standard for leaders such an unattainable goal? Hardly. There are no restrictions for personality or spiritual gift and, most fascinating, he pointed out that nearly every command for overseers is paralleled elsewhere for all believers—excluding the call to males, of course (mercifully for those of us of the “female persuasion”). If the Lord calls us all to a standard of excellence, how much less those who would shepherd His flock!

“Here,” Zach thrust his Bible in front of me as I sat at the piano. “Verse eight.” We’ll call that a PIE attack, and it means one thing: provide immediate explanation. I glanced around hurriedly for someone to bail me out before protesting. “Who do you think I am to explain this?” “Well, duh,” he shrugged. “Lane's your father.” And there we have it, in three simple words and an apostrophe: my heritage. My amazing heritage. Because my father is wise, the poor, deluded individuals who appear on our doorstep assume the same applies to me. I only wish more of his wisdom would seed and grow in my own heart. I can attempt to regurgitate his explanations. I can pretend to walk uprightly. I can stare hard at a page of scripture and scratch my head and make semi intelligent grunts, but this child—well, this child knows nothing good. Can’t they see that? The high regard my father deserves is miles above anything I might claim. And I fall so short of the perfection of Christ. Please, Yahweh, God of my father, open my eyes, too, that I may behold wonderful things from Thy Law. Zach’s question came from Hebrews five and has been spinning around in my mind all day: “Although He (Jesus) was a Son, He learned obedience from the things which He suffered. And having been made perfect, He became to all those who obey Him, the source of eternal life.” For some odd reason, my head wasn’t screwed on tightly enough to think to take him to Philippians two, where Tabby and I are memorizing. “Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” To the best of my understanding, Jesus learning obedience doesn’t imply that He’d been disobedient before, but simply that He’d never been called to obey before. Once upon a time, He was equal with God, but when He emptied Himself, He chose to be obedient and He learned to be obedient through the suffering—even no longer being present with God at all times must have been difficult. Dragging around an body of dust must have been tiresome. And being forsaken by God and punished for the sins of the world was without doubt agonizing. All this He did for the glory of God. Hebrews says He was heard because of His piety. Philippians continues “Therefore God highly exalted Him, and gave Him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow…” Have this humility, I am told. Jesus was equal with the God who humbles Himself just to look at heaven and earth, yet He poured it all out on the altar of sacrifice as a pleasing aroma to God. Have this humility. Whatever I think I am. Whatever I think I have. Pour it out completely on the altar of sacrifice, knowing that I will be heard because of Jesus’ piety.

Lord, the way Thou made to heav’n
Defies our wisdom, schemes or plans
While men seek blindly to be God,
God chose to be a man.

And by Thy Son’s obedience—
And Thou rejecting Him—
Thou brought near those who disobeyed
And set them free from sin.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

“This knife sure is dull,” I complained to the pears I was slicing for breakfast. Lydia started snickering just about the same time I realized I was holding it backward—with the blade pressing against my finger. “Hmph,” I fixed the issue. “I still say it’s dull.” The jar I snagged for skimming the cream took a leap of faith from my hand and scuttled across the floor. I smiled sheeplishly at Lydia as I scooped it up and promptly sent the spatula flying through the air for an aerial routine. “Well,” my little sister observed pertly, “Someone’s a clutz today.” Her bowl of yogurt slid from her fingers to the wooden floor, where it shattered, scattering sticky, white splatters and sharp, white splinters across the kitchen. “I’m always clumsy when I’m in a hurry,” I teased. “What’s your excuse?”

I was bent over a pile of rickety boards, once a rickety shelf, now about to find a new home in the rickety incinerator—just as soon as I finished pulling the nails and screws from them. With a mighty war whoop, Josiah came hurtling over me and my hands slipped, driving a slender nail up my left palm. “Let’s not do the leap-frogging while I’m working with pointy objects,” I chided, considering the implications of nail-pierced hands. Perhaps the incident will make me more Christ-like.

Incidentally, I managed to chop half a dozen scraggly stumps out of the yard without putting the ax through my foot or my hand or my head. I’d have been at a serious disadvantage without either of the first two.

Here is the wisdom that greeted me today, in the pages of Psalms: “Man in his pomp will not endure; he is like the beasts that perish.” I think of those who are rich and powerful, who seek intelligence, money or pleasure. “Even wise men die, the stupid and the senseless alike and leave their wealth to others.” Well, duh. I love the way Yahweh puts things in perspective. He brings me back to plain facts of life. The redemption of a soul is costly. Who can offer God a ransom for one? Not only am I completely helpless to save anyone else, I can’t even save myself. Why should I ever worry about money? Those rich people—who congratulate themselves, who think they’ve got it made—who are they fooling? What are they going to take with them beyond the grave? Money can’t buy eternity. It can’t buy life. It can’t buy joy. It can’t even buy health. Where is my hope? My security? My retirement plan? God will redeem my soul from the power of death—He will receive me.

Lord, all that’s sure in life’s the grave,
Unless Thou art the one who saves
For money, power and pleasure sought
Have never, once, salvation bought.

