I was scouring the walls of my shower this morning when I straightened up, bumped my head against the water knob and gave myself a surprise shower. As I walked into the kitchen to start lunch, Mom passed me in the hallway and asked, “Why are you all wet?”
Papa valiantly loaded himself into the Camry to go to work this afternoon. Around six o’clock he came rolling back up the driveway. The nurse had sent him home on limited disability for at least a month. My head was spinning as I heard the verdict. At least a month! What an odd shape for a blessing to come in. Having Papa home for a month is both exciting and daunting—a totally new thought. What in the world are we going to do for a month? And then I laugh. All kinds of thoughts begin to fill our minds—we can finally invite some of the families over that we’ve been hoping to see. And I have some confusion and questions that have been nagging me for months—things I couldn’t seem to resolve on my own but tried to cheerfully ignore. I’m not sure if I can even put words to them, but Papa has been just so busy and tired that I didn’t want to exhaust him. Perhaps he’ll have time to dissipate the fog that surrounds most of my brain and clouds my convictions. So much for recuperation for him--perhaps I'd better hold off a while yet.
I'd scoffed at the official ground hog who, reportedly, turned tail and climbed back into his hole back in February. "He saw his shadow!" they announced. "Six more weeks of winter!" I've never given much credence to weathermen, hairy or otherwise, and we've been enjoying days of warmth and sunshine. "It wasn't his shadow he saw," I declared to Josiah, "It was the new presidential administration that sent him back into hibernation." Today the weather grew nasty again. Cold. Drizzly. Uninviting. The political climate is at least as nasty. I think we're on a collision course with socialism, thanks to nodding, smiling politicians who swear to uphold the constitution and then go at it with a grappling hook. Even Hillary Clinton as Secretary of state didn't turn my stomach like seeing our own Kansas Governor, Kathleen Sibelius, appointed to the cabinet. Bleak is the political horizon, which reminds me once again that the battle is not against flesh and blood but against the principalities of darkness--and I should be spreading light to individual hearts and pleading that Christ will soon return.
Showing posts with label Kansas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kansas. Show all posts
Sunday, December 21, 2008
It’s cold and dark and rapidly approaching midnight, back in my empty bedroom in Arkansas. Lydia’s already sound asleep. I should be as well, but I’m sitting down like a good girl in a desperate attempt to make a whirlwind retelling of the weekend in Kansas. The very cold weekend in Kansas.
Our trip was punctuated by a couple of half-stops at the Day and Willis residence. Deliveries, you know. I brought Tabby several pairs of shoes and several pieces of jewelry I’d been given, which might prove suitable for her wedding day attire. We pored over wedding dress pictures from an online site she’d discovered and I took her measurements for her, so she could have a dress made to perfection. How could I ever explain exactly what went through my mind as I stood in the bathroom, wrapping a cloth tape-measure around Tabby’s waist and scribbling down numbers on a print-out of a wedding dress. It couldn’t have been that long ago that we impishly told the church kids we’d made a pact to be old maids together. They were so upset they begged Jon Day to give us a thorough lecture. Another time we insisted we were already married to twin princes of Rugalia and only came home for the weekends on flying carpets. They’d run distraught to Jon Day that time, too. Each time, he confronted us with laughing eyes and twitching lips. Those kiddos pestered us so incessantly about marriage that I never felt the least remorse for my rather imaginative retaliation. But the night I sat on the dryer and listened as Tabby tried to defend herself for being scared of Cliff and for trying to avoid talking to him, I knew what would happen next. And as I quietly told her, “If he’s worth being friends with, just be his friend and see what happens next,” she knew it, too. Now Cliff plans a house and Tabby plans a wedding and they’ve already bumped the date up and up and up to sometime in March. The formal announcement came after church on Sunday and the resounding answer was “It’s about time!” Miss Bethany whispered to Damaris, “Why are Tabby and Cliff sitting together?” Damaris responded, “Because they’re in love,” to which Bethany exclaimed aghast, “What? They’re in love and they’re not even married?!” We had to cancel the picture shoot for the happy couple. With a wind chill far below freezing, Tabby and I were sure we couldn’t manage any good shots. Instead, we snapped a few indoors, just to have. I’ll admit to tormenting the two of them. “Okay, look at each other…no…don’t giggle!” There they sat, struggling to maintain eye contact without giggling while I pretended to be adjusting and framing pictures. Finally Tabby groaned, “Abigail! What’s taking so long!” Ah, the perfect ending for the secret video I’d been shooting.
Then on to Grandma’s, where we ate tons, as usual, and refused to eat more than tons.
We made a quick visit to the Knox household Saturday morning. Rachel arrived a short time after we did, Hannah was home for the holidays and Abigail and Shane were present with little Sofia. So much has changed since the days when we were little kids, crawling through Forrest’s engineered hay mazes or swinging on the ragged rope in the barn or swimming in the Baker’s pond. Sometimes I am grieved to see the distance between us growing. My “shadow”, Rachel seems little more than a distant acquaintance. Our paths are so divergent these days. We talked about her long-time desire to become a missionary nurse. “I’m hoping to go to India this summer,” she confided in a hushed voice. “I can’t stand the thought of being stuck here all summer. I’m ready to go somewhere.” It’s something I’ve heard each of the girls say frequently—and Whitney, too. Wanderlust. Dissatisfaction. The desire to go places—far away and exciting. But sudden confusion overwhelmed me. She wants to go be a missionary nurse…why? She didn’t even say a word about the Lord. Every once in a while she mentions God, but rarely Jesus and never much depth about the Word or what the Lord is teaching her or a strong desire just to serve Him—wherever. I tried to push the uneasiness from my heart, but it lingered. I want my buddy, my “shadow” to be all that the Lord has for her. I want her to learn from Him and grow in Him and become conformed to His image. I believe she desires the same, but still, how does it look and sound so different from what the Lord has been teaching me? Hannah was also eager to share the events of her life. Now she’s in an official relationship with Seth (shall I mention I predicted this?), with her parents blessing, still drifting a bit and unsure of the next step, but her spirit is so different—so much gentler and more humble. I loved hearing her share from her heart, but one phrase set my heart racing. “I know this is a God-thing,” she said several times. Every time I hear that confident assertion falling from someone's lips, my chest tightens and I don’t know what to say. I can’t keep nodding and smiling. But do I have any real reason to protest? What is God? How does He lead? Is it possible that He leads in ways so different from how I have learned to seek His will? I know the Lord works with individuals in individual ways. I know He works in situations that are less than perfect. What situation isn’t? But when is God the driving force and when are we forcing God? How do we know what God wants from us? I’ve been over the topic of God’s will so many times—seeking my father’s counsel on so many issues, yet still I second-guess. Who am I to think I know what is a God-thing and what is a Me-thing? Is the Lord in every circumstance that surprises me? Delights me? Wows me? He sent the lightening and the thunder and the violent wind to the mountain where Elijah sat waiting, but He wasn’t in the theatrics. He wasn’t giving guidance through the fascinating displays. It was after the theatrics that the Lord appeared in the quiet, steady voice of truth telling Elijah to just do the next thing. God’s will is revealed one tiny step of obedience at a time.
Good ol’ steady Mandy joined us in the evening and taught us to Speed—with a deck of cards. Josiah’s mind must have been elsewhere since it failed to grasp the concept. Each round left him with a negative score. Then we discovered he’d been inadvertently cheating. His score dropped further. As we were just about to pack up the cards for the night, he suddenly asked, “Wait. You mean I was supposed to be subtracting these points, too?” Mandy and I stared at each other before collapsing in laughter. It seems to me it must take a special flair to be able to play a game and lose so badly in spite of accidentally only recording half your true loss!
The quiet hours at Grandma’s house left me with plenty of time for the character study of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Why did the Lord choose Mary? I used to wonder. What about her caught the eye of Almighty God? My question reveals my ignorance. Mary was chosen because she was available. It is true that her heart was resigned to service to Yahweh, as evidenced by her words, “Behold, I am the Lord’s slave. Do to me whatever.” Her life proved that the Lord had accepted her declaration. She hardly had a happily ever after, but the Lord used her, teaching her true submission to His will and plan through trying circumstances and even reminders from her own Divine Son. In the end, she had to learn what each of us must learn—to trust Jesus. For her it must have been especially difficult. Once upon a time He had depended on her, but His destiny and the will of the Father called Him to be the suffering servant, and in service to Him, she too was called to suffer. Available. She was there when the Lord needed her to carry His Son. She was there when He gave up His last breath on the cross. Ready. Willing. This is true service to the Master—availability to His needs, willingness to obey. “Do to me whatever.”
