See, it's like this: it doesn't happen often, but when it does, beware. Today I was riding an emotional rollercoaster--and it looked like a suburban. It's been building up for a couple of weeks. No, actually, it's been building up for a year. A year's worth of build-up can be pretty nasty. And to top it off, several things this weekend resulted in a complete drop-out in the careful nest of my emotions--mostly due to relief, partly due to confusion and a lot of bewilderment. Why did I have to go through all that misery, confusion and pain, trying desperately to do the right thing--and there's no point to it?
Then along comes the reminder that I still haven't sold the suburban. That suburban that I've had for a year to sell. That one goes like this: Papa gave me the suburban (sort of) to sell with a caveat. See, the money I get from the suburban is supposed to pay for my wedding. Whenever. That's the missing link for all those people who keep pestering me to find out when I'm going to get married. I can't until I sell this suburban. (That's a joke...I think.) The problem is that I never wanted the suburban. In fact, it was kind of embarrassing, so I never explained to anyone why my parents gave me a suburban. In olden days girls had countries or lands or cows for dowries. I have a suburban. It's not very useful to drive in the meanwhile and if I never sell it, it's not exactly the kind of vehicle I care to start out with. In fact, on the surface it feels like the kind of gift where the giver says, "You know, I've got this thing I don't want anymore. And someday soon, I'm going to have to pay for her wedding. So, why don't I just give her this thing I don't want anyway and tell her to sell it and pay for her own wedding." And I feel just that valuable. Which isn't very.
Is that the truth? Tell me, dear Searcher of Hearts, since when were emotions dependent on reason or truth? My wish-wash emotions aren't terribly interested in the truth. So this gift I have has been weighing on my will, mind and emotions for a year now. And I've tried everything that doesn't cost money out of my pocket in order to sell it. Oh people are interested until it comes down to a price and then they aren't. At least not in a reasonable price. Or they're super interested, but wait? You live in D-town? That's too far to drive. Nevermind. More trouble than it's worth.
And today Papa expressed his frustration that we still have a suburban. You must understand, this suburban and I are both still at home for one simple reason: the right person just hasn't come along yet. The right person who needs just this special vehicle (which is really not so much special as not in demand) and is willing to pay the price. Yet here we are, still paying tags and taxes, trying to keep clean and spiffy and advertised something that no one wants. And here I am, trying to sell a suburban to pay for a wedding when no one even wants to marry me.
How pointless is all of that?
I fought tears and crashing emotions all the way to work where I dropped Papa off and wished him a good day and noticed that the gas was on empty. I hadn't even been the last person to drive it, but I would get to fill it up--and I was already late for Choices. I drove away feeling frustrated, lost and unloved.
Remember, emotions are not always reasonable. Or based on truth.
Trying to talk truth into my weeping soul, I began reminding myself, "Nobody promises results, Abigail. You're just supposed to do your best and seek to do what's right anyway."
"Yeah," I argued with myself, "But that's just not fair. I've tried so hard! I've been honest and forthright! I've researched, I've posted ads, I've tried to please my parents. I don't get why hard things always happen to me. Why I'm always frustrated and hurt and confused. What am I doing wrong?"
That was a rhetorical question, you know. When I ask, "What am I doing wrong?" I don't expect an answer, or I expect to hear "nothing." Because, clearly, no fault lies with me.
Instead a verse in Philippians drifted over the current of my complaints. "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks. This is God's will for you."
Great. The good ol' rejoice always passage. Smiling is God's will for me.
But the truth began to sink in deeper than my level of self-pity. In everything give thanks...in all honesty, I had always resented that suburban. I had viewed it as a burden, something I hadn't asked for, which would be sold to pay for a designated purpose I never sought. Gee thanks. Some gift. In all my recalling, I could never recall being thankful for that suburban. In all my recalling, I could recall being irritated about trying to park it, or having to park it at the library for advertising and walking to Choices, or having to wash and vacuum it or having to get gas. I certainly was not grateful for that gift. A generous gift from my loving parents.
Then began the sermon. I'm very eloquent when I preach at myself. "Abigail, be grateful! You be grateful! Be grateful!" I signaled and shifted into the turn lane on Main street. "You be grateful for this suburban!"
And the suburban died. Right there in the middle of the busiest intersection in town at two o'clock in the afternoon, this suburban that I was going to be grateful for died. And it wouldn't restart.
Two possibilities--absolutely no gas, not even fumes. Or the battery, which we'd just replaced and had worked on, since the battery light was on. Becky called to tell me there was no power at the clinic and we were closed and I sniffled into the phone as I explained where I was anyway. Kindly she offered whatever help she could. Then I called Mom to see if Josiah could tell me anything about what my next course of action should be. I didn't relish braving oncoming traffic while checking on the battery if I just needed more gas. I tried starting it again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even on empty, surely I could have made it that last block to the gas station.
Then I heard sirens and saw the flashing blue lights. By now I had tears streaming down my face. So much for being grateful, I was ready to call a wrecker and have this stupid car towed. And plan a fifty dollar wedding. Fifty years from now. I feel terribly sorry for the police man who approached my door. He probably has enough to do dealing with one emotional woman at home. When I opened my door I was both laughing and crying. And I know I must have looked like a tiny teen who didn't know squat about cars. He quickly noted the for sale signs and asked, "Are you just test-driving?" Ludicrous. I don't WANT this car. Can't you tell that just from looking? (I'm sure my parents never guessed. I still need to be sure I've thanked them.) I tried to explain my situation as best I could and he nodded in sympathy. "Can you start it for me?" Which I did and nothing happened. Then he said, "Do you have it in park?" Well, no. I'd been driving when it died. And I was already emotionally nuts by then. Of course I didn't think to put it in park. I shifted into park and turned the key. And it started. "I feel stupid," I said and laughed and snorted and choked on tears. "You're okay," he smiled. "See if you can make it to 2nd and Arkansas and I'll follow you."
I made it. And filled up. And went home. And washed the suburban. Vacuumed it. And sprayed that silly foam on the tires to make them shiny. Because everyone is looking for a car with shiny tires, you know. Then I posted up some new ads. And I whispered, "Thank you for this suburban. I don't understand. I don't get it. It doesn't seem fair. It hurts. It's annoying. I don't see the point. But thank you."
Because I don't have to understand. Things don't have to go right. Things don't have to make sense or have a point. But I have to be thankful. That's God's will.
Now, the temptation is to say, "Look, Abigail! You learned your lesson! You're thankful now! God can bless you now!"
But the Lord is not a genii in a bottle. Rubbing Him right doesn't earn me three wishes. Doing the right thing doesn't equal getting what I want. I assure you, I want to sell this suburban. Trust means doing the right thing and believing that He sees it, is pleased and will reward it--sometime. Someway. His way. I can't make anyone buy that suburban. I can't make things happen by believing--that's humanism, paganism--not Christianity. But by believing, sometimes I can see things that are happening in a new light--I can believe God's promises that He will withhold no good thing from those who walk uprightly, that He works all things for the good of those who love Him, that trials produce proven character and that His will for me is my sanctification--that I would be made holy like Him. With those promises in mind, I can look squarely at anything thrown my way and say "Okay. Thanks."
Thank you, Lord, for an excellent reminder.
And...when You get around to it...please sell my suburban.
Showing posts with label answered prayers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label answered prayers. Show all posts
Thursday, May 21, 2009
My mind has definitely switched back “on.” I think I’ve thought a million thoughts this week, but can’t remember a single thread of them.
A quick life update:
The Schriebers moved here from Illinois at the first of the month. Glenn and Papa met online several years ago and Glenn has steadily pursued a friendship with Papa, even traveling to visit and encourage us when we lived in Kansas. For several years now they have desired to move and be near us, but this was the first time they were able to sell their house and order things to allow for the move. They've always lived in the same vicinity--the adjustment for them will be huge! On our part, we are delighted to finally have church fellowship. As in any fellowship, we'll have to get used to each other and learn to prefer each other in honor.
“Of all things,” Josiah said sadly one day, bearing a dustpan into the kitchen, “I stepped on a bat.” The poor fluttermousse lay panting, his wings bent and his webbed tail spread out. He must have already lay expiring on the cold garage floor before Josiah’s bare foot discovered him. Perhaps it’s a hopeful sign that more of his kind linger in the nearby woods, ready to annihilate the army of gnats that has encompassed us. This valiant departed assailant had to be laid to rest in the woods shortly after supper, his last breath gone on the wings of time. This was shortly after our visit to the Mystic Caverns where we expressed our desire to have bats move in around our house to help with the insect overpopulation.