Without the fear of Yahweh’s name,
The beasts and birds are much the same.
Life repeats its serenade:
We bloom and flourish, then we fade.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Sleep and I had a hard time communicating last night. Just when we’d get settled into a comfortable conversation, my body would wake up like a petulant child whining, “I’m not tired.” So I’d lie in bed, wondering how people actually go about counting sheep, whether they actually jump over fences (because the grass is greener on the other side?) and, most importantly, what do sleepless lambs count? Finally it dawned on me (a little before the sun did) that I could be taking this opportunity to refuel so I’d have no excuse for whining later about never getting any “alone” time. No doubt that was the most logical thought I’ve ever had at four o’clock in the morning.

“Weren’t you just at Lowe’s?” the guy called over from the gas pump next to me. I nodded, slid my credit card and started fueling. “My buddy and I couldn’t believe it when you swung that stack of—what were they?—big ol’ things under your arm and carried them in the store. I was like, ‘Dude! She’s tuff! I wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley.’” I glanced at the construction trailer they were towing and hid a smile. “Actually,” I explained, “Those were just Styrofoam.”

I managed to catch Jacinderella for about half an hour. “Do you want to come up here, or do you want to go somewhere else?” she asked, already expecting my answer: “I wouldn’t mind being outside in the sunshine.” Here’s the scoop: my Jacinderella has been applying to become a missionary to some South American country. Hence the ambiguous note: “Should I live down ‘neath the ‘Quarter, would you come and visit later?” At least she didn’t write it in Spanish. And. Well. I’m excited for her. But I sure will miss my Jacinderella, come May. Looking back, it’s funny. Who’s have thought the friendship would have gone here, simply through an internet prank?

I don’t know how I ever used to go a whole day without eating. After the first class period of “No Apologies” in Lake D Highschool, my stomach was raging like a rabid raccoon. “We only have about twenty minutes lunch break,” Christy announced checking her watch. “I’m not really hungry anyway.” “Me either,” Randi shrugged. “I had a Twix on the way here. A peanut butter Twix.” And the two of them went off into a discussion of the evolution of the Twix candy bar, while I sat, arms pressed across my loudly complaining stomach meditating on all the Wal-mart fresh fruit in the trunk of the Camry I’d left at the dental clinic. “You can wait,” I assured my stomach and started flipping through one of the orange folders belonging to the next class. Sixth period must have eaten Mexican jumping beans for lunch. They were wound tighter than a shelf of music boxes—all playing different tunes. I sat on the sidelines, covertly studying kid’s reactions as Christy and Randi alternated talking about making choices—and encouraged them to choose abstinence, so they would never have to face so many of the other difficult choices that might follow. A pregnant girl sat on the far side of the room, her nose glowing like Rudolf’s, her eyes on her desk. A group of Mexican boys in the middle oohed and ahhed and cuddled the rubber baby models we’d brought. Popular girls clustered next to me, whispering between themselves and occasionally tossing a shy smile my way from a crevice in their armor-like shells. The variation in a high school health class is unbelievable. The guys who giggled as they handed in surveys announcing that the best part of the class was “hot teachers” contrasted strongly with the two who came up to us afterward, commenting that they wished we could have shared more “truth.” “I know you’re not allowed to talk about Biblical stuff,” one said, tugging on his reddish beard, “but it sure would help.” It sure would. It’s hard to swallow that I can teach information about birth control, show pictures of STDs but I dare not even mention God’s word on the issue. Or even that we’ve been banned from showing the abortion video there—because a girl who’d had one became upset after seeing the pictures. Let’s take our girls to get abortions, but don’t let’s show them what happens to that baby! Teach our teens about sex? Oh, sure. Fine. But don’t you dare mention the God who created their bodies! And we whine about the rate of teen pregnancies and STDs.

I never made it back to the Camry for a piece of fruit. Papa had to head home to work with the plumber on the well-house, and Christy dropped me off at Amber’s apartment instead. Feeling guilty for not paying better attention to what she was saying, I tried to sort out my “training” into easily accessible mental files as we picked up laundry from the Laundromat, Lin N’s pictures from the developer, ice from Pilot and Lizzy from DHS before heading for home. Barely in the door, I was assaulted with the aroma of homemade pizza. Posterity need never know how many pieces I consumed before my stomach decided it could survive until morning.

Public speaking is an art—an art which boils down to the ability to educate, motivate and persuade. And it’s an art Lizzy is learning. We spent the evening embroiled in reading the sermon on the mount in search of contrasts between two great public speakers: Jesus and Hitler. Both accomplished the goal of educating, motivating and persuading. But, as in the story Jesus shared of the two men who built houses—only one structure stood. Hitler’s regime collapsed—not for lack of talent or skill on the part of the leader, but because the foundation was not the truth. We had nearly condensed this concept into a one page speech when Josiah called me to his room.

“I have something to ask you about,” he started, slowly. Then he spilled out how he didn’t think he was truly saved when he’d been baptized as a child. “I know trusting is often a process,” he continued, “but…if I wasn’t saved until a year ago, like I think, should I get baptized again?” He went on to explain how he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced true repentance before, and he couldn’t remember the witness of the Holy Spirit in his heart. It’s embarrassing when people ask my opinion as if they expect me to have some wise answer. “If it’s the first step of obedience, and you don’t think you were obedient then, but you want to be now,” I faltered. “I don’t see what it would hurt?” So Miss Lizzy was treated to another hot-tub baptism. If it could be called a hot-tub when the water is barely seventy degrees. And it really doesn’t matter when Josiah was saved, as long as he can bear testimony to the world that he is indeed a child of God and wishes to walk in obedience to Him.