Lord, make Thy bond-maid ready, willing
To receive Thy Spirit’s filling
Be it done to me whatever
Thou hast planned ere time began.
Teach me to accept as from Thee
Guidance from those placed above me
Trusting Thou to do whatever
Seemest good in Thy great plan.
Our trip was punctuated by a couple of half-stops at the Day and Willis residence. Deliveries, you know. I brought Tabby several pairs of shoes and several pieces of jewelry I’d been given, which might prove suitable for her wedding day attire. We pored over wedding dress pictures from an online site she’d discovered and I took her measurements for her, so she could have a dress made to perfection. How could I ever explain exactly what went through my mind as I stood in the bathroom, wrapping a cloth tape-measure around Tabby’s waist and scribbling down numbers on a print-out of a wedding dress. It couldn’t have been that long ago that we impishly told the church kids we’d made a pact to be old maids together. They were so upset they begged Jon Day to give us a thorough lecture. Another time we insisted we were already married to twin princes of Rugalia and only came home for the weekends on flying carpets. They’d run distraught to Jon Day that time, too. Each time, he confronted us with laughing eyes and twitching lips. Those kiddos pestered us so incessantly about marriage that I never felt the least remorse for my rather imaginative retaliation. But the night I sat on the dryer and listened as Tabby tried to defend herself for being scared of Cliff and for trying to avoid talking to him, I knew what would happen next. And as I quietly told her, “If he’s worth being friends with, just be his friend and see what happens next,” she knew it, too. Now Cliff plans a house and Tabby plans a wedding and they’ve already bumped the date up and up and up to sometime in March. The formal announcement came after church on Sunday and the resounding answer was “It’s about time!” Miss Bethany whispered to Damaris, “Why are Tabby and Cliff sitting together?” Damaris responded, “Because they’re in love,” to which Bethany exclaimed aghast, “What? They’re in love and they’re not even married?!” We had to cancel the picture shoot for the happy couple. With a wind chill far below freezing, Tabby and I were sure we couldn’t manage any good shots. Instead, we snapped a few indoors, just to have. I’ll admit to tormenting the two of them. “Okay, look at each other…no…don’t giggle!” There they sat, struggling to maintain eye contact without giggling while I pretended to be adjusting and framing pictures. Finally Tabby groaned, “Abigail! What’s taking so long!” Ah, the perfect ending for the secret video I’d been shooting.
Then on to Grandma’s, where we ate tons, as usual, and refused to eat more than tons.
We made a quick visit to the Knox household Saturday morning. Rachel arrived a short time after we did, Hannah was home for the holidays and Abigail and Shane were present with little Sofia. So much has changed since the days when we were little kids, crawling through Forrest’s engineered hay mazes or swinging on the ragged rope in the barn or swimming in the Baker’s pond. Sometimes I am grieved to see the distance between us growing. My “shadow”, Rachel seems little more than a distant acquaintance. Our paths are so divergent these days. We talked about her long-time desire to become a missionary nurse. “I’m hoping to go to India this summer,” she confided in a hushed voice. “I can’t stand the thought of being stuck here all summer. I’m ready to go somewhere.” It’s something I’ve heard each of the girls say frequently—and Whitney, too. Wanderlust. Dissatisfaction. The desire to go places—far away and exciting. But sudden confusion overwhelmed me. She wants to go be a missionary nurse…why? She didn’t even say a word about the Lord. Every once in a while she mentions God, but rarely Jesus and never much depth about the Word or what the Lord is teaching her or a strong desire just to serve Him—wherever. I tried to push the uneasiness from my heart, but it lingered. I want my buddy, my “shadow” to be all that the Lord has for her. I want her to learn from Him and grow in Him and become conformed to His image. I believe she desires the same, but still, how does it look and sound so different from what the Lord has been teaching me? Hannah was also eager to share the events of her life. Now she’s in an official relationship with Seth (shall I mention I predicted this?), with her parents blessing, still drifting a bit and unsure of the next step, but her spirit is so different—so much gentler and more humble. I loved hearing her share from her heart, but one phrase set my heart racing. “I know this is a God-thing,” she said several times. Every time I hear that confident assertion falling from someone's lips, my chest tightens and I don’t know what to say. I can’t keep nodding and smiling. But do I have any real reason to protest? What is God? How does He lead? Is it possible that He leads in ways so different from how I have learned to seek His will? I know the Lord works with individuals in individual ways. I know He works in situations that are less than perfect. What situation isn’t? But when is God the driving force and when are we forcing God? How do we know what God wants from us? I’ve been over the topic of God’s will so many times—seeking my father’s counsel on so many issues, yet still I second-guess. Who am I to think I know what is a God-thing and what is a Me-thing? Is the Lord in every circumstance that surprises me? Delights me? Wows me? He sent the lightening and the thunder and the violent wind to the mountain where Elijah sat waiting, but He wasn’t in the theatrics. He wasn’t giving guidance through the fascinating displays. It was after the theatrics that the Lord appeared in the quiet, steady voice of truth telling Elijah to just do the next thing. God’s will is revealed one tiny step of obedience at a time.
Good ol’ steady Mandy joined us in the evening and taught us to Speed—with a deck of cards. Josiah’s mind must have been elsewhere since it failed to grasp the concept. Each round left him with a negative score. Then we discovered he’d been inadvertently cheating. His score dropped further. As we were just about to pack up the cards for the night, he suddenly asked, “Wait. You mean I was supposed to be subtracting these points, too?” Mandy and I stared at each other before collapsing in laughter. It seems to me it must take a special flair to be able to play a game and lose so badly in spite of accidentally only recording half your true loss!
The quiet hours at Grandma’s house left me with plenty of time for the character study of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Why did the Lord choose Mary? I used to wonder. What about her caught the eye of Almighty God? My question reveals my ignorance. Mary was chosen because she was available. It is true that her heart was resigned to service to Yahweh, as evidenced by her words, “Behold, I am the Lord’s slave. Do to me whatever.” Her life proved that the Lord had accepted her declaration. She hardly had a happily ever after, but the Lord used her, teaching her true submission to His will and plan through trying circumstances and even reminders from her own Divine Son. In the end, she had to learn what each of us must learn—to trust Jesus. For her it must have been especially difficult. Once upon a time He had depended on her, but His destiny and the will of the Father called Him to be the suffering servant, and in service to Him, she too was called to suffer. Available. She was there when the Lord needed her to carry His Son. She was there when He gave up His last breath on the cross. Ready. Willing. This is true service to the Master—availability to His needs, willingness to obey. “Do to me whatever.”
Lord, make Thy bond-maid ready, willing
To receive Thy Spirit’s filling
Be it done to me whatever
Thou hast planned ere time began.
Teach me to accept as from Thee
Guidance from those placed above me
Trusting Thou to do whatever
Seemest good in Thy great plan.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Mom and Grandma Sandy asked me to join them in a game of “Old Maid.” It might be appropriate, but I’m not finding the invitation very tempting tonight. I’ve perfected the art of the shrug. It’s a necessity, considering the fact that I’m the only unmarried and eligible grandchild on both sides of the family. But my extended family has such short-sighted goals. Don’t they realize that if I get married any time in the next few years, they’ll be out someone to pester? Both grandmas are on the verge of losing a wager with Josiah—something about me being either married or engaged by age twenty-one. At T-minus two months and one day, Josiah’s triumph is nearly secure. Considering that both of them were barely eighteen when they married, I probably am beginning to seem like an old maid. *Shrug*
Today the trip to the Sunflower State took us a little farther north than our old stomping grounds—for a friend’s wedding and to visit Mom’s side of the family. Six hours is a long time to sit still, crowded into the back seat of the Camry with Josiah and Lydia. I shifted from proper car-sitting form to cross-legged, to Indian style, to my knees, and invented a few new positions of my own. When the first sign for Kansas City announced 174 miles, I thought I’d explode with impatience. Finally arrived at Grandma’s apartment, Josiah and I escaped on a lengthy tromp through housing developments and apartment complexes. Mentally, I was measuring the lawns, figuring the best patterns for mowing and trimming the edges. Who’d have thought I’d be so anxious to get back to yardwork?