I finally sat down and sorted through a million things I'd stacked in my "think about when I get a chance" file. I worked through some of my fleshly cravings for fulfillment to be reminded of the truth that Jesus is all and does all good. I waded through some of the circumstances and issues that confused me a year ago and caught my breath at the perspective I saw--from just a year away. Circumstances are just circumstances. Sure, God allows them. But they bear little weight when measured against truth. And sometimes truth demands time to become more clear. For the first time in my life I am not confused. I think I am finally beginning to grasp the balance between true patience and my own supposed patience, true love and my supposed forebearance. True love is so hard--takes so much time and effort, seeking someone else's best interest through scripture, wisdom and kindness and seeking to base my actions on that--not simply saying what they desire to hear or giving what they want or doing what they want. It's painful--but nothing like the cross, the nails and God's rejection which Jesus suffered for me.
I was listening carefully to Papa’s voice one day as he read the expanded version of First John when the dive-bombing occurred. A mosquito-eater tumbled out of the sky and bounced onto the table, just inches from my Bible, then clumsily bobbled across the table and off the edge. His mission must have remained unfinished since he repeated the performance twice more before disappearing from the scene of conquest.
I finally got a tetanus booster, a week later for five dollars at the Health Department. My foot was entirely healed.
Lauryn got fish. I wish I could even retell the history of her tank of five finned friends and the dramatic disappearance of Pinky Tuscadero and Fred. Falsely accused, Hot Lips was detained in solitary confinement for further questioning until Fred reappeared. Thus began operation "rescue Pinky Tuscadero" which ended happily with Hot Lips being cleared and the whole family being reunited with joy and laughter.
We watched Miss Lauryn direct the Dtown Highschool Choirs--complete with choreography that screamed her name. She did a fabulous job. Is anyone surprised? She graduated with honors a few days later, along with Emily, Shoko, Donnie and Stacy. We spent the day either in bleachers or at parties--parties according the the believers here consist of prayer, encouragement, good food, praise and lots of love--well and sometimes some volleyball.
Originally I told Angela I'd help her photograph her friend's wedding. Then she agreed to become the wedding coordinator, which loaded her down with responsibilities. But it freed up her camera. In fact, I enjoyed our teamwork--I did all the photography, she did all the bossing.
It was about ten o'clock when Nathaniel called a very pregnant Lauren to ask for a ride. See, a group was playing "Fugitive" and Nathaniel, Donnie, Tommy and Dathan had worked out a perfect strategy for eluding the cops. Lauren and I hopped in the car. Well, actually, I hopped, she plumped. Being pregnant slows down activity and Lauren is VERY pregnant. As the four boys crowded into the back of my car I had one thing to say, "you guys smell amazing." Tommy's voice piped up, "What do you mean by amazing?" Folks, those guys normally have great hygiene--Tommy even reputedly smells "dewicious"--but that night they smell amazingly BAD. Their strategy paid off with a winning game!
Lately I've been blessed by April's company. In fact, we discovered that we wear the same size of clothes--she's just six inches taller. Sadly, she looks much cuter in my clothes than I do.
I've been following up on Christy's clients at the clinic. Sometimes as I open a file to decide what course of action to take next I am overwhelmed by the stark sadness in the notes she left--abuse, taking advantage, broken hearts, substance abuse, abortions, devastation. I closed files that were years old. For years Christy has faithfully waded through sad situation after sad situation. The Lord has been at work in my mind and heart--finally I am able to weep as I read a file, pray for that poor girl, close the file and walk away knowing that the Lord is the only One who can save--any of us.
Jess graduated highschool. Dathan had never met her, but he cheered the loudest. Even did a special cheer for her. Of course, he was cheering and shouting names for almost all the rest of the graduates. And clapping so widely he nearly smashed my face in. Without the least embarrassment. I was almost embarrassed, sitting next to him as he thoroughly enjoyed himself at a highschool graduation where he knew no one.
Papa is back at work, but has had weekends off so far! A huge blessing!
And just when the grass is growing more quickly than a child, all our lawnmowers decide to go on emergency medical leave. One is leaking oil. A blown gasket? One destroyed its own blade belt. Too much stress? And one has been in pieces in the barn all year. If we could find all the hardware for it underneath the Schriebers extra stuff that's being stored in it, we might put it back together and sell it.
It's a strange thing. I'd been exhausted for months, dragging myself out of bed each day, struggling to stay awake during Bible reading or prayer, going to sleep any time I sat down and sleeping hard. Lately I've rediscovered quiet time--alone time with Jesus. Perhaps it's just been emotional exhaustion that leaves me zapped. At any rate, I am at rest--with energy again. And thoroughly enjoying the Lord's lovingkindnesses.
A quick life update:
The Schriebers moved here from Illinois at the first of the month. Glenn and Papa met online several years ago and Glenn has steadily pursued a friendship with Papa, even traveling to visit and encourage us when we lived in Kansas. For several years now they have desired to move and be near us, but this was the first time they were able to sell their house and order things to allow for the move. They've always lived in the same vicinity--the adjustment for them will be huge! On our part, we are delighted to finally have church fellowship. As in any fellowship, we'll have to get used to each other and learn to prefer each other in honor.
“Of all things,” Josiah said sadly one day, bearing a dustpan into the kitchen, “I stepped on a bat.” The poor fluttermousse lay panting, his wings bent and his webbed tail spread out. He must have already lay expiring on the cold garage floor before Josiah’s bare foot discovered him. Perhaps it’s a hopeful sign that more of his kind linger in the nearby woods, ready to annihilate the army of gnats that has encompassed us. This valiant departed assailant had to be laid to rest in the woods shortly after supper, his last breath gone on the wings of time. This was shortly after our visit to the Mystic Caverns where we expressed our desire to have bats move in around our house to help with the insect overpopulation.
I finally sat down and sorted through a million things I'd stacked in my "think about when I get a chance" file. I worked through some of my fleshly cravings for fulfillment to be reminded of the truth that Jesus is all and does all good. I waded through some of the circumstances and issues that confused me a year ago and caught my breath at the perspective I saw--from just a year away. Circumstances are just circumstances. Sure, God allows them. But they bear little weight when measured against truth. And sometimes truth demands time to become more clear. For the first time in my life I am not confused. I think I am finally beginning to grasp the balance between true patience and my own supposed patience, true love and my supposed forebearance. True love is so hard--takes so much time and effort, seeking someone else's best interest through scripture, wisdom and kindness and seeking to base my actions on that--not simply saying what they desire to hear or giving what they want or doing what they want. It's painful--but nothing like the cross, the nails and God's rejection which Jesus suffered for me.
I was listening carefully to Papa’s voice one day as he read the expanded version of First John when the dive-bombing occurred. A mosquito-eater tumbled out of the sky and bounced onto the table, just inches from my Bible, then clumsily bobbled across the table and off the edge. His mission must have remained unfinished since he repeated the performance twice more before disappearing from the scene of conquest.
I finally got a tetanus booster, a week later for five dollars at the Health Department. My foot was entirely healed.
Lauryn got fish. I wish I could even retell the history of her tank of five finned friends and the dramatic disappearance of Pinky Tuscadero and Fred. Falsely accused, Hot Lips was detained in solitary confinement for further questioning until Fred reappeared. Thus began operation "rescue Pinky Tuscadero" which ended happily with Hot Lips being cleared and the whole family being reunited with joy and laughter.
We watched Miss Lauryn direct the Dtown Highschool Choirs--complete with choreography that screamed her name. She did a fabulous job. Is anyone surprised? She graduated with honors a few days later, along with Emily, Shoko, Donnie and Stacy. We spent the day either in bleachers or at parties--parties according the the believers here consist of prayer, encouragement, good food, praise and lots of love--well and sometimes some volleyball.
Originally I told Angela I'd help her photograph her friend's wedding. Then she agreed to become the wedding coordinator, which loaded her down with responsibilities. But it freed up her camera. In fact, I enjoyed our teamwork--I did all the photography, she did all the bossing.
It was about ten o'clock when Nathaniel called a very pregnant Lauren to ask for a ride. See, a group was playing "Fugitive" and Nathaniel, Donnie, Tommy and Dathan had worked out a perfect strategy for eluding the cops. Lauren and I hopped in the car. Well, actually, I hopped, she plumped. Being pregnant slows down activity and Lauren is VERY pregnant. As the four boys crowded into the back of my car I had one thing to say, "you guys smell amazing." Tommy's voice piped up, "What do you mean by amazing?" Folks, those guys normally have great hygiene--Tommy even reputedly smells "dewicious"--but that night they smell amazingly BAD. Their strategy paid off with a winning game!
Lately I've been blessed by April's company. In fact, we discovered that we wear the same size of clothes--she's just six inches taller. Sadly, she looks much cuter in my clothes than I do.
I've been following up on Christy's clients at the clinic. Sometimes as I open a file to decide what course of action to take next I am overwhelmed by the stark sadness in the notes she left--abuse, taking advantage, broken hearts, substance abuse, abortions, devastation. I closed files that were years old. For years Christy has faithfully waded through sad situation after sad situation. The Lord has been at work in my mind and heart--finally I am able to weep as I read a file, pray for that poor girl, close the file and walk away knowing that the Lord is the only One who can save--any of us.