So this is me at the end of today:

Yes, I left it blank on purpose. Because I’ve hardly had time to assimilate all the data I’ve taken in and sort it into appropriate emotion crates. But it’s been a good day. Lydia’s sound asleep, tucked into my maroon bag. Lizzy’s scrambling into her pajamas.

I think I’ll try to reopen a conversation with sleep.

Lord, I strive to understand
One single moment of one day,
That Thou, before creation planned,
What then is left for me to say.

But, Lord, Thou art too wonderful.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Well, well, well. That’s the trigger word in everyone’s mouth today. “We’re out of water again!” “Would you run out to the well-house?” “How do I flip the switch?” “Is it still not pumping?” Somewhere between the sand-filter and the tap our pump seems to have given up the ghost. Each time we try to resurrect it with artificial resuscitation, it drags for a few minutes, unable to build up pressure and then drops to death levels again. We might be content to let it pass in peace, were it not that we still have need of it here in this mortal vale.

“Pull up a chair,” Josiah ordered, waving a nut driver at me. Obediently I dragged a metal folding chair underneath the florescent light fixture and climbed up. “Uh. I still can’t reach it.” As I returned with the six-foot ladder, I heard Josiah yelp. “Didn’t you turn off the breaker?” I demanded, as he ruefully screwed wire nuts back over the exposed ends. “Well, no,” he admitted. “I can’t figure out which breaker it’s on.” I snickered. This house is like some people—on the outside it looks beautiful, but inside it has some serious issues: water problems, terrible wiring, lack of insulation, leaky windows. First it needs some repairs, then it needs some maintenance. I dug out my mental file folder with Tabby’s conversation yesterday—our frustration at how we have to keep recapturing the same thoughts, the same sins, the same weaknesses to surrender to Yahweh. Well. Of course. I don’t put a log on the fire and expect to be warm forever. Or fix a leaky faucet and grow enraged if it starts dripping again. Or wash a shirt and assume it will be clean forever. Well, perhaps I do. But I shouldn’t. Do nothing to a house and it will crumble and deteriorate. Do nothing to a heart and it will do the same.

Lizzy grinned from ear to ear from the time she walked in the doorway behind Eileen and Analiese, through a soupy supper and water-deprived dishes, to the time she climbed back into the SUV for the ride home. She says she’s excited to come spend a day with me each week. Obviously, she doesn’t know me. Me? Well, I’m pretty much terrified. Not because Lizzy’s frightening. She seems like a super sweet fifteen-year-old. And Eileen is strong and opinionated, but kind. “Praise God,” stops up the flow of her conversation frequently, especially as she shared her testimony of God’s work in her life. But, well, sheesh. What in the world am I getting myself into? My eyes would have been as big as saucers by the time they left, had not my eyelids been gaining weight more quickly than a Sumo wrestler. I sit here, reminding myself, “Hush. Just take it one moment at a time. Oh yeah…and lean on Yahweh. Heavily.” But…What do Lizzy and Eileen really expect? What if they are disappointed? Well. What if the polar ice caps melt and flood the whole earth? Oh wait. Didn’t God make a promise about that? Just like everything else—God’s got it covered, under control.

Lord, Thou hung the world in space,
And charted every time and place.
Thou hast never walked away
But over all hast still held sway.

Though Thou let our passions drive us
Thou sent rainbows to remind us
Someday every heart and soul
Will know that Thou art in control.

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!

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Between dusk and dawn my spirit quieted, like a dove settling into its nest, and I woke this morning knowing again, all will be well. All day long I felt humbled by Yahweh’s goodness, in spite of my fear, doubt and faithlessness. Sometimes I want to crawl out of my own skin and flutter into the air like an invisible butterfly, watching from a distance what God will do next. Emily and I escaped the noisy cafeteria to get some one-on-one in her room and she reminded me how, late one night, shortly after our move, we had made some specific requests to our Lord, how He’d clearly begun an answer the next night and now, looking back over the months, my breath was knocked away by how beautifully He’s been answering that same prayer since. Emily is a faithful prayer warrior, swift to bring everything to her Father’s throne and faithful to remember and recount each answer. I arrived at Amber’s on a Jesus high. “How much sugar have you had today?” she demanded, shaking her head. While she took an important phone call, I filled her camera with hideous faces. I have a decided talent for making hideous faces. I just get tired of trying to be beautiful, and figure I might as well do something I’m actually good at. Silky-coated Baby, who normally vanishes with the arrival of visitors, slinked in to see me, purring slyly to show that she’s accepted me into the family. I threatened Judy with a roll of contact paper and was rather pleased with my ability to inspire fear. “I didn’t do it!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Honest I didn’t! I thought about it, but I didn’t!”