Aunt Janny, Uncle Ed and I crowded into the back side of the dinner table and swapped smart-alec comments as we ate. Correction, Uncle Ed and I swapped comments. Aunt Janny attempted to converse in an intelligent manner. Grandma tossed in a few wise-cracks of her own from across the table, while Josiah and Papa interspersed witticisms from both ends. Lydia silently ate three platefuls and went back for seconds on dessert. I remember the days when I could out eat any three healthy adults and still run laps afterwards. Grown old enough to suffer from a much slower metabolism, I learned that the dinner table must also contain conversation to give us something less fattening to chew on. As the evening progressed, Papa got Uncle Ed talking about his experiences in Vietnam. Once he was dropped into the jungle on a scouting mission to find a Vietnamese supply trail. He found it and lost his squad. Holed up in a cave, he didn’t even dare use his radio as he watched the “ingenious little soldiers” wheel supplies by on bicycles all night long. The next night when he was able to make it back to the regular pick-up spot, he discovered he’d been chalked down as Missing In Action.
Busyness is smothering me—not that I don’t enjoy being busy, but my spirit is wilting and withering, thirsting for Yahweh. And my thoughts are so full and my body so tired, that when I have a chance to be with Him, I turn away and whisper, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll find time to be with You.” That’s the sum total of my selfish part in this relationship. He never says the same to me.
Lord, Thy faithfulness is firmly planted,
Thou art He for whom I’ve panted,
Thirsting for Thy living water,
Here I stand, Thy wand’ring daughter.
Take me in Thy arms and teach me,
Where distractions cannot reach me.
Make me steadfast, as Thou art,
Bound to Thee in mind and heart.
Today the trip to the Sunflower State took us a little farther north than our old stomping grounds—for a friend’s wedding and to visit Mom’s side of the family. Six hours is a long time to sit still, crowded into the back seat of the Camry with Josiah and Lydia. I shifted from proper car-sitting form to cross-legged, to Indian style, to my knees, and invented a few new positions of my own. When the first sign for Kansas City announced 174 miles, I thought I’d explode with impatience. Finally arrived at Grandma’s apartment, Josiah and I escaped on a lengthy tromp through housing developments and apartment complexes. Mentally, I was measuring the lawns, figuring the best patterns for mowing and trimming the edges. Who’d have thought I’d be so anxious to get back to yardwork?
Aunt Janny, Uncle Ed and I crowded into the back side of the dinner table and swapped smart-alec comments as we ate. Correction, Uncle Ed and I swapped comments. Aunt Janny attempted to converse in an intelligent manner. Grandma tossed in a few wise-cracks of her own from across the table, while Josiah and Papa interspersed witticisms from both ends. Lydia silently ate three platefuls and went back for seconds on dessert. I remember the days when I could out eat any three healthy adults and still run laps afterwards. Grown old enough to suffer from a much slower metabolism, I learned that the dinner table must also contain conversation to give us something less fattening to chew on. As the evening progressed, Papa got Uncle Ed talking about his experiences in Vietnam. Once he was dropped into the jungle on a scouting mission to find a Vietnamese supply trail. He found it and lost his squad. Holed up in a cave, he didn’t even dare use his radio as he watched the “ingenious little soldiers” wheel supplies by on bicycles all night long. The next night when he was able to make it back to the regular pick-up spot, he discovered he’d been chalked down as Missing In Action.
Busyness is smothering me—not that I don’t enjoy being busy, but my spirit is wilting and withering, thirsting for Yahweh. And my thoughts are so full and my body so tired, that when I have a chance to be with Him, I turn away and whisper, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll find time to be with You.” That’s the sum total of my selfish part in this relationship. He never says the same to me.
Lord, Thy faithfulness is firmly planted,
Thou art He for whom I’ve panted,
Thirsting for Thy living water,
Here I stand, Thy wand’ring daughter.
Take me in Thy arms and teach me,
Where distractions cannot reach me.
Make me steadfast, as Thou art,
Bound to Thee in mind and heart.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
“It’s just like nothing ever happened,” Tabitha beamed at me, as we sat in church, listening to Papa teach from First Corinthians eleven. “Like you’ve never been away.” I returned her smile, but I could hardly echo her sentiments. I haven’t slimmed up like Caleb or shot up like Ezra or filled out like Lydia, but something’s different. Sitting next to her on cold, grew folding chairs in the Longan’s living room, singing harmonies at the top of our lungs, pointing out scriptures that come to mind as the men teach doesn’t erase the past months. My heart says it’s not like I’ve never been away. It’s like I’ve been away for years. Bethany clung to me and the rest of the children crowded around, eager to touch me, to ask me questions, to show me new things. It’s been so long since I was overwhelmed by children. In a whirlwind, we flash through pictures, watch silly military videos, give a million hugs and bustle back into the suburban for the long trip home. Home, as in, Arkansas.
Arkansas is not my home.
Neither is Kansas.
The Israelites, on the other hand, reached their home. Parceled out and detailed, the inheritance of the sons of Israel was delivered, as Yahweh had promised. Not one of the good promises which Yahweh had made to the house of Israel failed; all came to pass. The book of Joshua is a vastly triumphant book—a book of overcoming through Yahweh’s power. As an old man, Joshua calls together the twelve tribes and reminds them of God’s working in their history, from the day He called Abram out of his “home” and promised the land to his descendants forever. “Look at what God has done for you,” Joshua said, waving his hand over fields, vineyards, cities and olive groves. “This is what God has given you. If it’s disagreeable in your eyes to serve Yahweh, choose for yourselves whom you will serve. You can serve the gods of the people Yahweh drove out before you. But as for me and my house, we’re going to serve Yahweh.” Collectively, the people answered, “We’ll serve Yahweh!” “Ah,” Joshua reminded them. “Yahweh is jealous. Remember, He’s hard to serve—if you forsake Him He will have to discipline you.” Again the people responded, “We will serve Yahweh!” Joshua said to the people, “You are witnesses against yourselves. You have chosen Yahweh! Therefore cast away your idols and turn your hearts toward Yahweh.” A third time the people affirmed Yahweh their God. And they did, all the days of Yahweh, and all the days of the elders who survived him. Joshua knew the importance of spelling out the choice—Yahweh and blessing or the idols who cannot save. He knew the importance of seeking a public commitment. And he knew the value of setting up a visible witness, a pile of stones, to remind them every time they saw it, of the commitment they had made to Yahweh, to serve Him only. It’s easy for me to think in my heart, “I will serve the Lord.” But to open my mouth, to acknowledge that I understand how hard it may be, that I understand that Yahweh is jealous for my attention, which He deserves, that I intend to seek Him first and His righteousness confirms to me and to the world, that I have chosen Yahweh. It reminds me where my home is.
When Mr. T asked me today if I was settled in, I hesitated. Settled in to what? A new groove that I’ve built to hedge me into monotony? Sometimes I become too settled, too complacent, too comfortable. Safe. Afraid to take down camp and move, stretch my boundaries, do something new. Afraid that change might be looming at me like a dark thunderhead on the horizon—but is that cloud rain, or sleet or locusts? Why should I avoid change? Each new change the Lord has brought my way has only given me more room to grow, more reason to stretch down my roots for the living water. It seems the Lord has had change on my mind lately, perhaps as I see what Yahweh has done so far, and I look ahead to things that are already changing, wondering what comes next. Fearing what comes next, as if my Lord would lead me into a way He does not also tread.
Lord! Prevent me from ever resisting change, from ever becoming so comfortable in my own way that I lie stagnant and quit growing. Prune me that I grow stronger, taller and bear more fruit!
Never let me feel entirely “at home”—until I am with You.
Lord, this world is not my home,
So I may be content to roam,
Without belonging here or there
As long as I may have Thee near.
May all my interest always be
Invested in eternity
That when I climb up Jacob’s stair
I’ll find the mansion Thou prepared.
Arkansas is not my home.
Neither is Kansas.