Jess graduated highschool. Dathan had never met her, but he cheered the loudest. Even did a special cheer for her. Of course, he was cheering and shouting names for almost all the rest of the graduates. And clapping so widely he nearly smashed my face in. Without the least embarrassment. I was almost embarrassed, sitting next to him as he thoroughly enjoyed himself at a highschool graduation where he knew no one.
Papa is back at work, but has had weekends off so far! A huge blessing!
And just when the grass is growing more quickly than a child, all our lawnmowers decide to go on emergency medical leave. One is leaking oil. A blown gasket? One destroyed its own blade belt. Too much stress? And one has been in pieces in the barn all year. If we could find all the hardware for it underneath the Schriebers extra stuff that's being stored in it, we might put it back together and sell it.
It's a strange thing. I'd been exhausted for months, dragging myself out of bed each day, struggling to stay awake during Bible reading or prayer, going to sleep any time I sat down and sleeping hard. Lately I've rediscovered quiet time--alone time with Jesus. Perhaps it's just been emotional exhaustion that leaves me zapped. At any rate, I am at rest--with energy again. And thoroughly enjoying the Lord's lovingkindnesses.
Because He’s Not Sentimental
“Did you watch that Mark Twain movie with us?” Papa asked me as I sat on his bedroom floor. “No,” I answered. “Was it good?” He shrugged. “He had a daughter—his youngest I think. Susie was her name. I guess he was kind of enigmatic. Hard to understand. And she really just intuitively understood him. They were very close.” I looked up. “I think I remember hearing that,” I answered. “Didn’t he get really depressed when she died?” Papa nodded, but he didn’t say anything more. When I came to kiss him good night he said, “I love you, Baby.” “I love you, too,” I responded, thinking how far we’ve come since the days of my early teens, when we seemed to have drifted miles apart. Then he added, “Hearing about Mark Twain’s daughter made me think of you.” My heart swelled and pressed against the inside of my ribs so I could hardly breathe. I didn’t answer. What could I say? Papa’s not a sentimental person. He rarely says things that earn an “aw.” I quietly walked down the hall and into my room, my eyes filling with tears—happy tears. What amazing things Jesus can do! Just a few words, but I knew exactly what he meant. He couldn’t have said it better.
Lord, ‘tis Thou whose grace imparts
The turning of a father’s heart
To his daughter, hers to him
And sets love like a diadem
Upon the brow of each in Thee,
To mirror Thy paternity.
When I gaze on both my fathers
I am blessed among all daughters.
Lord, ‘tis Thou whose grace imparts
The turning of a father’s heart
To his daughter, hers to him
And sets love like a diadem
Upon the brow of each in Thee,
To mirror Thy paternity.
When I gaze on both my fathers
I am blessed among all daughters.
Friday, April 18, 2008
“What does ‘manna’ mean?” I asked, over the breakfast table. Papa leaned back in his chair and smiled. “What is it?” Blank stares passed from one person to the next before Mom finally ventured, “Bread from heaven…?” Papa’s grin widened as he clarified. “Manna means ‘What is it?’”
Sunlight poured over my kitchen work as Mom came in and poured herself a glass of milk. “I need to be drinking more of this,” she commented and I took the opportunity to ask about all the medical tests she’s been having lately. Many of them are just routine “woman” checks, but I sensed that all is not as she might wish. “My bone density scan was pretty…pretty bad,” she admitted. “Much worse than someone my age should be. I’m not quite osteoporosis, but almost.” And she started crying. “What can you do about it?” I asked, pushing away my mixing bowl and wrapping my arms around her. Nothing. She doesn’t weigh enough to make exercising very useful. Not that she should stop, of course. It just won’t help. More milk will never do it. Medication is on the horizon, but many doctors won’t even take the medications they prescribe. “So, what does that mean? What will it do to you? Are you going to fall and break your hips?” She wiped her eyes and grinned a little lop-sided. “I don’t really know. I don’t think it’s that bad. I just don’t like getting old.” Papa’s blood pressure has been up, too. Pretty high, I guess. “It pounds in my face, turning me red, and gives me headaches,” he explained to me as we walked along the quiet road. Stress always sends his blood pressure sky-rocketing. If I could, I would heal everything instantly, but in this I see the limit to my wisdom, for what valuable lessons might be all lose were there never a care in the world? A pain. An ache. A void.
I overheard Lydia announcing a loose tooth tonight. In this are our differing characters revealed: Lydia’s patience in waiting until each tooth falls out—the last one in several pieces, it was so far gone. My controlling lack of it, in ripping every one out as soon as it gave the first sign of a tell-tale wiggle—many still had part of the root. “I hath a looth tooth!” she proudly proclaimed several years ago, after discovering her first. “Oh!” I knelt in front of her. “Let me see!” And then, “Here you go” as I handed her the pearly white. Since then she has carefully refrained from sharing her news with me, until she was good and ready to be through with the drama of the wiggling stage. Tonight was her first molar. “No!” she said, firmly, as I followed her into the bathroom, but then she relented. “Just pull it out fast.” I grinned, rolled up my sleeves with an “All righty!” and out the tooth came. I suppose Lydia’s gratefulness bubbled over, since she offered me assistance later, as I balanced on the tip of my toes attempting to reach the top shelf of the cabinet. “Oops! Skin!” she exclaimed and yanked my skirt waistband up to my ribs. I’m not ticklish, but I nearly dropped the pot on her head.
“Penguins incubate their eggs by keeping them on their feet under their belly fat,” Taylor informed us. Thus began the discussion of penguins—particularly whether or not they are possessed of feathers. I’ve even seen them close up, and still always assumed they attired themselves much in the fashion of a whale or dolphin—you know, a tailored wet suit. “Don’t you remember what makes a bird a bird?” Papa remonstrated and quickly proved any doubters wrong with the nearest Encyclopaedia. That fact settled, Nathan and Taylor moved on to various other creatures and contraptions in God’s ingenious planet earth. “Those sure are some nice guys,” Mom commented, wiping crumbs from the counter after they’d left. “I wish the whole world were made up of a whole lot more guys like that. It would be a much more pleasant place.” “Yes,” I observed, sagely. “Much more quiet.”
The book of First Samuel brought me face to face with another exemplary woman—Hannah. At a time when I keep asking Yahweh for favors, gifts and notice, her multiplied prayer for a son caught my attention. “Women shall be preserved through the bearing of children,” Paul comments, hundreds of years later. What did she need? Children to care for her in her old age. A true need. But her request is laced with humility and devotion to Yahweh. “If You will indeed look upon me and remember me and not forgive me, but will give me a son, the Yahweh of hosts, I will give him back to You!” Struck dumb by her words, I kept rereading the prayer that Yahweh delighted to answer. “Please be so kind as to give me a son, that I can give him back to You!” She wanted a son to serve Yahweh. Her desire to give back to Yahweh was honored and she bore a son who became a great prophet—even anointed Israel’s first two kings. And Yahweh’s blessing was multiplied to her through the births of five more children. This humble woman’s prayer was a testimony to me of what and how I should implore Yahweh of hosts—so that I might give back to Him, recognizing that I can only give what He has already given me.
Lord, may Thy grace dwell richly in me,
May I bring forth fruits that please Thee—
Children that will serve Thee wholly,
Dedicated to Thee only.
May the work of both my hands,
Be blessed of Thee to strongly stand.
And every blessing flowing from Thee,
Be offered up to bless Thee fully.
Sunlight poured over my kitchen work as Mom came in and poured herself a glass of milk. “I need to be drinking more of this,” she commented and I took the opportunity to ask about all the medical tests she’s been having lately. Many of them are just routine “woman” checks, but I sensed that all is not as she might wish. “My bone density scan was pretty…pretty bad,” she admitted. “Much worse than someone my age should be. I’m not quite osteoporosis, but almost.” And she started crying. “What can you do about it?” I asked, pushing away my mixing bowl and wrapping my arms around her. Nothing. She doesn’t weigh enough to make exercising very useful. Not that she should stop, of course. It just won’t help. More milk will never do it. Medication is on the horizon, but many doctors won’t even take the medications they prescribe. “So, what does that mean? What will it do to you? Are you going to fall and break your hips?” She wiped her eyes and grinned a little lop-sided. “I don’t really know. I don’t think it’s that bad. I just don’t like getting old.” Papa’s blood pressure has been up, too. Pretty high, I guess. “It pounds in my face, turning me red, and gives me headaches,” he explained to me as we walked along the quiet road. Stress always sends his blood pressure sky-rocketing. If I could, I would heal everything instantly, but in this I see the limit to my wisdom, for what valuable lessons might be all lose were there never a care in the world? A pain. An ache. A void.