Josh escorted me through the inner maze of DHS to meet Eileen, Lizzy’s mom. I slipped on my best undaunted mask as I sat down across a big desk from her and tried to find a good place to put my hands. First they crept under my crossed legs, but that lasted only as long as the crossed legs. How nice. Here’s the little girl, ma’am, that you’ve never met but wants to steal your daughter for a day every week. She’s a bit odd, ma’am. Wears dresses over her jeans, pulls her hair back in two tails at the back of her neck, refuses to date and she’s short. Oh, excuse me. She’s about your height, ma’am. As she talked with me about her goals for Lizzy, my heart warmed. “We’re not doing the dating thing,” she added. “In fact, there’s not even going to be any of this ‘alone together’ with a guy stuff.” Well. So that’s that. I’d thought she was unsure about the idea. Apparently we’re on. Now I just need to meet Lizzy. Daunting.

Gone excavating in my ancient journals, in search of a missing link for something else, I discovered something which had completely vanished from my current memory system: the draft for a letter—the only letter I’ve ever written a guy. At sweet sixteen. Aw. Not. This one was hard core, all rough edges, blunt phrases and no nonsense. The gist of it was “You need to know that you are a flirt and that’s not a fair way to treat your sisters in Christ.” I cringed as I read it, half embarrassed, half amused, half in awe of the fiery little prophetess of yore. “If this letter ruins our friendship, well, I’m sorry,” it finished with a flourish. “But that will tell me something about your heart.” Oh, but the post script. We mustn’t forget the post script. “Don’t bother writing back. I read all my letters to the family, and I’d rather you didn’t anyway.” To his credit, we’re still friends. I’d like to imagine I’ve picked up a little seasonable grace since then.

In the middle of feeling small, overwhelmed and hating Judges, I found myself shamed by the beautiful lessons the Lord had for Gideon. Hiding in a wine press to beat out wheat, Gideon hardly resembled the “Valiant Warrior” Yahweh’s messenger greeted him as. In fact, the title fit him worse than Saul’s armor fit the young David. “I’m a nobody,” Gideon protested Yahweh’s plan for him to save Israel from Midian. “Not only is my family low on the social ladder, but I’m the baby as well!” Afraid of others’ opinions, he followed the Lord’s instructions to destroy the altars to Baal—at night. But Yahweh wasn’t through teaching Gideon that little is more than enough. Obedience is all Yahweh needs for victory. Sometimes I picture Yahweh shrugging. Or shaking His head nonchalantly, as if to say, “I really am bigger than you think.” After Gideon had gathered an army 32,000 strong, Yahweh told him, “You have too many men.” Wave after wave of men were dismissed until only three hundred remained. Three hundred. To fight a battle as odd as any ever fought. The secret to Gideon’s success lay in the message the angel had given him while he beat out the wheat in secret. “Yahweh is with you, O Valiant Warrior.” Not that Yahweh was with him because of his valor, but that he would be valiant because Yahweh was with him. Striking down public idols might have seemed frightening. Driving out the Midianites might have seemed daunting.. Waving torches and shouting might have seemed ridiculous. Don’t you get it, Abigail? That’s the point. Being vulnerable might seem frightening. Discipling a girl I’ve never even met might seem daunting. Living Yahweh’s way certainly seems ridiculous at times. Yahweh is with me. How about that, little nobody? Why don’t you try “Valiant Warrior” on for size?

Lord, the torch Thou gave me smolders,
Thou hast bid me to be bolder!
Thou hast bid me smash my vase
That I might light up Thy face.

Thou art big enough to raise me,
Naught on earth should daunt or phase me.
Thou puts the powers of dark to flight—
Ignite in me Thy holy light.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Some things are simply not to be. Apparently my internet connection is one of those things. Following its mysterious death on Friday, I called AT&T today and, wonder of all wonders, got the same technical assistant. With the warranty still good until November, we have a new one on the way. In the mean time, I’m wirelessless again.

I was almost embarrassed when Amber discovered my blog, along with the post about her. “It was a God thing,” she told me over the phone. “It was so encouraging.” Now she’s joined me with a blog of her own, posting notes from her late night Bible study.

Sated with yummy squash casserole, the family dragged out new spiral-bound notebooks and folded them back for the first night listening to our new Bible of MP3. Our task is to listen each night, for half an hour, make notes, scribble questions, comments or thoughts and discuss them the next morning at breakfast. At the rate we’re going, we just might run right over me in my personal study. I’d argue that I’ve search high and low, far and near for some alone time to keep moving through Judges, but since I haven’t found it, I’m forced to conclude I haven’t searched hard enough. Priorities, my dear self. Priorities. I open my Bible, flip to the Psalms and read, then turn to Judges and stare blankly until the words on the page jumble together and slide off into my lap. I hate Judges. I hate relativity. Moral demise. I hate the way my heart turns from fire to ashes as I read, seeing the same apathy in myself and my country as I see in Israel. Which of the Judges can I look to as a hero? Barak was a coward. Gideon couldn’t believe the plain command of the Lord. Jephthah was rash. Samson was a philanderer. Let’s not talk about what I am. But I’m missing the point. The point is not the failed people. People fail. Past, present and future. The point is Yahweh: His faithfulness to the covenant, both to punish and to deliver. The point is the battles He fought, the deeds He did, the miracles He worked—in spite of people.