The Israelites, on the other hand, reached their home. Parceled out and detailed, the inheritance of the sons of Israel was delivered, as Yahweh had promised. Not one of the good promises which Yahweh had made to the house of Israel failed; all came to pass. The book of Joshua is a vastly triumphant book—a book of overcoming through Yahweh’s power. As an old man, Joshua calls together the twelve tribes and reminds them of God’s working in their history, from the day He called Abram out of his “home” and promised the land to his descendants forever. “Look at what God has done for you,” Joshua said, waving his hand over fields, vineyards, cities and olive groves. “This is what God has given you. If it’s disagreeable in your eyes to serve Yahweh, choose for yourselves whom you will serve. You can serve the gods of the people Yahweh drove out before you. But as for me and my house, we’re going to serve Yahweh.” Collectively, the people answered, “We’ll serve Yahweh!” “Ah,” Joshua reminded them. “Yahweh is jealous. Remember, He’s hard to serve—if you forsake Him He will have to discipline you.” Again the people responded, “We will serve Yahweh!” Joshua said to the people, “You are witnesses against yourselves. You have chosen Yahweh! Therefore cast away your idols and turn your hearts toward Yahweh.” A third time the people affirmed Yahweh their God. And they did, all the days of Yahweh, and all the days of the elders who survived him. Joshua knew the importance of spelling out the choice—Yahweh and blessing or the idols who cannot save. He knew the importance of seeking a public commitment. And he knew the value of setting up a visible witness, a pile of stones, to remind them every time they saw it, of the commitment they had made to Yahweh, to serve Him only. It’s easy for me to think in my heart, “I will serve the Lord.” But to open my mouth, to acknowledge that I understand how hard it may be, that I understand that Yahweh is jealous for my attention, which He deserves, that I intend to seek Him first and His righteousness confirms to me and to the world, that I have chosen Yahweh. It reminds me where my home is.
When Mr. T asked me today if I was settled in, I hesitated. Settled in to what? A new groove that I’ve built to hedge me into monotony? Sometimes I become too settled, too complacent, too comfortable. Safe. Afraid to take down camp and move, stretch my boundaries, do something new. Afraid that change might be looming at me like a dark thunderhead on the horizon—but is that cloud rain, or sleet or locusts? Why should I avoid change? Each new change the Lord has brought my way has only given me more room to grow, more reason to stretch down my roots for the living water. It seems the Lord has had change on my mind lately, perhaps as I see what Yahweh has done so far, and I look ahead to things that are already changing, wondering what comes next. Fearing what comes next, as if my Lord would lead me into a way He does not also tread.
Lord! Prevent me from ever resisting change, from ever becoming so comfortable in my own way that I lie stagnant and quit growing. Prune me that I grow stronger, taller and bear more fruit!
Never let me feel entirely “at home”—until I am with You.
Lord, this world is not my home,
So I may be content to roam,
Without belonging here or there
As long as I may have Thee near.
May all my interest always be
Invested in eternity
That when I climb up Jacob’s stair
I’ll find the mansion Thou prepared.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Grandma’s house is a place to grow fat. She always makes enough food to feed an army of hippos and insists we eat it. “No one’s going anywhere until that vegetable soup is gone.” “I made a huge cake! I expect to see it eaten.” I was delighted we had Nick along to help our endeavor.
And Mandy was another welcome addition. “I’m at my Grandma’s,” I told her over the phone. “Are you busy this afternoon?” As a matter of fact she wasn’t. And she was coming to town anyway for a game night at Abigail and Shane’s. After an amazing lunch of chicken enchiladas, eaten fashionably late (at three o’clock), the whole family packed out in the suburban and headed into their house for a tour and a glimpse of little Miss Sofia Grace. A few months ago I’d figured I’d be spending my days holding Abigail’s baby and hanging out with Mandy. This is the first time I’ve held Sofia, and I’ve not seen Mandy in six months. Seems like I keep being reminded how the Lord changes things—quickly sometimes. I always look ahead, when the change is still misty and unknown and grow frightened, but each change is simply the rerouting of a channel. The flow is never stopped—just redirected. Never as dangerous as my overactive imagination deems possible.
Grandma’s house is also a wealth of distractions. “I’ll have plenty of time to finish Joshua,” I cheerfully tell myself, but instead I sit through the entire KU game, keeping track of the players almost as avidly as Grandma herself. As if I care who makes it into the top four. As if it has any benefit or bearing on my life or the path the Lord would have me walk. As if watching these poor deluded souls grasping at a fading crown will somehow spur me on toward my own eternal crown.
“The Prayer of Jabez” lay quietly by on the coffee table, so I picked it up and started reading. More out of curiosity, since I’d seen more “prayer of Jabez” paraphernalia than I ever cared to see. Creating study Bibles named after one verse seems a bit of overkill to me. However, I soon found myself engrossed in the truths and principles shared in this original pocket-sized book—many of which the Lord has been bringing forth in my life already. Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, “Oh that Thou wouldst bless me indeed, and enlarge my border, and that Thy hand might be with me, and that Thou wouldst keep me from evil, that it may not bring pain to me.” A simple prayer, it seems, and perhaps a little self-serving. In my self-righteousness, I tend to reprimand myself for praying for “me” all the time. But David, the man after God’s own heart prayed and pleaded for himself constantly. Yahweh wants us to seek Him for ourselves, to seek His blessings for ourselves, and to seek His protection for ourselves. This little booklet broke down Jabez’s prayer into four parts: A plea for God’s blessing, a plea for increased influence, a plea for God’s empowering and a plea to be kept from temptation. When we ask for God to bless what we do, we must understand that His blessings point to Him, that He blesses what brings glory to Him, that His blessings include pruning, disciplining and guidance. When we ask that he increase our influence, we are asking for more ministry—sometimes beyond what we can handle! I’ve seen this over and over again in my life, especially in the past few months. But having more than we can handle is simply the perfect situation for Yahweh to work—if we humbly entreat His hand to be with us, His Spirit to empower us, His wisdom to guide us. There is no question then about Who did the work. The more we seek to do for the Lord, the larger a target we make ourselves to Satan. To pray to be kept from temptation—“lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil,” Jesus taught His disciples to pray. Beg the Lord, not only for strength to endure, to resist and to come safely through temptation, but pray in advance that He would remove temptation, that He would keep our feet on a level path. What could glorify God more than to bless us as we seek to serve Him, by His power and to implore His protection from even the temptation to sin? Chronicles tell us, God answered the prayer of Jabez.
As I read, my mind kept coming back to Caleb, the man I read about this morning. Of the generation that rebelled against Yahweh and fearfully refused to take the land, only Joshua and Caleb lived to enter the land—the two spies who remained faithful to Yahweh. Incidentally, Caleb’s name means faithful. At age eighty-five, when he finally entered the land and took his possession, he came to Joshua saying, “I’m still strong! There’s still so much to do! Give me more land (enlarge my boundaries) so I can drive out the Lord’s enemies.” What a delight Caleb must have been to Yahweh, in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, he shone like a light, praising Yahweh for giving him health, desiring more room to use God’s blessings to further God’s name.
Lord, bless me! Bless my soul indeed
Fulfill my deeply rooted need
To be with Thee and to be Thine,
And turn my water into wine
That it may bring Thy joy to all,
And hear my prayer whene’er I call.
May Thy hand be swift to guide me
And from every evil hide me.
And Mandy was another welcome addition. “I’m at my Grandma’s,” I told her over the phone. “Are you busy this afternoon?” As a matter of fact she wasn’t. And she was coming to town anyway for a game night at Abigail and Shane’s. After an amazing lunch of chicken enchiladas, eaten fashionably late (at three o’clock), the whole family packed out in the suburban and headed into their house for a tour and a glimpse of little Miss Sofia Grace. A few months ago I’d figured I’d be spending my days holding Abigail’s baby and hanging out with Mandy. This is the first time I’ve held Sofia, and I’ve not seen Mandy in six months. Seems like I keep being reminded how the Lord changes things—quickly sometimes. I always look ahead, when the change is still misty and unknown and grow frightened, but each change is simply the rerouting of a channel. The flow is never stopped—just redirected. Never as dangerous as my overactive imagination deems possible.