I overheard Lydia announcing a loose tooth tonight. In this are our differing characters revealed: Lydia’s patience in waiting until each tooth falls out—the last one in several pieces, it was so far gone. My controlling lack of it, in ripping every one out as soon as it gave the first sign of a tell-tale wiggle—many still had part of the root. “I hath a looth tooth!” she proudly proclaimed several years ago, after discovering her first. “Oh!” I knelt in front of her. “Let me see!” And then, “Here you go” as I handed her the pearly white. Since then she has carefully refrained from sharing her news with me, until she was good and ready to be through with the drama of the wiggling stage. Tonight was her first molar. “No!” she said, firmly, as I followed her into the bathroom, but then she relented. “Just pull it out fast.” I grinned, rolled up my sleeves with an “All righty!” and out the tooth came. I suppose Lydia’s gratefulness bubbled over, since she offered me assistance later, as I balanced on the tip of my toes attempting to reach the top shelf of the cabinet. “Oops! Skin!” she exclaimed and yanked my skirt waistband up to my ribs. I’m not ticklish, but I nearly dropped the pot on her head.
“Penguins incubate their eggs by keeping them on their feet under their belly fat,” Taylor informed us. Thus began the discussion of penguins—particularly whether or not they are possessed of feathers. I’ve even seen them close up, and still always assumed they attired themselves much in the fashion of a whale or dolphin—you know, a tailored wet suit. “Don’t you remember what makes a bird a bird?” Papa remonstrated and quickly proved any doubters wrong with the nearest Encyclopaedia. That fact settled, Nathan and Taylor moved on to various other creatures and contraptions in God’s ingenious planet earth. “Those sure are some nice guys,” Mom commented, wiping crumbs from the counter after they’d left. “I wish the whole world were made up of a whole lot more guys like that. It would be a much more pleasant place.” “Yes,” I observed, sagely. “Much more quiet.”
The book of First Samuel brought me face to face with another exemplary woman—Hannah. At a time when I keep asking Yahweh for favors, gifts and notice, her multiplied prayer for a son caught my attention. “Women shall be preserved through the bearing of children,” Paul comments, hundreds of years later. What did she need? Children to care for her in her old age. A true need. But her request is laced with humility and devotion to Yahweh. “If You will indeed look upon me and remember me and not forgive me, but will give me a son, the Yahweh of hosts, I will give him back to You!” Struck dumb by her words, I kept rereading the prayer that Yahweh delighted to answer. “Please be so kind as to give me a son, that I can give him back to You!” She wanted a son to serve Yahweh. Her desire to give back to Yahweh was honored and she bore a son who became a great prophet—even anointed Israel’s first two kings. And Yahweh’s blessing was multiplied to her through the births of five more children. This humble woman’s prayer was a testimony to me of what and how I should implore Yahweh of hosts—so that I might give back to Him, recognizing that I can only give what He has already given me.
Lord, may Thy grace dwell richly in me,
May I bring forth fruits that please Thee—
Children that will serve Thee wholly,
Dedicated to Thee only.
May the work of both my hands,
Be blessed of Thee to strongly stand.
And every blessing flowing from Thee,
Be offered up to bless Thee fully.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Damaris was sitting on my feet, keeping them warm as we both listened to Papa teach the cross as the central part of the gospel. Running my fingers through her thick hair, I felt a tell-tale bump. Tell me, how does one discreetly pull a tick from a friend’s head and dispose of it in the middle of a church meeting? As Nick shared from about taking every thought captive to the obedience of Christ, I could feel the pain slipping up from Tabitha’s toes to her heart, as she sat next to me on the pew. “I can’t do that!” Nick exclaimed for all of us, and then pointed out how even such a thought should be immediately offered to the Lord. Before the Willises headed out for Kansas, Tabitha and I zipped ourselves into matching leather coats and went for a walk. Everyone else was playing Frisbee, but we were worried Tabitha’s knee might not appreciate the mole’s extensive excavation in the backyard. We were barely out of the house before she started in, “You could tell I was upset while Nick was talking.” I nodded. She started pouring out her frustrations, worries and battles to take every thought prisoner to be tried by Christ. How is it, we both wondered aloud, that each thought we do successfully wrestle to the foot of Jesus’ throne, manages to break jail and come back to haunt us? Of all those I know, Tabitha deserves a purple heart for her warfare and her many wounds in her struggle to keep the Lord first. She also deserves a red badge of courage. Her daily choice to take up her sword and fight, through prayer, meditation and memorization will lead her to victory. Because it is the Lord’s promise.
We ate lunch two to a seat in some places. Zach brought a special guest: Jessica, one of the girls from the D-town youth group. Stuart willingly started his "Jesus story". Josh balked when Papa asked him to share his testimony with the Willises, but a few probing questions soon had him rolling. He tagged Amber to share hers next and it went on down the line from Amber to Taylor, Taylor to Zach. Sitting and listening to the stories of God’s call on each person’s life, I never realized how hard it can be to tell, how painful to relive those moments of separation, how draining to become vulnerable and weak before the eyes of others. I’ve never been asked for mine in a group before. Until today.
I knew as soon as I realized it would be Zach’s turn to pick a person that he would demand mine. I dragged my embarrassment, kicking and screaming, and stuffed it away in an old trunk in the attic of my mind. Separating my testimony from my life story is next to impossible—my whole life is simply a process by which the Lord has worked. Neither is particularly dramatic. I hardly know what I said, or why. I told a lot more than I’d meant to. Instead I found myself preaching to myself, reminding myself how out of control I became when I sought to control my life, how freeing it was to finally seek my parent’s accountability—to be vulnerable to them. Control. Truth broke through to me like sunlight breaking through a dark storm. Each plan I’d built for my life had slipped from my fingers, empty. Each goal I’d made or project I’d tackled had found me helpless to complete it. Deciding I’d never marry, simply to prove I could say “no” was a control issue. When I hoped to control the eating disorder, it had haunted me, a devouring ghost, stealing my health and joy. Only when I had confided in my parents did I find complete release. Even my demands to know and understand what Yahweh is doing reveal a heart that still clings to control. I couldn’t believe how completely empty I felt as I finished. Realizing I’d completely forgotten about everyone else in the room and what they were expecting or hoping to hear, I blurted out something about the Lord and my parents. “I really admire my dad,” and my eyes filled with tears. And I trust him. I do. Even those last words held another sermon to myself.
The rest of the day I wanted to talk to Papa. So did everyone else in the world, it seemed, and I finally gave up as he headed to his room for the night. I knelt by my bed, feeling completely helpless, completely unable to control or even manipulate anything, and cried. I can't even make myself stop crying.
Lord, give me the strength to loose
The bonds that I so often choose,
And leave to Thee the perfect plan
Drawn slowly by Thy gracious hand.
Teach me to take every moment
As Thy Spirit’s wise bestowment
To take captive for Thy use
That I’d fulfill all Thou dost choose.
We ate lunch two to a seat in some places. Zach brought a special guest: Jessica, one of the girls from the D-town youth group. Stuart willingly started his "Jesus story". Josh balked when Papa asked him to share his testimony with the Willises, but a few probing questions soon had him rolling. He tagged Amber to share hers next and it went on down the line from Amber to Taylor, Taylor to Zach. Sitting and listening to the stories of God’s call on each person’s life, I never realized how hard it can be to tell, how painful to relive those moments of separation, how draining to become vulnerable and weak before the eyes of others. I’ve never been asked for mine in a group before. Until today.
I knew as soon as I realized it would be Zach’s turn to pick a person that he would demand mine. I dragged my embarrassment, kicking and screaming, and stuffed it away in an old trunk in the attic of my mind. Separating my testimony from my life story is next to impossible—my whole life is simply a process by which the Lord has worked. Neither is particularly dramatic. I hardly know what I said, or why. I told a lot more than I’d meant to. Instead I found myself preaching to myself, reminding myself how out of control I became when I sought to control my life, how freeing it was to finally seek my parent’s accountability—to be vulnerable to them. Control. Truth broke through to me like sunlight breaking through a dark storm. Each plan I’d built for my life had slipped from my fingers, empty. Each goal I’d made or project I’d tackled had found me helpless to complete it. Deciding I’d never marry, simply to prove I could say “no” was a control issue. When I hoped to control the eating disorder, it had haunted me, a devouring ghost, stealing my health and joy. Only when I had confided in my parents did I find complete release. Even my demands to know and understand what Yahweh is doing reveal a heart that still clings to control. I couldn’t believe how completely empty I felt as I finished. Realizing I’d completely forgotten about everyone else in the room and what they were expecting or hoping to hear, I blurted out something about the Lord and my parents. “I really admire my dad,” and my eyes filled with tears. And I trust him. I do. Even those last words held another sermon to myself.