Lord, Thou art the judge of all!
Hear and answer when I call,
When I beg Thy favor, Lord,
That Thy name might be adored.

Everything Thou dost is good,
Though often I misunderstood,
The world, nor I am not the theme.
Thou art the hero, King of Kings!

Thursday, April 3, 2008

“I tiped here! Oijtn; egldkjg ljgrgg lkgjeit lkrjtle eoitlekg lekrjyo kg”

Behold the mystic words I discovered in my journal after a quick bathroom break. So far, I’ve been unable to find an online translator that could interpret the meaning. I’m going to guess it’s Lydia language for “you should be more careful leaving your journal open.”

Six months ago today we unloaded the U-haul through the back patio doors. Why I make note of that, I’m not sure. Dates and times stand out starkly in my memory. Actually, most things stand out starkly in my memory. It’s part of my chemical make-up, I suppose. A quick check of my lovely electronic journal, began when we moved, revealed a word count of 125,000. In six months I’ve written my life up longer than most novels.

When Amber called tonight, she was bubbling over with excitement—good news on every count. She thanked me profusely for the notes on prayer from John 17, as well as the website for tracts and started pouring out a million other thanksgivings. A few minutes later Jacinderella called. “Did she tell you about Bible study last night?” she quizzed. “Uh…” I answered, unsure. Soon Jacinderella was spilling how encouraging Amber had been, offering valuable insights into others’ questions and even accidentally stealing Wes’ thunder. As those two had talked earlier, Jacinderella had reminded Amber, “You don’t have to live in defeat. The Lord is our redeemer and our Savior!”

Her words harkened back to the story of Deborah and Barak. A woman judge of Israel, as God had said, “When you forsake me, women and children will lead you.” In the dearth of real men, Deborah stepped forward. Even Barak, for whom she had a special message from Yahweh to save His people, shivered and begged her to accompany him. But Yahweh would not allow His people to live in defeat. In an epic battle, Yahweh routed Sisera and his huge army before Barak and won the victory. In the book of Judges I see God’s war on humanism. In the midst of a crumbling society, God raised up weak, frightened person after person to bring about His victories. I find myself raising Ebenezers along the pathway of my life. Tonight I’m looking back on six months of life in Arkansas, wondering what I’ve really accomplished, feeling like I spent the day spinning my wheels, running in circles, dragging my feet. Am I weak and frightened? Well, good. So much the more usable to bring about God’s glory. The story is not about what I’ve accomplished in six months. The story is about what Yahweh has done.

And He has done great things.

Lord, Thou leads not in retreat,
Thy trumpet never sounds defeat,
For Thou hast every battle won.
The serpent might, once, bruise Thy Son,

But Thou hast turned His steps instead
To tread upon the serpent’s head.
When Jesus Christ was crucified,
Satan’s power bled and died.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

As soon as the man on the other end of the line picked up I started in with my Dial-a-trade spiel. A pause as I wound up, then, “Uh…Ma’am, Dial-a-trade is not on the air today.”

True, that I see deer nearly every time I’m in the woods, and often when I’m not, but the mystery and excitement of spotting wild creatures still lingers. When I saw the shape of a round rump through the trees, I turned abruptly off the path and began creeping through the underbrush, around pines, to see how close I could come. Feeling self-satisfied with my “awareness” as I came within twenty feet of my neighbor, I peered around a tree and found myself staring straight into its wide, brown eyes. With a soft snort, its white tail shot up, and from nearly a dozen thickets around me came answering snorts as a whole herd of deer dashed deeper into the woods. So much for my “awareness”.


A little local color comes fresh from our neighbors down the way. Jeff sits on the edge of his rickety porch, talking eagerly of the Lord’s return through streams of tobacco juice, while his wife, Barb, cuddles a spoiled rat terrier in her fuzzy, pink bath robe. “Have you seen that Alpine Buck?” Jeff asks, ejecting a thin, brown stream. “Alpine buck?” I echo. “Yeah, it’s huge an’ all white. Ya know?” I smile. Albino. Right. “An’ if you hear that ol’ black panther screaming, just walk slowly. Don’t run. He comes through here about March or April of every year.” Duly noted. “You seen any o’ them black bears in your woods?” I shake my head “no”, peering closely to see if he’s just trying to worry me. “Bobcat prints are the biggest I’ve seen,” I offer. He shrugs. “Don’t think they’ll hurt you. ‘Cept that panther might. But he ain’t hurt nobody yet. Just keep an eye out.” I remember how terrified we were after Mom spotted a mountain lion back home one night. Nothing ever came of it. I’ll be watching. I wouldn’t mind seeing a bear or a panther—from a little ways off.

Dathan followed Papa and I home last night and has been quietly doing homework all day. He’s here for the rest of his spring break and to see Donnie, home of furlough. Once upon a time we met him in Arkansas, then he wound up at school in Kansas, and we practically adopted him into our family. Now we’re at home in Arkansas and he’s a resident Kansan. He still feels right at home every time he comes to visit, fitting back in like not a day has passed since he was last here.