Grandma’s house is also a wealth of distractions. “I’ll have plenty of time to finish Joshua,” I cheerfully tell myself, but instead I sit through the entire KU game, keeping track of the players almost as avidly as Grandma herself. As if I care who makes it into the top four. As if it has any benefit or bearing on my life or the path the Lord would have me walk. As if watching these poor deluded souls grasping at a fading crown will somehow spur me on toward my own eternal crown.
“The Prayer of Jabez” lay quietly by on the coffee table, so I picked it up and started reading. More out of curiosity, since I’d seen more “prayer of Jabez” paraphernalia than I ever cared to see. Creating study Bibles named after one verse seems a bit of overkill to me. However, I soon found myself engrossed in the truths and principles shared in this original pocket-sized book—many of which the Lord has been bringing forth in my life already. Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, “Oh that Thou wouldst bless me indeed, and enlarge my border, and that Thy hand might be with me, and that Thou wouldst keep me from evil, that it may not bring pain to me.” A simple prayer, it seems, and perhaps a little self-serving. In my self-righteousness, I tend to reprimand myself for praying for “me” all the time. But David, the man after God’s own heart prayed and pleaded for himself constantly. Yahweh wants us to seek Him for ourselves, to seek His blessings for ourselves, and to seek His protection for ourselves. This little booklet broke down Jabez’s prayer into four parts: A plea for God’s blessing, a plea for increased influence, a plea for God’s empowering and a plea to be kept from temptation. When we ask for God to bless what we do, we must understand that His blessings point to Him, that He blesses what brings glory to Him, that His blessings include pruning, disciplining and guidance. When we ask that he increase our influence, we are asking for more ministry—sometimes beyond what we can handle! I’ve seen this over and over again in my life, especially in the past few months. But having more than we can handle is simply the perfect situation for Yahweh to work—if we humbly entreat His hand to be with us, His Spirit to empower us, His wisdom to guide us. There is no question then about Who did the work. The more we seek to do for the Lord, the larger a target we make ourselves to Satan. To pray to be kept from temptation—“lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil,” Jesus taught His disciples to pray. Beg the Lord, not only for strength to endure, to resist and to come safely through temptation, but pray in advance that He would remove temptation, that He would keep our feet on a level path. What could glorify God more than to bless us as we seek to serve Him, by His power and to implore His protection from even the temptation to sin? Chronicles tell us, God answered the prayer of Jabez.
As I read, my mind kept coming back to Caleb, the man I read about this morning. Of the generation that rebelled against Yahweh and fearfully refused to take the land, only Joshua and Caleb lived to enter the land—the two spies who remained faithful to Yahweh. Incidentally, Caleb’s name means faithful. At age eighty-five, when he finally entered the land and took his possession, he came to Joshua saying, “I’m still strong! There’s still so much to do! Give me more land (enlarge my boundaries) so I can drive out the Lord’s enemies.” What a delight Caleb must have been to Yahweh, in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, he shone like a light, praising Yahweh for giving him health, desiring more room to use God’s blessings to further God’s name.
Lord, bless me! Bless my soul indeed
Fulfill my deeply rooted need
To be with Thee and to be Thine,
And turn my water into wine
That it may bring Thy joy to all,
And hear my prayer whene’er I call.
May Thy hand be swift to guide me
And from every evil hide me.
Friday, March 28, 2008
I asked the Lord to search me, and see if there were any wicked ways in me. What I really wanted was a pat on the back and an A-okay sign. Every day He digs up some new weed-of-thought that I’d been walking past, imagining a flower. Nasty habits, unkind thoughts, selfish reactions, harsh words. I sit here, crying, “Lord! Why don’t You work faster? I need to be perfect now!” The Lord must shake His head. As if He delays my perfection because that is His desire. Those weeds remain in the ground because I keep replanting them or even jealously guard them when He begins to pull them up. When will I ever stop getting in the way of my own cleansing process? I say I want to be pure, undefiled and set-apart. Where is my zeal against the sin in my own life?
The specific weakness which came to my attention started as a habit formed in family discussion—that of evaluating others and their mistakes. Papa has always made an effort to teach us wisdom from observing the world around us—a good thing. But what the fathers do in moderation, the sons may do in excess. What can be discussed for the sake of learning, need not take root in my heart and become the words that spill out my mouth. How do I speak of others? Pointing out their faults, their failures? Tainting the perceptions of others? As if I have no faults or failures. How often do unkind or hurtful words proceed from my mouth—the same mouth that claims to bless the Lord? This thing ought not to be. Honestly, the world would be at least an ounce better were I to always keep my mouth shut. But my heart would be just as deceptive. How can I forever keep before my eyes the command to encourage one another and build each other up?
The trip to Kansas came up almost suddenly, when we realized how much Grandma was hoping we’d come “home” for her birthday. Good intentions of finishing Joshua in the back seat of the suburban died in their youth, as my eyes crossed themselves in a feeble attempt to concentrate on the bouncing words. Instead, Josiah added a splitter to his CD player and we enjoyed Aaron Shust. Doctor James Vernon MacGee joined us later in the afternoon, teaching from the book of Ezra—a man who set himself to understand God’s law. Ezra told the Babylonian king that Yahweh would protect His people and begged that they be allowed to return to their homeland of Israel. As he viewed the congregation of Israel, full of women and little ones, his heart tumbled to his toes, realizing how vulnerable they would be. But this man of God refused to ask the king for a company of soldiers to protect them. He’d put Yahweh on the line, insisting He could protect them. How could he disgrace Yahweh now by admitting his fear of man? Instead, he called a solemn fast to beg Yahweh Himself for divine protection—and he was heard. I trust the Lord. Don’t I? Or do I fill my mouth with big words about trust and follow through by asking protection from the world? If I will cling to the promises of Yahweh, through myself completely on His mercy before the eyes of the world and humbly beg His protection through life, I will see Him vindicate His name. As Joshua told the Israelites, God works great things “so that all the peoples of the earth may know that the hand of Yahweh is mighty, so that you may fear Yahweh forever.”
Lord, Thou the firm foundation art,
The only anchor for my heart.
The only guarantee in life
Is that I am Thy promised wife.
Lord, teach me such a holy trust
That, for Thy own name’s sake Thou must
Protect and lead me by Thy hand
That I may take the promised land.
The specific weakness which came to my attention started as a habit formed in family discussion—that of evaluating others and their mistakes. Papa has always made an effort to teach us wisdom from observing the world around us—a good thing. But what the fathers do in moderation, the sons may do in excess. What can be discussed for the sake of learning, need not take root in my heart and become the words that spill out my mouth. How do I speak of others? Pointing out their faults, their failures? Tainting the perceptions of others? As if I have no faults or failures. How often do unkind or hurtful words proceed from my mouth—the same mouth that claims to bless the Lord? This thing ought not to be. Honestly, the world would be at least an ounce better were I to always keep my mouth shut. But my heart would be just as deceptive. How can I forever keep before my eyes the command to encourage one another and build each other up?
The trip to Kansas came up almost suddenly, when we realized how much Grandma was hoping we’d come “home” for her birthday. Good intentions of finishing Joshua in the back seat of the suburban died in their youth, as my eyes crossed themselves in a feeble attempt to concentrate on the bouncing words. Instead, Josiah added a splitter to his CD player and we enjoyed Aaron Shust. Doctor James Vernon MacGee joined us later in the afternoon, teaching from the book of Ezra—a man who set himself to understand God’s law. Ezra told the Babylonian king that Yahweh would protect His people and begged that they be allowed to return to their homeland of Israel. As he viewed the congregation of Israel, full of women and little ones, his heart tumbled to his toes, realizing how vulnerable they would be. But this man of God refused to ask the king for a company of soldiers to protect them. He’d put Yahweh on the line, insisting He could protect them. How could he disgrace Yahweh now by admitting his fear of man? Instead, he called a solemn fast to beg Yahweh Himself for divine protection—and he was heard. I trust the Lord. Don’t I? Or do I fill my mouth with big words about trust and follow through by asking protection from the world? If I will cling to the promises of Yahweh, through myself completely on His mercy before the eyes of the world and humbly beg His protection through life, I will see Him vindicate His name. As Joshua told the Israelites, God works great things “so that all the peoples of the earth may know that the hand of Yahweh is mighty, so that you may fear Yahweh forever.”
Lord, Thou the firm foundation art,
The only anchor for my heart.