The rest of the day I wanted to talk to Papa. So did everyone else in the world, it seemed, and I finally gave up as he headed to his room for the night. I knelt by my bed, feeling completely helpless, completely unable to control or even manipulate anything, and cried. I can't even make myself stop crying.
Lord, give me the strength to loose
The bonds that I so often choose,
And leave to Thee the perfect plan
Drawn slowly by Thy gracious hand.
Teach me to take every moment
As Thy Spirit’s wise bestowment
To take captive for Thy use
That I’d fulfill all Thou dost choose.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Back in the day, speech judges suggested I consider a career in TV or Radio broadcasting. Humorous, since I rarely pay attention to either. Nick had a brilliant idea for a new voice mail message for his cell phone—an important news flash about an escaped maniacal penguin which interrupted his usual greeting. Most entertaining were the friends who thought my voice was an actual automated recording.
I’d been attempting to play some rag-time when Sleeper arrived, guitar in tow, hoping for a jam session. It’s been too long since I’d played with a guitar. Leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the piano bench, he dragged inspiration out of me with misinformed statements like: “You know what you’re doing. Just play!” Just when Sleeper’d be getting the hang of my chord progression, I’d change it up or throw in some off chord, just to see what he’d do. “If I ever record a CD,” he said, shaking his head at one point, “You’re playing piano.” To hear some real piano, he should play with Bruce. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve never played like that before in my life and likely never will again. Perhaps that maniacal penguin has rubbed off on me.
My brother is a good man. His e-mail reply this morning tied up one issue in a neat little package to put away in my china cabinet for later. Lauren finished the task with a phone call in the afternoon. I know I over evaluate, and wind up only wrestling myself—a losing situation, it seems. Conversely, God’s grace can turn it on end for a win-win. Lauren even tossed out the possibility of co-authoring a book, or even a blog, devoted to exploring issues for godly women from both sides of the fence: singleness and marriage.
“They” say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. “They” have never learned the secret of contentment—I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Today I am the Lord’s single woman, living under my father’s protection, headship and guidance. Today I re-evaluated my life in light of honoring him and discovered it severely lacking as wish after wish, goal after goal of his came to mind that I had left incomplete or marked unimportant. If I want to embrace the Lord’s will, I must embrace my father’s ministry and do what I can to further it by serving him. The temptation to simply “try to do better” was strong, but the conviction that I should confess my negligence to him won out. To mentally decide to surrender is not to lay down one’s sword. Embarrassing it is that my dad and I communicate best through e-mails—but we are both visual. Write it out for us and we’ll get it. I wrote out for him how the Lord had used his teaching Sunday to convict me and then listed the things I could think of that I’d not finished, asking for his direction in them. His reply was a gracious and kind acknowledgement. Details will follow shortly.
The rest of the day I tried to bring closure to several dragging tasks he’d asked me to do. Every step of the way I ran headlong into brick walls. Someone needed me for this. Could I do that? Phone calls wouldn’t go through, customer service certainly didn’t seem interested in helping the customer. How am I supposed to fulfill my great aspirations of serving my dad if the rest of the universe doesn’t share them? Sit still and the day is calm, but start running and you’ll feel the wind tugging against you. But at the end of the day, it’s the one who ran into the wind who sleeps the soundest.
Yahweh, Thou art great and kind,
Thou will not leave my soul behind
When Thou dost gather those Thou loves
To carry us to Thee, above.
Yahweh, teach me to rejoice
And lift an ever thankful voice
To Thee, for Thou hast heard my prayers
And hushed and stilled all of my cares.
I’d been attempting to play some rag-time when Sleeper arrived, guitar in tow, hoping for a jam session. It’s been too long since I’d played with a guitar. Leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the piano bench, he dragged inspiration out of me with misinformed statements like: “You know what you’re doing. Just play!” Just when Sleeper’d be getting the hang of my chord progression, I’d change it up or throw in some off chord, just to see what he’d do. “If I ever record a CD,” he said, shaking his head at one point, “You’re playing piano.” To hear some real piano, he should play with Bruce. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve never played like that before in my life and likely never will again. Perhaps that maniacal penguin has rubbed off on me.
My brother is a good man. His e-mail reply this morning tied up one issue in a neat little package to put away in my china cabinet for later. Lauren finished the task with a phone call in the afternoon. I know I over evaluate, and wind up only wrestling myself—a losing situation, it seems. Conversely, God’s grace can turn it on end for a win-win. Lauren even tossed out the possibility of co-authoring a book, or even a blog, devoted to exploring issues for godly women from both sides of the fence: singleness and marriage.
“They” say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. “They” have never learned the secret of contentment—I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Today I am the Lord’s single woman, living under my father’s protection, headship and guidance. Today I re-evaluated my life in light of honoring him and discovered it severely lacking as wish after wish, goal after goal of his came to mind that I had left incomplete or marked unimportant. If I want to embrace the Lord’s will, I must embrace my father’s ministry and do what I can to further it by serving him. The temptation to simply “try to do better” was strong, but the conviction that I should confess my negligence to him won out. To mentally decide to surrender is not to lay down one’s sword. Embarrassing it is that my dad and I communicate best through e-mails—but we are both visual. Write it out for us and we’ll get it. I wrote out for him how the Lord had used his teaching Sunday to convict me and then listed the things I could think of that I’d not finished, asking for his direction in them. His reply was a gracious and kind acknowledgement. Details will follow shortly.
The rest of the day I tried to bring closure to several dragging tasks he’d asked me to do. Every step of the way I ran headlong into brick walls. Someone needed me for this. Could I do that? Phone calls wouldn’t go through, customer service certainly didn’t seem interested in helping the customer. How am I supposed to fulfill my great aspirations of serving my dad if the rest of the universe doesn’t share them? Sit still and the day is calm, but start running and you’ll feel the wind tugging against you. But at the end of the day, it’s the one who ran into the wind who sleeps the soundest.
Yahweh, Thou art great and kind,
Thou will not leave my soul behind
When Thou dost gather those Thou loves
To carry us to Thee, above.
Yahweh, teach me to rejoice
And lift an ever thankful voice
To Thee, for Thou hast heard my prayers
And hushed and stilled all of my cares.
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.
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.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Current events are becoming interesting. California has practically banned home education. Obama and Hillary are fighting it out at the polls, and might even run together in the general election. Nationally, we are a welfare state in a recession, worse than anything we’ve seen since the Great Depression. A man is standing trial for preaching the gospel in Salem, Mass. Who else feels the oppression, the iron curtain beginning to slide closed on our freedoms? Is persecution just around the corner?
In all my wondering, I wonder what the view is from heaven—how the Lord sees my life, day by day, worrying, anxious, fearful, praying, while He’s already given answers in His infinite timing. How often does He shake His head, whispering, “Abigail, be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted in the earth.”
During church, Papa read a sermon by Charles Spurgeon from First Timothy chapter two: Does God really desire ALL men to be saved? Once upon a time our family read this man’s life story, his dedication to preaching the truth—whatever He found in the scriptures. His words, though quaint, were rich and uplifting, filled with the perfection of the gospel.
Josh and Josiah had just dived into First John when I joined them. We took the whole book in a sitting, watching Josh discover the tests, the commands (to believe in Jesus and love the brethren) and the beauty. “I like that,” he’d say, marking the passage with a purple twist-up crayon. “Oooh, I don’t like that,” and he’d mark it, too, knowing it was good. Again and again I am amazed to see the Lord’s hand in his life and heart, the Holy Spirit’s working, leading him into truth and obedience. After the other guys had left, we discovered Josh had been patiently waiting his turn. “Okay, Lane,” he said to my dad, after eagerly accepting an invitation for supper. “Can we have some me time? I’ve got some questions for you.”
Meanwhile, Josiah and I slipped quietly outside and out into the woods, rambling through the green briar, underbrush and falling darkness, crossing the stream on slippery stones and talking about whatever concerned us. Muddy and windblown and full of thorns, we trouped into his room and tumbled to the floor. “Do you want to pray?” I asked. Together we both answered, “For everyone.” We started, sharing back and forth, but suddenly he took off, pouring out his heart for anyone and everyone the Lord brought to his mind, pleading for salvation, asking for peace. When he said my name, a little shiver passed through my body and slipped out my toes, leaving me warm behind it. Not so long ago he was shy to pray aloud with anyone else. Tears slid from my eyes as I prayed for him—with thanksgiving.
Lord, the greatest blessings Thou dost give,
Aside from Thy own grace to live,
Are those who love to seek Thy face
And so reveal Thy matchless grace.
My heart is full of what Thou dost
In teaching sinful man to trust
In standing to receive our prayer.
Where two are gathered, Thou art there.
In all my wondering, I wonder what the view is from heaven—how the Lord sees my life, day by day, worrying, anxious, fearful, praying, while He’s already given answers in His infinite timing. How often does He shake His head, whispering, “Abigail, be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted in the earth.”