The first half of Deuteronomy has detailed Moses’ words to the people before his death, as he recounted to them how the Lord had led them through the wilderness and reminded them of God’s laws. I felt like I was wading through a morass—pointless effort with little reward—until last night when I skimmed back over my own past few months, as detailed in my journal. So often Yahweh performs a miracle before my eyes, yet when the next test comes, I am whining and complaining for fresh water or rebelling against the authority He has put in my life. Each day I can only see a tiny part of His work—His plan—but when I look back on where I have come from, I can see His hand more clearly, His leading defined, His power made evident, every single day. Things that were foggy or confusing, that felt like desert wanderings, begin to take shape. Moses reminds me, “Your own eyes have seen the great work of God, which He did.” At a time like now, when I am beginning to feel parched, dry and far from my destination of perfection, it’s good to be reminded from whence I came and where I am headed and, most importantly, Who it is that leads me.

Lord, I seek Thy promised land
And, guided by Thy awesome hand,
I know that I will come at length,
To paradise, by Thy own strength.

Recount to me what Thou hast done,
Both in the person of Thy Son,
And in my soul since, every day,
That I be strengthened to obey.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

I’ve seen a few eggs in my time. Blue eggs, green eggs, pink eggs, yellow eggs, brown eggs and white eggs, double yokers, no yokers, developing yokers, oops-it’s-a-chick yokers. We’re not talking about Easter Eggs, but the real-live-laid-by-hen eggs. I’ve never seen any so huge. “These are the small ones,” he commented. “The large ones cost fifty cents more.” I peered around the yard for a glimpse of the chickens, but was disappointed in my scrutiny. The best clue I had as to the appearance of the fine-feathered fowl who laid such monster eggs was a fine white feather, delicately clinging to the crate as I carried it out to the Suburban.

Driving through the hills and valleys on a misty, moisty morning brought my thoughts to life. Fog swirls in the valleys, causing me to slow down, watch carefully, and turn on my lights hoping to be seen. From the hills I can see over the mists to the other side—but I have no clue what might lie in the valley. Always, whether I see it or not, the sun is shining, above the clouds. In fact, the mists are caused by the sun as it sends refreshment to the land.

Here in the Bible belt, I ask someone about their spiritual beliefs and they vanish behind a church marquee. Opening up is a breeze. “I noticed you have a lot of religious books,” to the man in the Flea Market. “Do you have any spiritual beliefs?” Quickly he assures me he is Church of Christ—even preached for a few years. The ladies in the bead store explain their membership in the Assembly of God. The Librarians always cheerfully remind me that the invitation to First Baptist is always open. I’ve never had anyone actually share the gospel with me. Usually dragging from them the name Jesus and all it entails feels like wisdom tooth extractions. “You go to the Church of Christ? Really? Neat. So…who is Christ?” It was refreshing to see one man’s eyes light up, “He is the Son of God, the Savior of the world.” Well. Not much else needs said. But how have we become so lost in our denominations that our spiritual beliefs boil down to “I’m Methodist” or “I’m Baptist”. No one is saved by believing in a building or claiming a title. We’re saved through the person and work of Jesus Christ! My heart aches to see how unready we are to give an account for the hope within us—if it is truly a living hope within us.

When the rain started, I hurriedly pulled on my boots and headed out to enjoy the warm shower. Disappointed by the gentleness, I trekked down to the creek instead and fell in. On purpose. The woods grow silent on a rainy day—no one speaking, no one listening. Just the restful drip of God’s fresh filtered rain, sliding from leaf to leaf to water the earth. Really, I was simply enjoying the shifting mists, polishing the woods with vibrant green and red and gold when the urge to jump the creek came on. I jumped it in narrow spots. I skipped over stones through the miniature rapids. I scrambled across fallen logs. A wide, deep pool, clear as crystal, beckoned me. “You can’t jump that,” I whispered to myself. “I know,” I giggled, and backed up for a running start. I hit the bank full speed, threw myself into the air and landed inches from the steep shore on the far side, splattering cold water up to my waist. Sometimes you have to take the risk and fall in to discover it’s no so bad. Thoroughly soggy and thoroughly satisfied, I struck out through the pine trees, headed for home.

“Indescribable, uncontainable...Who has told every lightning bolt where it should go,” crackled over the radio, just before the huge crash shook the house. Like a ball of thunder rolling across the sky and slamming into something—no echo. “Did you see that?” Josiah dashed into my room from outside. “Did you hear that?” I shrugged. “I heard thunder.” Catching his breath, Josiah explained, “This huge bolt of lightning just shot out of the sky and struck one of the trees in the woods. I watched it splinter and fall from the shop. Just when the radio played that song…you know…that one…” We stood by my French door together, staring out into the now pouring rain at the rivulets washing down our yard. Finish the song: You are amazing, Lord.

Lord, Thou art enthroned on high
As King of earth and sea and sky,
And sends as by Thy own decree
Thy storms upon the land or sea.

The power of the elements,
Can only partly represent
The power that is in Thy hand
To make or to destroy all land.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Today was a perfect day. Because it was.

Josiah and I trooped back from sawing wood to discover the basketball goal, lying prone like Goliath himself, slain by a mischievous gale, the backboard shattered underneath. Our skills will be needing improvement to swoosh our balls without the benefit of the backboard.