The only guarantee in life
Is that I am Thy promised wife.
Lord, teach me such a holy trust
That, for Thy own name’s sake Thou must
Protect and lead me by Thy hand
That I may take the promised land.
Christmas Day, Tuesday, December 25, 2007
My Christmas Day revelation began this morning when I climbed into the shower, and was completed as I packed my bags for the trip home. I am a nerd. Only a nerd would forget to pack enough extra underwear while managing a meticulous book bag—complete with multiple books, Bibles, highlighters, pens, notebooks, laptop and every cord needed for enjoying the same. And the definition of the word “meticulous” leaves the comparative weights of the two bags to the reader’s imagination.
It seems I always write my thorns in the flesh, my struggles, the hard things. It’s true, because I write them to get them out of my system. The good things, the happy things I want to savor, to keep, but not to evaluate, pick apart, weigh out and measure. But I do want to remember them, and for the sake of memorial, I should record them with equal determination.
The trip home was shortened by sleep, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” and lighthearted teasing. Said Mom after switching drivers, “Ooh! I left my keys in the back.” Papa looked up from his book and waited for the punchline. “Do you want to go somewhere right away or should I crawl back there and get them?” Fishing his keys out of his back pocket, Papa wondered, “If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just ask?” Mom shrugged. “I just wanted you to say, ‘Oh here, sweetheart. You can use mine.” The corners of Papa’s mouth twitched as he handed the keys over. “I see,” he said, then added “Sweatheart.”
A few minutes later I heard him clear his voice as he studied the GPS. “I bet you didn’t realize what happens when the sun goes down.” We all perked up, waiting for some nifty, new information his toy would provide. “It gets dark.” Bewildered, Josiah and I looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “Stick around me,” Papa advised, “And you’re likely to learn a lot.”
The heavy cooler banged against my legs as I stopped short on the porch, my mouth dropping open. The first one to the house, I knew the French door standing wide open could mean only one thing: it had been standing open for the past five days. My stomach flip-flopped as I walked into the dark house, but the only obvious intruders were a couple of crinkly leaves.
Before leaving Grandma’s house this morning, we watched “The Nativity Story”, courtesy of Nathaniel and Lauren. I was struck by the picture it painted of Joseph “a righteous man” who also exhibited impressive mercy and instant obedience. Inspired, I searched out everything the Bible had to say about this surrogate father of Christ and found very little. Not a single word. Not one. In spite of having a non-speaking part in the drama of the incarnation, this man’s actions spoke with profound eloquence. As a righteous man, he could not marry Mary and smear his own reputation by acknowledging her child his own. And yet, he would not accuse her, see her stone and free himself to marry another. Instead, sacrificing his own happiness, since he would not be able to marry later, he intended to divorce her quietly and spare her life and that of her child. Joseph was a man of God—unable to live with sin, unwilling to destroy the sinner. In the footsteps of his namesake, Joseph receives three dreams from the Lord, and immediately rises from his bed and obeys—even at risk to himself, his reputation and his business. May I be just, abhorring the presence of sin in my own life, yet merciful to those caught in its snare, and always, instantly, unquestioningly obedient to the Word of the Lord.
Lord, Thy mercy overlooked
The sins Thou’d written in Thy book
Until the time that Thou could send
Thy Son to seek and save all men.
May I, too, be quick to see
The need of all humanity
For the mercy Thou would give
That those who judge themselves might live.
It seems I always write my thorns in the flesh, my struggles, the hard things. It’s true, because I write them to get them out of my system. The good things, the happy things I want to savor, to keep, but not to evaluate, pick apart, weigh out and measure. But I do want to remember them, and for the sake of memorial, I should record them with equal determination.
The trip home was shortened by sleep, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” and lighthearted teasing. Said Mom after switching drivers, “Ooh! I left my keys in the back.” Papa looked up from his book and waited for the punchline. “Do you want to go somewhere right away or should I crawl back there and get them?” Fishing his keys out of his back pocket, Papa wondered, “If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just ask?” Mom shrugged. “I just wanted you to say, ‘Oh here, sweetheart. You can use mine.” The corners of Papa’s mouth twitched as he handed the keys over. “I see,” he said, then added “Sweatheart.”
A few minutes later I heard him clear his voice as he studied the GPS. “I bet you didn’t realize what happens when the sun goes down.” We all perked up, waiting for some nifty, new information his toy would provide. “It gets dark.” Bewildered, Josiah and I looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “Stick around me,” Papa advised, “And you’re likely to learn a lot.”
The heavy cooler banged against my legs as I stopped short on the porch, my mouth dropping open. The first one to the house, I knew the French door standing wide open could mean only one thing: it had been standing open for the past five days. My stomach flip-flopped as I walked into the dark house, but the only obvious intruders were a couple of crinkly leaves.
Before leaving Grandma’s house this morning, we watched “The Nativity Story”, courtesy of Nathaniel and Lauren. I was struck by the picture it painted of Joseph “a righteous man” who also exhibited impressive mercy and instant obedience. Inspired, I searched out everything the Bible had to say about this surrogate father of Christ and found very little. Not a single word. Not one. In spite of having a non-speaking part in the drama of the incarnation, this man’s actions spoke with profound eloquence. As a righteous man, he could not marry Mary and smear his own reputation by acknowledging her child his own. And yet, he would not accuse her, see her stone and free himself to marry another. Instead, sacrificing his own happiness, since he would not be able to marry later, he intended to divorce her quietly and spare her life and that of her child. Joseph was a man of God—unable to live with sin, unwilling to destroy the sinner. In the footsteps of his namesake, Joseph receives three dreams from the Lord, and immediately rises from his bed and obeys—even at risk to himself, his reputation and his business. May I be just, abhorring the presence of sin in my own life, yet merciful to those caught in its snare, and always, instantly, unquestioningly obedient to the Word of the Lord.
Lord, Thy mercy overlooked
The sins Thou’d written in Thy book
Until the time that Thou could send
Thy Son to seek and save all men.
May I, too, be quick to see
The need of all humanity
For the mercy Thou would give
That those who judge themselves might live.
Christmas Eve, Monday, December 24, 2007
If I have an addiction, it is embodied in the form of an inconspicuous stick of gum. Gum is the solace I seek before diving into any grueling task: running several miles, sewing a dress, shopping, drumming or peeling potatoes—huge pots full, like today. When I wheedlingly asked Grandma if she had a hidden stash of the needed item, she responded, “Sure. And get me a piece, too. We might as well live dangerously.”
The snow drifted up several inches high under the edge of Grandma’s roof. As I stood at the window, looking longingly out into the brilliant sunshine, I remembered the year, not so long ago, when the drifts mounted up to better than five feet. Josiah and I scrambled up the TV antenna and jumped off the roof, to land safely in the piles of snow beneath. I don’t believe we’ll have enough padding this year for a repeat performance.
About half of the Knox family dropped by, in shifts, to say “hello” and “Merry Christmas”. Kansas still holds some of the most precious people God has made.
By about five o’clock Nathaniel and Lauren had arrived, and the rest of the family followed shortly after. You know how Christmas goes: talk, laugh, reminisce, eat a huge meal, eat tons of dessert, read the Christmas story, open gifts. Grandma threw in a fun twist by adding a game that soon had us all laughing. The house was mostly quiet again by eight-thirty or so.
I drummed for a little while, until Grandma protested. As I sat quietly, listening to Papa and Grandma discuss people, places and events, my drumsticks clicked and Grandma exclaimed, “Well, Abigail!” Instantly Papa commanded, “Abigail, shut your eyes.” I always feel so humiliated when he treats me like a five-year-old. He didn’t even know what Grandma had exclaimed about, and she was only teasing. Perhaps he only wants to keep me a little child, and so treats me like one—sometimes. Later, after an explanation of the affair, he said, simply, “Well, it never hurts you to close your eyes.” If he only knew. My imagination is powerful, and, if I concentrate hard enough I can remember the tiniest glimmer of repentance. Grandma made amends, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
It’s past eleven now, and Nathaniel and Papa show no promise of quitting the living room, where I am to bed down after being booted out of the guest room by my brother and sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall bid them Merry Christmas at the same time I wish them a good night.