During church, Papa read a sermon by Charles Spurgeon from First Timothy chapter two: Does God really desire ALL men to be saved? Once upon a time our family read this man’s life story, his dedication to preaching the truth—whatever He found in the scriptures. His words, though quaint, were rich and uplifting, filled with the perfection of the gospel.
Josh and Josiah had just dived into First John when I joined them. We took the whole book in a sitting, watching Josh discover the tests, the commands (to believe in Jesus and love the brethren) and the beauty. “I like that,” he’d say, marking the passage with a purple twist-up crayon. “Oooh, I don’t like that,” and he’d mark it, too, knowing it was good. Again and again I am amazed to see the Lord’s hand in his life and heart, the Holy Spirit’s working, leading him into truth and obedience. After the other guys had left, we discovered Josh had been patiently waiting his turn. “Okay, Lane,” he said to my dad, after eagerly accepting an invitation for supper. “Can we have some me time? I’ve got some questions for you.”
Meanwhile, Josiah and I slipped quietly outside and out into the woods, rambling through the green briar, underbrush and falling darkness, crossing the stream on slippery stones and talking about whatever concerned us. Muddy and windblown and full of thorns, we trouped into his room and tumbled to the floor. “Do you want to pray?” I asked. Together we both answered, “For everyone.” We started, sharing back and forth, but suddenly he took off, pouring out his heart for anyone and everyone the Lord brought to his mind, pleading for salvation, asking for peace. When he said my name, a little shiver passed through my body and slipped out my toes, leaving me warm behind it. Not so long ago he was shy to pray aloud with anyone else. Tears slid from my eyes as I prayed for him—with thanksgiving.
Lord, the greatest blessings Thou dost give,
Aside from Thy own grace to live,
Are those who love to seek Thy face
And so reveal Thy matchless grace.
My heart is full of what Thou dost
In teaching sinful man to trust
In standing to receive our prayer.
Where two are gathered, Thou art there.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Walking through the dining room just before six this morning on my way to fix breakfast, I stopped in my tracks and stared outside at a layer of snow. Not a measly Arkansas powdered sugar dusting, either, but a serious birthday cake layer of pure, white, cold, wet snow. Eleven inches, the news channels all insisted, though I don’t believe I saw more than half that amount. With a little friendly persuasion from Zach, we all abandoned our regular activities to tromp through this winter wonderland in search of Narnia or the North Pole. Josiah and I got the bright idea to deck ourselves in summer outfits and discard our shoes for a “white” themed picture. By the time we made the mad dash back to the house, I couldn’t even feel my toes, but a few minutes inside soon left them burning with the heat of returning circulation.
Mom delivered the phone to me and I mouthed, “Who is it?” She shrugged. “Maybe a Japanese girl?” Quickly I greeted the caller. A familiar voice, but I couldn’t quite seem to place it. Finally I said, “I have no clue who you are,” and she alleviated my confusion with her name: Sarahlita. That certainly put a different spin on matters and soon we were chatting away again like the childhood bosom companions that we are. Funny how it is: no matter how long we’ve been apart, we always come back together able to pick up where we left off and always finding that the Lord is teaching us the same things. Even though she’s married now with a six-month-old son. As we talked, she kept probing, “So…nothing else you need to tell me?...Anything else big going on?...What exciting things are happening with you?...Anything specific you need prayer for?” and finally wrapping up with, “Well, if anything important does happen, do call me, or e-mail—or even if there’s something important you need me to pray about.” I enjoyed a giggling spell after we hung up without even a hint of guilt. There’s honestly nothing to tell.
“Tonight is going to be fun,” Lydia informed me, as she tucked her Bible onto her bookshelf. I raised my eyebrows. “What’s happening tonight?” She grinned. “I just finished John chapter two and I have tons of questions for you!”
At the supper table, I nudged her and whisper-asked if she was ready to tell Mom and Papa. She reached under the table and held my hand so tightly that my ring left indents on the insides of my fingers before she finally nodded. We launched out together on the story and watched our parent’s delighted faces. When Josiah came in a few minutes later, Lydia had to go through the retelling—by herself this time. The rest of the evening we all gushed, she called Nathaniel and Lauren, both grandmas and Josh Potts (since his testimony Sunday had driven her to want salvation for sure). Then the family met outside while Papa baptized her in the hot tub. I must admit, a hot tub does make the perfect baptismal on a snowy evening.
Every single day seems to get sweeter and better, and I know the Lord’s lovingkindnesses are new every day, for His compassions never cease. But I’m bracing myself—every mountaintop overlooks a valley. Soon I will have to make the treacherous descent. I find myself clinging to every single second, each one seeming a precious blessing, especially those with my family. I want to have each moment treasured in my heart for the day when a sword may pierce my soul. I want to cling to what God is doing now for the day when darkness and discouragement become too friendly, or when change looms up as a frightening obstacle.
I want to store up the seven fat years for the years of famine that are as sure to come as the spring rain.
Lord, Thy blessings always prove
The vast unmeasured of Thy love,
But teach my heart to yet discern
The mountain world-view I should learn.
For though some days are filled with pleasure,
Thou alone are my true treasure.
Happenstance may turn appalling
Still Thou art Love—my Love--enthralling.
Mom delivered the phone to me and I mouthed, “Who is it?” She shrugged. “Maybe a Japanese girl?” Quickly I greeted the caller. A familiar voice, but I couldn’t quite seem to place it. Finally I said, “I have no clue who you are,” and she alleviated my confusion with her name: Sarahlita. That certainly put a different spin on matters and soon we were chatting away again like the childhood bosom companions that we are. Funny how it is: no matter how long we’ve been apart, we always come back together able to pick up where we left off and always finding that the Lord is teaching us the same things. Even though she’s married now with a six-month-old son. As we talked, she kept probing, “So…nothing else you need to tell me?...Anything else big going on?...What exciting things are happening with you?...Anything specific you need prayer for?” and finally wrapping up with, “Well, if anything important does happen, do call me, or e-mail—or even if there’s something important you need me to pray about.” I enjoyed a giggling spell after we hung up without even a hint of guilt. There’s honestly nothing to tell.
“Tonight is going to be fun,” Lydia informed me, as she tucked her Bible onto her bookshelf. I raised my eyebrows. “What’s happening tonight?” She grinned. “I just finished John chapter two and I have tons of questions for you!”
At the supper table, I nudged her and whisper-asked if she was ready to tell Mom and Papa. She reached under the table and held my hand so tightly that my ring left indents on the insides of my fingers before she finally nodded. We launched out together on the story and watched our parent’s delighted faces. When Josiah came in a few minutes later, Lydia had to go through the retelling—by herself this time. The rest of the evening we all gushed, she called Nathaniel and Lauren, both grandmas and Josh Potts (since his testimony Sunday had driven her to want salvation for sure). Then the family met outside while Papa baptized her in the hot tub. I must admit, a hot tub does make the perfect baptismal on a snowy evening.
Every single day seems to get sweeter and better, and I know the Lord’s lovingkindnesses are new every day, for His compassions never cease. But I’m bracing myself—every mountaintop overlooks a valley. Soon I will have to make the treacherous descent. I find myself clinging to every single second, each one seeming a precious blessing, especially those with my family. I want to have each moment treasured in my heart for the day when a sword may pierce my soul. I want to cling to what God is doing now for the day when darkness and discouragement become too friendly, or when change looms up as a frightening obstacle.
I want to store up the seven fat years for the years of famine that are as sure to come as the spring rain.
Lord, Thy blessings always prove
The vast unmeasured of Thy love,
But teach my heart to yet discern
The mountain world-view I should learn.
For though some days are filled with pleasure,
Thou alone are my true treasure.
Happenstance may turn appalling
Still Thou art Love—my Love--enthralling.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Every day He outdoes Himself. I can’t even imagine what tomorrow might hold.
When I sat down to write, it seemed as if it had been a rough day—nearly heartbreaking. Overwhelmed with to-dos and a noisy household, I found myself abbreviating my time with the Lord. Then I dove right into all the hard e-mails I’d needed to write for the last several weeks. Tough love, some call it. Isn’t all love tough? I’d barely finished when the mail produced a wedding invitation—from a friend to whom I’d already written explaining why I couldn’t support her marriage. I staggered, recoiling from this slap in the face. Then the Lord began to lift me back up, starting with a phone call to Amber, who proved very encouraging.
I’d just begun to reminisce on the day when Lydia emerged from the shower, steamed and cleaned and I looked up. “Don’t look at me like that,” she giggled. “It feels like you can look right through me.” Playing back, I began to explain how I could see through her to the wall beyond. “I meant that sometimes I think you can see right into my heart,” she said, softly.
Silence. “What is in there that I might see?”
“A lot of things.”
“Good or bad?.”
She turned her face away from me. “Some of both.”