Lauryn breezed in briefly, like the personification of summer herself—golden sunlight hair and a sky blue shirt to match her eyes. It’s hard to believe she’s not been out since Christmas break, but her presence was more than welcome. As always. I’ve missed the days from last semester, when we spent so much time together and spilled out everything the Lord was teaching us or every way we felt the pruning sheers.

Balaam brought home a powerful point. Not such an exemplary character, this Balaam fellow, who would have eagerly cursed the Israelites for a price, had not the Lord prevented him—through the intervention of his donkey. Instead, he blessed them and delivered beautiful promises of the future Messiah. Self-assured, self-righteous and self-confident, I imagine myself special because perhaps sometimes the Lord speaks or works through me. Well, doesn’t He? Well, didn’t He also speak through Balaam’s donkey? I sat still for several minutes (which is quite the accomplishment for me) trying to wrap my mind around the truth. God used a donkey to convince a shady character to bless His people. Who am I to boast of being a tool? Is it amazing that a shovel would be used to dig a hole? That a bucket would be used to water flowers? Do we honor the shovel or the bucket for being used? Neither does the Lord’s work in me bear any honor for me, but only more honor for the Lord, that He could stoop and find a use for such a worthless vessel as I am. But I will not always be so broken, leaky and dirty.

Once again I am reminded how frail I am and how big the Lord is. How capable He is of protecting me, upholding me and of working things out. I trust He is working out His perfect will in me. Making me perfect.

Perfect days might seem evasive, but I’m looking back on twenty years of them. Perfect in the light of God’s handiwork, His timing, His plans and what He’s been doing. Perfect because He has remained Lord over all creation.

Lord, Thou art enthroned in splendor,
Yet to this child of dust art tender.
Year by year, here’s what I see:
That Thy perfection touches me.

Thy creation: seas and woods,
Thou said all were “very good”,
But Thou hast promised, when life’s done
I’ll be perfect, like Thy Son.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

“It must be Wednesday,” Jacinderella always sings when she sees my number on her phone. Muffins comprised my special delivery for her today, much to her amusement. Muffins from Josiah. I’d promised Emily I would wait and eat with her and Jacinderella, devoid of class for the day, lingered with us. She refused to believe my pudding was more than edible. “Whenever anyone says something in the Caf is good, I’m always spectacle.” Too much Spanish has mixed up her English vocabulary. I’ve yet to see Jacinderella make much of a spectacle—unless we’re counting that one. Roving over campus in the tingling sunshine, after lunch, sent us all into waves of nostalgia, remembering how different it was last year in the Spring when I assumed I’d never be back. Now Jacinda’s the one leaving. In two months.

Amber’s house turned out to be a hubbub of activity. When I arrived, the maintenance men were putting in a new outlet. Or trying to. My mind raced back to all the outlets I’d wired in, under Tabitha’s careful supervision, trying to remember which wire matched with each connection. Hopeless, I’m afraid. When an older preacher-man and his wife arrived, I was embarrassed to suddenly become the center of attention when Amber began explaining why I carry such a huge purse. I suppose refusing to be without my Bible, headcovering or knife marks me as peculiar, as does not dating, homeschooling and meeting at home, which she added as a bonus. But gracious Dave had no intention of challenging or disdaining and turned out to be an encouraging man of God. I dragged Amber outside to the picnic table to read and pray. John eleven—in which Jesus loved Martha, Mary and Lazarus so much that He stayed away instead of coming and healing Lazarus. Why? Because He wanted to reveal to them the glory of God—if they believed. When God seems to tarry in His actions, perhaps it is for a similar purpose—out of love He would reveal to me the glory of God, if I believe.

“Now the man Moses was very humble, more humble than any man who was on the face of the earth.” I think I just lost my identifying connection with Moses. It was this humility that prompted him to say, completely devoid of jealousy, “Would that all Yahweh’s people were prophets that Yahweh would put His Spirit upon them!” The same humility prevented him from offering resistance when his brother and sister complained that God had also spoken through them—what was so special about him? In his silence, God defended him. “Prophets,” Yahweh said, “I speak to them in dreams and visions. My servant Moses, I speak with mouth to mouth.” Forgiving and merciful, Moses pleaded with Yahweh to heal Miriam’s leprosy and reminded the Lord that wiping out the nation of Israel would bring a reproach on His Holy name. Moses thought not of himself—but only of Yahweh. It was all about God.

Lord, when I feel lost and dazed,
Remind me it is Thou Who saves.
When my quill falls from my hand
'Tis Thou who fillest my inkstand.

When I want to run and hide
Remind me of Thy power inside.
Remind me Thou art ever near:
Thy perfect love casts out my fear.

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.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Who started it, I’m not sure, but each member of the family has picked up the tune and the words to “I’m a little teapot”. Lydia is still whistling it as she folds her laundry. Perhaps we all identify a little too closely with the “short and stout” part.

I thought Spring was here, but apparently my thoughts have yet to become scientific laws. As I scurried in and out of stores, running errands for Mom and Papa and finally managed to meet Lauryn for lunch, the dreary weather turned first to a drizzle, from a drizzle to a sleet and from a sleet to a blustery snow. Jacinda escorted me back to my car with an umbrella.