I wish I could claim some beautiful spiritual revelation for Christmas Eve. Quite frankly, I hardly had a thought to myself, and my Bible reading was barely long-enough to support a spiritual midget. How could Christmas have become so distorted that the day I should celebrate my Lord and Savior the most is so wrapped up in “other things” that I give little more than a nod in His general direction?
Lord, I claim to celebrate,
But tell Thee Thou wilt have to wait
For many things of many hues
Are claiming what, to Thee, is due.
God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,
When finally we cease this din,
I pray before we seek our rest
We’d thank Thee for Thy gift—the best.
The snow drifted up several inches high under the edge of Grandma’s roof. As I stood at the window, looking longingly out into the brilliant sunshine, I remembered the year, not so long ago, when the drifts mounted up to better than five feet. Josiah and I scrambled up the TV antenna and jumped off the roof, to land safely in the piles of snow beneath. I don’t believe we’ll have enough padding this year for a repeat performance.
About half of the Knox family dropped by, in shifts, to say “hello” and “Merry Christmas”. Kansas still holds some of the most precious people God has made.
By about five o’clock Nathaniel and Lauren had arrived, and the rest of the family followed shortly after. You know how Christmas goes: talk, laugh, reminisce, eat a huge meal, eat tons of dessert, read the Christmas story, open gifts. Grandma threw in a fun twist by adding a game that soon had us all laughing. The house was mostly quiet again by eight-thirty or so.
I drummed for a little while, until Grandma protested. As I sat quietly, listening to Papa and Grandma discuss people, places and events, my drumsticks clicked and Grandma exclaimed, “Well, Abigail!” Instantly Papa commanded, “Abigail, shut your eyes.” I always feel so humiliated when he treats me like a five-year-old. He didn’t even know what Grandma had exclaimed about, and she was only teasing. Perhaps he only wants to keep me a little child, and so treats me like one—sometimes. Later, after an explanation of the affair, he said, simply, “Well, it never hurts you to close your eyes.” If he only knew. My imagination is powerful, and, if I concentrate hard enough I can remember the tiniest glimmer of repentance. Grandma made amends, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
It’s past eleven now, and Nathaniel and Papa show no promise of quitting the living room, where I am to bed down after being booted out of the guest room by my brother and sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall bid them Merry Christmas at the same time I wish them a good night.
I wish I could claim some beautiful spiritual revelation for Christmas Eve. Quite frankly, I hardly had a thought to myself, and my Bible reading was barely long-enough to support a spiritual midget. How could Christmas have become so distorted that the day I should celebrate my Lord and Savior the most is so wrapped up in “other things” that I give little more than a nod in His general direction?
Lord, I claim to celebrate,
But tell Thee Thou wilt have to wait
For many things of many hues
Are claiming what, to Thee, is due.
God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,
When finally we cease this din,
I pray before we seek our rest
We’d thank Thee for Thy gift—the best.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Telephone. Telegraph. Tell a girl. The three ways of modern communication, they say. (Of course, that nifty tongue-twister was written during a modern date that is rather a long time ago.) Which, I suppose, is simply of another proof of my lack of femininity. I can keep a secret. Just try me. For six months I talked to Lauren every day, counseling her to focus on the Lord and forget about Nathaniel, knowing the whole time that he planned to ask her to marry him. Folks who wondered about their honeymoon would say, “I bet Abigail knows,” and I’d just shrug my shoulders. Secrets don’t make friends, they say. But “they” are wrong. The person who can keep a secret will have many friends, because they have proven their trustworthiness.
So, when we pulled up to the Day’s house this morning and noticed a Toyota car with Texas tags and the words “Mac and Cheese” chalked across the back window, Mom exclaimed “It’s Lauren and Nathaniel!” and Papa remarked, “I bet Abigail was in on this one.” And he was not mistaken. It was good to be among the Southeast Kansas saints again, although the meeting was a small one.
Back at Grandma’s, after supper, Papa expressed his displeasure with the growth attempts of his two sons. “I was hoping to have two big sons hanging around me for bodyguards,” he complained, a twinkled in his blue eye. “Well,” Josiah shot back, “why’d you marry her?” We all looked at my mom, who had proudly announced only that morning that she had gained weight—and now weighed ninety-seven pounds. Always the peacemaker, I volunteered to grow and become the coveted bodyguard, to the amusement of everyone present. At twenty years and five foot even, I’m afraid the only parts of my body still growing are my toenails and hair. A straightening the other day revealed that my hair is now long enough to converse comfortably with my waistline, a revelation I haven’t quite digested and classified as good or bad yet.
I spent several hours, huddled over my laptop alongside Papa, downloading version and commentaries for my E-sword program and discussing things that have been haunting me for days. After evenings like tonight, I think back to the impetuous moments when I whine and wail about not understanding him and him not understanding me and communication and the lack thereof and all things of which the daughter of a godly man can complain, and wonder how Satan can be so clever to so deceive me.
Ravi Zacharias joined us for the drive to church this morning, with a message from one of the minor prophets on worship—in Spirit and in truth. I listened, wrapped up in his quaint accent and the power of his message, as he shared how worship must be according to God’s truth: intimate, but still reverent. “You call me Father, but where is my honor?” He spoke of the Indian word for father, and pointed out how they never use it without adding a term of respect—like saying, “Papa, sir.” Our relationship with God is the same: He is our loving Father, but we must never forget that He is almighty Creator. Then he began to share a vignette from the life of Eric Liddell. “God has made me for a purpose, but He has also made me fast. When I run, I feel His pleasure.” We worship God by doing everything for His glory, whether it is running—or writing. He doesn’t seek to strip us of our identity and be worshiped by robots. He wants us to use the talents and gifts He has given to each of us to worship Him privately, and to proclaim His excellence to all creation.
Lord, Thou made me for a purpose
To be overwhelmed by worship.
And I see Thy perfect plan
Manifest in who I am.
Prayer and praise are just a start
For the worship of the heart.
Talents that Thou gives are holy
When my life is yielded wholly.
So, when we pulled up to the Day’s house this morning and noticed a Toyota car with Texas tags and the words “Mac and Cheese” chalked across the back window, Mom exclaimed “It’s Lauren and Nathaniel!” and Papa remarked, “I bet Abigail was in on this one.” And he was not mistaken. It was good to be among the Southeast Kansas saints again, although the meeting was a small one.
Back at Grandma’s, after supper, Papa expressed his displeasure with the growth attempts of his two sons. “I was hoping to have two big sons hanging around me for bodyguards,” he complained, a twinkled in his blue eye. “Well,” Josiah shot back, “why’d you marry her?” We all looked at my mom, who had proudly announced only that morning that she had gained weight—and now weighed ninety-seven pounds. Always the peacemaker, I volunteered to grow and become the coveted bodyguard, to the amusement of everyone present. At twenty years and five foot even, I’m afraid the only parts of my body still growing are my toenails and hair. A straightening the other day revealed that my hair is now long enough to converse comfortably with my waistline, a revelation I haven’t quite digested and classified as good or bad yet.
I spent several hours, huddled over my laptop alongside Papa, downloading version and commentaries for my E-sword program and discussing things that have been haunting me for days. After evenings like tonight, I think back to the impetuous moments when I whine and wail about not understanding him and him not understanding me and communication and the lack thereof and all things of which the daughter of a godly man can complain, and wonder how Satan can be so clever to so deceive me.
Ravi Zacharias joined us for the drive to church this morning, with a message from one of the minor prophets on worship—in Spirit and in truth. I listened, wrapped up in his quaint accent and the power of his message, as he shared how worship must be according to God’s truth: intimate, but still reverent. “You call me Father, but where is my honor?” He spoke of the Indian word for father, and pointed out how they never use it without adding a term of respect—like saying, “Papa, sir.” Our relationship with God is the same: He is our loving Father, but we must never forget that He is almighty Creator. Then he began to share a vignette from the life of Eric Liddell. “God has made me for a purpose, but He has also made me fast. When I run, I feel His pleasure.” We worship God by doing everything for His glory, whether it is running—or writing. He doesn’t seek to strip us of our identity and be worshiped by robots. He wants us to use the talents and gifts He has given to each of us to worship Him privately, and to proclaim His excellence to all creation.
Lord, Thou made me for a purpose
To be overwhelmed by worship.
And I see Thy perfect plan
Manifest in who I am.