“Is Jesus in there?” I asked, the Lord reminding me how I’d been wanting to talk to her for a while, to probe her spiritually.
She hesitated. “Um, yes.” Then she sat down at the foot of the bed. I began to question her about the gospel, salvation and herself. Jesus died on a cross for her sins, she told me. “Because I am wicked and unworthy.” How did that help her? It should have been her, she affirmed. “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved,” she quoted the verse, with a little prompting and John three sixteen followed. Then we both grew quiet.
“Go over to her,” the Holy Spirit whispered to my spirit, and for one of the few times in my entire life of mistakes, I obeyed. I slithered down onto the floor beside her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. Immediately she buried her head in my lap. Amid muffled sobs she whispered, “Abigail, I don’t think I’m saved, but I don’t know how to be. I’ve been wanting to ask you about this for a long time, but I was too afraid.”
How do you tell your precious little sister how to believe?
Slowly, feeling lost and dazed, I went back over the gospel with her. She was broken over her sinfulness—I didn’t even need to convict. “I’ve done so many bad things,” she admitted, easily.
“The Bible says you must believe that Jesus is the Son of God and that He died in your place so you could be with Him forever. Is that something you want to do?”
Still hiding in my lap, she answered “yes.”
Where could I go from there? She held the key. She stood before the gate. Helplessly, I began to pray that the Lord would open her heart. I poured out to Him how she was standing at His gate, pleading admittance. “Please reach down Your hand and open the way to her.” I only remember those words, because when I finished, she lifted her head and whispered, “When you said those words, ‘Reach down Your hand and open the way,’ He did. I know He did it.”
We sat still again for a while. “Do you want to thank Him?” I prompted and she nodded her head. What made her seem so small and fragile, helpless and weak?
Then she began to pray. “Dear Lord, thank You for being good. Thank You for sending Jesus to die. Thank you for all the people You’ve saved—especially me. I love you.” She looked up at me through her tears. “Why are you crying?”
I snorted. “Because I’m happy.”
We sat quietly for a while before she asked, all in a rush. “What should I read?”
Eleven years she’s lived in a home, inundated by the Word, but suddenly she wants to know it herself. I could read hunger in her eyes as I answered, “John. About Jesus. Want me to read it with you?”
“Please,” she answered. “I started reading it the other day and am a couple of chapters in. But I’d like to start over.”
So we made a date. Eight fifteen every night, we’ll read together and she can ask all the questions she wants. She’s full of them. Eight fifteen because she said, “I want it in my head so I can sleep over it all night.” All evening her hands were shaking and she seemed nervous until we vanished into our room to read and pray. So fragile. Trembling. Eager. Like a newborn baby.
Once upon a time, when I was younger than she is now, I prayed for a baby sister, and the Lord heard my prayer and was pleased to answer—far above all that I could ask or think.
Lord, I come before Thy altar,
Words, aloud and thought, both falter.
Once I asked, and Thou once gave,
Now I begged that Thou wouldst save.
And Lord, I trust Thou wilt complete.
I linger at Thy mercy seat,
To offer worship, prayer and praise
To Thee, Thou Ancient One of Days.
When I sat down to write, it seemed as if it had been a rough day—nearly heartbreaking. Overwhelmed with to-dos and a noisy household, I found myself abbreviating my time with the Lord. Then I dove right into all the hard e-mails I’d needed to write for the last several weeks. Tough love, some call it. Isn’t all love tough? I’d barely finished when the mail produced a wedding invitation—from a friend to whom I’d already written explaining why I couldn’t support her marriage. I staggered, recoiling from this slap in the face. Then the Lord began to lift me back up, starting with a phone call to Amber, who proved very encouraging.
I’d just begun to reminisce on the day when Lydia emerged from the shower, steamed and cleaned and I looked up. “Don’t look at me like that,” she giggled. “It feels like you can look right through me.” Playing back, I began to explain how I could see through her to the wall beyond. “I meant that sometimes I think you can see right into my heart,” she said, softly.
Silence. “What is in there that I might see?”
“A lot of things.”
“Good or bad?.”
She turned her face away from me. “Some of both.”
“Is Jesus in there?” I asked, the Lord reminding me how I’d been wanting to talk to her for a while, to probe her spiritually.
She hesitated. “Um, yes.” Then she sat down at the foot of the bed. I began to question her about the gospel, salvation and herself. Jesus died on a cross for her sins, she told me. “Because I am wicked and unworthy.” How did that help her? It should have been her, she affirmed. “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved,” she quoted the verse, with a little prompting and John three sixteen followed. Then we both grew quiet.
“Go over to her,” the Holy Spirit whispered to my spirit, and for one of the few times in my entire life of mistakes, I obeyed. I slithered down onto the floor beside her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. Immediately she buried her head in my lap. Amid muffled sobs she whispered, “Abigail, I don’t think I’m saved, but I don’t know how to be. I’ve been wanting to ask you about this for a long time, but I was too afraid.”
How do you tell your precious little sister how to believe?
Slowly, feeling lost and dazed, I went back over the gospel with her. She was broken over her sinfulness—I didn’t even need to convict. “I’ve done so many bad things,” she admitted, easily.
“The Bible says you must believe that Jesus is the Son of God and that He died in your place so you could be with Him forever. Is that something you want to do?”
Still hiding in my lap, she answered “yes.”
Where could I go from there? She held the key. She stood before the gate. Helplessly, I began to pray that the Lord would open her heart. I poured out to Him how she was standing at His gate, pleading admittance. “Please reach down Your hand and open the way to her.” I only remember those words, because when I finished, she lifted her head and whispered, “When you said those words, ‘Reach down Your hand and open the way,’ He did. I know He did it.”
We sat still again for a while. “Do you want to thank Him?” I prompted and she nodded her head. What made her seem so small and fragile, helpless and weak?
Then she began to pray. “Dear Lord, thank You for being good. Thank You for sending Jesus to die. Thank you for all the people You’ve saved—especially me. I love you.” She looked up at me through her tears. “Why are you crying?”
I snorted. “Because I’m happy.”
We sat quietly for a while before she asked, all in a rush. “What should I read?”
Eleven years she’s lived in a home, inundated by the Word, but suddenly she wants to know it herself. I could read hunger in her eyes as I answered, “John. About Jesus. Want me to read it with you?”
“Please,” she answered. “I started reading it the other day and am a couple of chapters in. But I’d like to start over.”
So we made a date. Eight fifteen every night, we’ll read together and she can ask all the questions she wants. She’s full of them. Eight fifteen because she said, “I want it in my head so I can sleep over it all night.” All evening her hands were shaking and she seemed nervous until we vanished into our room to read and pray. So fragile. Trembling. Eager. Like a newborn baby.
Once upon a time, when I was younger than she is now, I prayed for a baby sister, and the Lord heard my prayer and was pleased to answer—far above all that I could ask or think.
Lord, I come before Thy altar,
Words, aloud and thought, both falter.
Once I asked, and Thou once gave,
Now I begged that Thou wouldst save.
And Lord, I trust Thou wilt complete.
I linger at Thy mercy seat,
To offer worship, prayer and praise
To Thee, Thou Ancient One of Days.
Leap Year! Friday, February 29, 2008
I’d barely gone to sleep last night when the phone rang. Twice. A harsher sound, I can hardly imagine. Soon I discovered that, while I was refocusing and refueling with the Creator of the Universe, He was handling some important business I’d left undone elsewhere—perfectly. As always. What an amazing multi-tasker He is. He wrapped up the rest of the issue today with beauty, precision and the ease of One Who knows what He is about.
Random observation for the day: I rediscovered why I never use recipes anymore. Mom left me with a pile of new recipes to use for weekend preparation and, to my deepest distress, the process cost me at least twice as much time.
Our “profitable discourse” (as John Bunyan would have it) tonight brought us to the question of eternity and rewards. I could barely keep from wriggling with delight, since Amber had just plied me with questions about eternity, rewards and punishments for believers a few days ago. But my joy quickly turned to horror and sorrow as we turned to Jesus’ words about practicing righteousness before men, to be seen by them—and the praise of men that is the only reward for such actions. Precious Master, I convince myself that I desire only Your praise, only Your delight, and yet I “serve” You with my head turned over my should to know if anyone saw. “Did anyone notice that wonderful thing I did?” or “The Lord allowed me to share with so-and-so today,” I confide, secretly wondering if my listener can see the halo above my head. Perhaps they also see the craft wire holding up my façade.
Wretched girl that I am, how can I be free to serve the Lord, not in pretense, but in truth?
Lord, within my heart dwells pride
Which I try desperately to hide,
But Thou who searchest heart and mind
This wicked guest will always find.
I beg Thee, Lord, to search my soul
And anywhere Thou finds a hole
By which his entrance he might make,
I beg Thee, Lord, that place to break.