Spying a drum set in the window of the Valley Piano store, I popped in to see if I might sneak a play, only to discover they were hardly set up for playing. Instead, I swapped piano pieces with the store owner and soon found myself asking if he knew the Lord. Having managed to gear up for a good conversation, I found myself in for a rare treat sharing and hearing what the Lord was doing in a brother’s life. Amazing the bond of encouragement found throughout the body of the Lord.

I was melting with impatience behind a huge traffic jam when Papa called, asking me to come back to the clinic. Weather conditions were getting nasty and the clinic was closing up as quickly as possible. Managing to slip between traffic and get into a side road, I skirted the issue—a pretty nasty looking wreck in a main intersection.

Having wrapped up Leviticus, I find myself looking back on it through the perspective of Romans—the Law is our tutor to lead us to Christ. “You are to be holy as I am holy,” Yahweh says, over and over again. But who can be holy like the Lord? The foreshadowing is beautiful—in a painful sort of way. Bloody sacrifices offered year by year, animals without defect, to cover over the sins of omission and commission, reminder of how short we fall from the standard of the Living God. Hebrews offered perfect parallels (imagine that) as I read through the Law of sin and death. Now, Christ, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world has been slain. His blood is sufficient to cleanse every sin ever committed or that ever will be committed. Once again I am reminded how, in His death, He tore the curtain that separated us from the Holy of Holies and opened up the mercy seat of God, to all who enter having been sprinkled with His pure blood.

It sounds grotesque, perhaps. The life is in the blood, God’s law said, forbidding the eating of blood. Truly, the life is in the blood—the blood of Jesus.

Lord! Only Thy blood can suffice
To cleanse me of both guilt and vice.
The sacrifices Thou dost seek
Are in a soul and heart shown weak

Through gazing at Thy holy law.
And falling on my face in awe,
I recognize I am unworthy--
Yet Thou hast made me pure and holy.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Paul Washer delivered a stirring reminder to me this morning, in the midst of business, to get alone with God. I might insist I’m spending time with Him while whirling away at mindless tasks, or while begging and pleading with Him for someone else, or while crying out to Him for deliverance, but nothing takes the place of simply getting alone with Him and listening. Actually shutting up and listening. It has been far too long since I met with Him in quietness and solitude to hear Him speak. Today I found myself exempt from excuses, so I vanished into the woods. Halfway down the trail I was overwhelmed by the beauty of Yahweh, His power and His mercy, driving me to my knees with weeping. Not sorrow. Just weeping. Rising, I continued a short way before I was again brought to my knees, overwhelmed to realize that I’d been overwhelmed by so much less than Moses had seen. How do I even begin to describe the God I am privileged to serve? In Him everything holds together, in Him is the light of life, in Him is holiness, majesty, authority, perfection--everything I am not. I finally reached the clearing and stood, waiting, listening, before “take off your shoes for the place you are standing is holy ground” flowed through my mind. I laughed. “The place where I am standing is muddy ground,” I corrected, but the thought multiplied and repeated itself until I finally complied. The significance of bare feet is beyond me and I’ll readily admit that I have an overactive imagination. I could have remembered and fed the words to myself, for an emotional kick. I’m just a little girl, but as long as my imagination leads me to the feet of Yahweh, I’ll gladly give it leave to run. As soon as I’d laid aside my shoes, the life of Moses began to flood me, coming over my memory in wave upon wave, nearly visible, as if I were blessed to be a shadow to this friend of God. From the moment he stood before the burning bush, to the day God buried him on the top of a mountain in view of the promised land, this man was flesh and blood, yet spoke with God face to face, as a man speaks with his friend. He feared facing Pharaoh, he became angry and disobeyed God, yet God spoke through him and to him. On Sinai and in the tabernacle, Moses met with Yahweh, and when he returned from the presence of Yahweh, his face shown with the radiance of the glory of God. His mission from on high was to lead a stubborn and rebellious people through the wilderness, and at last he died, without ever having set foot into the land himself. I cried for his failure, his failure to finish the task God had given him, through the penalty for one mistake. In the solitude of a clearing, away from the noise of rebellious people or the heat of a wilderness the truth slid through my mind to lodge in my heart. No. Moses, who transcribed God’s law, was not under law but under grace. In grace, God took him to the true Promised Land, God buried his body, God called him friend, God talked with him face to face, God received his intercession for the people, God caused all His goodness to pass in front of him while He protected him with His own hand. Moses learned the good part. He knew God. Intimately. That’s what God is seeking—worshippers in spirit and truth. Those who want to know Him, who want to see His glory, who understand that being with God is the good part. Those who want to know Him fully, even as we have been fully known.

I realized the sun was high in the sky—almost noon—and Mom had a doctor’s appointment just after noon and needed me home. Wishing for Aaron and Hur to hold up my arms and make the sun stand still was an empty motion, so I clambered to my feet, put my shoes back on and headed back up the trail. The afterglow is beginning to fade, reminding me that I am still dust. But Yahweh…Yahweh is indescribable.

Lord, Thy servant, Moses shown
Once, with a glory not his own.
This sinner veiled within Thy glory
Typifies redemption’s story.

May my life so glow with Thee
That anyone who looks may see
The radiation of Thy grace
And long to see Thy perfect face.