Prayer and praise are just a start
For the worship of the heart.
Talents that Thou gives are holy
When my life is yielded wholly.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
I asked for some “real” winter weather for Christmas, and my wish was granted in full. Shortly after arriving at Grandma’s today, the misty rain began to fall as frozen BBs which later feathered into snowflakes. The atmosphere proved complete with the characteristic loss of electricity. Someone please tell me what mischievous imp made off with my mind while I packed for a traditional “white Christmas” and persuaded me I wouldn’t need snow clothes?
Were I to record the entire day, it would simply be a repetition of wasted time. I wasted time ineffectually trying to set up the free dial-up e-mail I’d ordered for the Willises, and only managed to fit in one Christmas Carol with Tabitha. I wasted time watching a “Christian Comedy” DVD with my family. For the few moments of stellar humor there was plenty of coarse jesting, irreverence and making light of serious things. Have I simply grown boring? One thing I know for sure: I am bored. I am bored with the entertainment industry, with constant noise, with news that glorifies sin by plastering it up for us to gape at. I have enough sin of my own. Why do I need to be constantly reminded of the vices of a world that grieves my Master?
And yet, I seem equally bored with my God’s holy word. I’ve been slogging through Ezekiel for days now, desperately trying to find something in the book that I can relate to, that speaks to me of God, my Father, trying to fathom a man who appeared to his countrymen as a religious freak. I read, I scratch my head, I reread, I pull my hair, I read, I reread again, I would bite my nails if that were one of my many nasty habits. This man bakes weird bread, lies on his side naked, watches dry bones rejuvenated and speaks of blood and guts. In this valley of dry bones, God says to me, “Abigail, can your spirit breathe again? Can your spirit live again to delight in my word again?” And I answer, “Ah, Lord God, for only You know.” And then it happens—the rush of wind, the whisper of breath through my soul. Suddenly the constant noise and motion of the TV in the other room has lost it’s deceptive pull, suddenly I know that Ezekiel was written for me. Even in my spiritual draught, the Lord can revive me and make me a warrior for Him. And with His power flowing through me, I don’t mind be weird. I don’t mind being called to do weird things. I don’t mind being made a spectacle of. In light of God’s glory, I can devour His word, and it will be as sweet as honey to me.
Lord, when I have lost the vision
‘Tis not Thou who needs revision
‘Tis my heart that needs reviving.
Only Thou can so enliven.
So I pray that Thou would breathe
Into my draught so I believe
That all Thy word is all I need
And come to Thee again, to feed.
Were I to record the entire day, it would simply be a repetition of wasted time. I wasted time ineffectually trying to set up the free dial-up e-mail I’d ordered for the Willises, and only managed to fit in one Christmas Carol with Tabitha. I wasted time watching a “Christian Comedy” DVD with my family. For the few moments of stellar humor there was plenty of coarse jesting, irreverence and making light of serious things. Have I simply grown boring? One thing I know for sure: I am bored. I am bored with the entertainment industry, with constant noise, with news that glorifies sin by plastering it up for us to gape at. I have enough sin of my own. Why do I need to be constantly reminded of the vices of a world that grieves my Master?
And yet, I seem equally bored with my God’s holy word. I’ve been slogging through Ezekiel for days now, desperately trying to find something in the book that I can relate to, that speaks to me of God, my Father, trying to fathom a man who appeared to his countrymen as a religious freak. I read, I scratch my head, I reread, I pull my hair, I read, I reread again, I would bite my nails if that were one of my many nasty habits. This man bakes weird bread, lies on his side naked, watches dry bones rejuvenated and speaks of blood and guts. In this valley of dry bones, God says to me, “Abigail, can your spirit breathe again? Can your spirit live again to delight in my word again?” And I answer, “Ah, Lord God, for only You know.” And then it happens—the rush of wind, the whisper of breath through my soul. Suddenly the constant noise and motion of the TV in the other room has lost it’s deceptive pull, suddenly I know that Ezekiel was written for me. Even in my spiritual draught, the Lord can revive me and make me a warrior for Him. And with His power flowing through me, I don’t mind be weird. I don’t mind being called to do weird things. I don’t mind being made a spectacle of. In light of God’s glory, I can devour His word, and it will be as sweet as honey to me.
Lord, when I have lost the vision
‘Tis not Thou who needs revision
‘Tis my heart that needs reviving.
Only Thou can so enliven.
So I pray that Thou would breathe
Into my draught so I believe
That all Thy word is all I need
And come to Thee again, to feed.
Friday, December 21, 2007
One thing I don’t miss about Kansas: the wind. I woke to the world, in time to take over the wheel and navigate Highway 400. A wave of nostalgia swept over me as I scanned the horizon—something I’d not done since we moved from the land of the big sky in October. But I was soon reminded, during a walk with Damaris, that wide open spaces come with wind—in abundance. Hair that was long and curly when I headed out resembled something of a discarded bird’s nest when I returned.
Road trips have evolved enormously from the days when I was a youngster. Imagine me, pointing my cane and muttering, “When I was a youngster, we listened to cassette tapes and colored in coloring books, and kept plenty of quarters around for payphones on trips home for Christmas.” I spent most of this trip, busily catching up on e-mails connected on my laptop through an AT&T wireless device. Papa read out our speed, elevation, time, longitude and latitude from the GPS wired into our windshield—in between chatting on his Bluetooth, of course while Mom enjoyed the Christmas music I’d ripped to an mp3 player. The only improvement I could think up would be “in-flight” fueling.
Upon reaching the Willises, I had high hopes that someone would comment how much I’ve grown. No such luck. Some growth simply isn’t measured in inches.
The uprooting, far from setting me back, has caused me to turn my face toward the Son and bloom with all my might. I left such a short time ago, a sheltered Kansas girl. I return, overwhelmed by the smallness of the world and the enormity of my Lord. I left, wondering what the Lord had in store for me. I return, knowing His plan remains the same as always—to glorify Him.
But I find I sympathize with my Savior “A prophet is without honor in his hometown and among his own relatives.” Is it a circle? Because I know my own family, my own hometown will watch me critically, smiling and patting me on the head as an eternal little girl, I close myself up inside, shrink back into the stature of a child and try to hide behind memories. It is hardest to share my heart with those who share my life.
Have I grown? I dare not stand next to the measuring tape my own family would hold.
Lord, Thou plants and Thou dost prune
And though the outcome seems not soon
The perfect plan that Thou hast drawn
Becomes more clear with each new dawn.
The measuring tape that others hold
Is not the stature I uphold.
I’ll never reach these plans, save one:
The measure of Thy perfect Son.
Road trips have evolved enormously from the days when I was a youngster. Imagine me, pointing my cane and muttering, “When I was a youngster, we listened to cassette tapes and colored in coloring books, and kept plenty of quarters around for payphones on trips home for Christmas.” I spent most of this trip, busily catching up on e-mails connected on my laptop through an AT&T wireless device. Papa read out our speed, elevation, time, longitude and latitude from the GPS wired into our windshield—in between chatting on his Bluetooth, of course while Mom enjoyed the Christmas music I’d ripped to an mp3 player. The only improvement I could think up would be “in-flight” fueling.
Upon reaching the Willises, I had high hopes that someone would comment how much I’ve grown. No such luck. Some growth simply isn’t measured in inches.
The uprooting, far from setting me back, has caused me to turn my face toward the Son and bloom with all my might. I left such a short time ago, a sheltered Kansas girl. I return, overwhelmed by the smallness of the world and the enormity of my Lord. I left, wondering what the Lord had in store for me. I return, knowing His plan remains the same as always—to glorify Him.
But I find I sympathize with my Savior “A prophet is without honor in his hometown and among his own relatives.” Is it a circle? Because I know my own family, my own hometown will watch me critically, smiling and patting me on the head as an eternal little girl, I close myself up inside, shrink back into the stature of a child and try to hide behind memories. It is hardest to share my heart with those who share my life.
Have I grown? I dare not stand next to the measuring tape my own family would hold.
Lord, Thou plants and Thou dost prune
And though the outcome seems not soon
The perfect plan that Thou hast drawn
Becomes more clear with each new dawn.
The measuring tape that others hold
Is not the stature I uphold.
I’ll never reach these plans, save one:
The measure of Thy perfect Son.