Random observation for the day: I rediscovered why I never use recipes anymore. Mom left me with a pile of new recipes to use for weekend preparation and, to my deepest distress, the process cost me at least twice as much time.
Our “profitable discourse” (as John Bunyan would have it) tonight brought us to the question of eternity and rewards. I could barely keep from wriggling with delight, since Amber had just plied me with questions about eternity, rewards and punishments for believers a few days ago. But my joy quickly turned to horror and sorrow as we turned to Jesus’ words about practicing righteousness before men, to be seen by them—and the praise of men that is the only reward for such actions. Precious Master, I convince myself that I desire only Your praise, only Your delight, and yet I “serve” You with my head turned over my should to know if anyone saw. “Did anyone notice that wonderful thing I did?” or “The Lord allowed me to share with so-and-so today,” I confide, secretly wondering if my listener can see the halo above my head. Perhaps they also see the craft wire holding up my façade.
Wretched girl that I am, how can I be free to serve the Lord, not in pretense, but in truth?
Lord, within my heart dwells pride
Which I try desperately to hide,
But Thou who searchest heart and mind
This wicked guest will always find.
I beg Thee, Lord, to search my soul
And anywhere Thou finds a hole
By which his entrance he might make,
I beg Thee, Lord, that place to break.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Josiah is acting insanely goofy and, get this, blaming it on me. As if I could ever make anyone goofy. Besides, I’ve been gone all day. That’s right, the whole entire day. First, I had an important consultation with a BeautiControl agent, and she helped me define a hopeful path for controlling my beauty. It’s getting rather out of hand. (Beauty a.k.a. acne.) I also finally activated my debit card, after three months, and made the largest purchase yet this year: eleven whole dollars on eleven whole yards of fabric to finish my bedroom décor. And five young ladies managed to turn into veritable messes in an effort to wish Jacinderella and Lauryn happy birthdays. Those are all accomplishments, no doubt, but the greatest of all was attacking Amber’s room with her and making some headway in the clean-up process: we managed to hang stuffed animal nets, and stuff them with animals, as well as put together and make her bed. Painfully slow, it seems, at time, but I’m reminded “not to grow weary in well-doing, for in due season we will reap, if we don’t lose heart.” The Lord’s lovingkindness was overwhelming today, through every minute, every tiny detail, every single, small thing, reminding me He is a God of small things and not just of big deals. Reminding me to be faithful in the small things and trust Him to work. Reminding me that books are written in chapters, chapters in pages, pages in sentences, sentences in words and even the most perfect words are spelled out in the same, simple letters.
During a ten minute gap between errands, I pulled into a sunny byroad to read over the set of Psalms for the day and found a gem worth stowing away. “Yahweh favors those who fear Him, Those who wait for His lovingkindness.” Gabriel greeted Mary as a favored one and Daniel as a man of high esteem and Job was one in whom God boasted. Here was their secret: they feared God and waited for His lovingkindness. What a beautiful promise at a time when it seems like I’m forever waiting…and waiting…and waiting on the Lord.
Just as I’d finished writing, Mom shared that Audrey called today—specifically asking two things: if I’d teach a creative writing class for the homeschool group next fall and if I’d pray about discipling a fourteen-year-old girl she knows. Okay, Lord. Now what do You have in mind?
Lord, I seek for things so great,
But Thou gives small things while I wait
Reminding me that small things must
Be used to teach my heart to trust.
Lord, I want to see the whole,
Thy goal, Thy will, Thy plan in full.
Thou reminds my faltering heart:
Thy word was writ in little parts.
During a ten minute gap between errands, I pulled into a sunny byroad to read over the set of Psalms for the day and found a gem worth stowing away. “Yahweh favors those who fear Him, Those who wait for His lovingkindness.” Gabriel greeted Mary as a favored one and Daniel as a man of high esteem and Job was one in whom God boasted. Here was their secret: they feared God and waited for His lovingkindness. What a beautiful promise at a time when it seems like I’m forever waiting…and waiting…and waiting on the Lord.
Just as I’d finished writing, Mom shared that Audrey called today—specifically asking two things: if I’d teach a creative writing class for the homeschool group next fall and if I’d pray about discipling a fourteen-year-old girl she knows. Okay, Lord. Now what do You have in mind?
Lord, I seek for things so great,
But Thou gives small things while I wait
Reminding me that small things must
Be used to teach my heart to trust.
Lord, I want to see the whole,
Thy goal, Thy will, Thy plan in full.
Thou reminds my faltering heart:
Thy word was writ in little parts.
Monday, February 18, 2008
(Morning)
Today was supposed to be wonderful—beautiful. Lauryn’s recital is tonight. The sun is shining. Everything is beautiful. I am at peace, in love with the Lord, seeing His working, enjoying His power. Until the most horrible thing I can imagine happened. Precious Savior, what kind of tricks are you playing on me? I’m clinging to what I know, trying to convince myself of the truth: You don’t play tricks. If this is what You need to do to break me, to make me perfect in Your image, I must accept it. You’ll have to handle the gladly part of that, because it’s not coming for me.
Lord, could there be an agony
Greater than what faces me?
My heart and soul have turned to stone,
Yet I am still Thy precious own
Bought through an agony so great
Thou spilled Thy drops of blood as sweat.
Beside Thy grief, my own is weak.
I am Thy own. That’s all I seek.
(Noon)
They left me home alone. I sobbed all morning, curled up tight, sheltering my head with my arms. Then I dashed out of the house and down the trail, running like the wind. Finally, worn out and determined to stop crying, to forget it, to let it go, since I can’t change it, I showered, washed my face and made up a to-do list for the day. But just when I think I can get busy and distract myself with a project, my distraction meets a dead-end. I’ve prayed through my prayer chain, I’ve played through several hymns on trusting and sung praises at the top of my lungs. Anything to keep me focused on something else. Anything to drive my assailants away. I’m left clinging to my only hope: Jesus. He loves me. He cares for me. He purchased me with His blood. He is refining me. This is a part of His vast, eternal plan for my perfection, for my sanctification. All things work for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose. He’ll buy back even the most horrible day and make it beautiful in His time and His way.
Lord, my heart can only cling
To Thee, it seems that everything
Will yield against the storms like this;
Betray my soul with one small kiss.
So stand and raise Thine arms on high,
Wake my Savior, lest I die!
Calm the winds and calm the waves.
Thou art God who makes and saves.
(Afternoon)
I’ve been through the gamut of emotions now and have at last settled into a deadly calm. I just came in from a walk (yes, another). It’s a startlingly beautiful day, so I stood in the meadow, praying first, then absorbing, meditating and finally praising. Warm wind caressing my face and toying with my hair sent little shivers of peace down my spine. This is just an awkward bump in the road to becoming a gracious woman, and will teach me so much more patience and humility with others. No? Fifty years from now I’ll look back and laugh. In eternity, it won’t even matter. Learn from it, I must. Be knocked down by it? Never.
Not while Jesus holds my hand.
Already He has been by my side. I’ve spent the entire day humbled before Him, in communion with Him, singing to Him and praying to Him. Isn’t this the result I beg for? Who am I to question the route? If it takes days like this to drive me close to Him, I must learn to welcome them joyfully, to embrace them whole-heartedly and to live in them knowing He is at work in me both to will and to work for His good pleasure.
Lord, I stand before Thee now.
I humbly and contritely bow
Since that is what Thou seeks of me,
I come to Thee on bended knee.
I worship and adore my Lord--
Thou deserves to be adored--
Forgetting worry, fear and shame
In wonder at Thy matchless name.
(Bedtime)
Lauryn’s recital was fun, beautiful and brilliant—just like her. Watching her on stage, I felt so small, childish and second-rate. She’s a beautiful, mature woman. I’m just a little girl, but right now it’s okay to be small and childish if I can climb up in my heavenly Father’s lap and lay my head against His chest. Which I’m doing, and I’m gaining strength, gaining momentum, gaining confidence in Him and His work. Nothing He does is less than perfect—once finished. I am no exception.
Lord, I’ve built my life on Thee
And need not fear the raging sea.
Those around me scorn and talk
But I am safe upon Thy rock.
Solid through the storms of time,
For Thou art greater, more sublime
Than ageless time, much less this breath
I call my life—until my death.
Today was supposed to be wonderful—beautiful. Lauryn’s recital is tonight. The sun is shining. Everything is beautiful. I am at peace, in love with the Lord, seeing His working, enjoying His power. Until the most horrible thing I can imagine happened. Precious Savior, what kind of tricks are you playing on me? I’m clinging to what I know, trying to convince myself of the truth: You don’t play tricks. If this is what You need to do to break me, to make me perfect in Your image, I must accept it. You’ll have to handle the gladly part of that, because it’s not coming for me.
Lord, could there be an agony
Greater than what faces me?
My heart and soul have turned to stone,
Yet I am still Thy precious own
Bought through an agony so great
Thou spilled Thy drops of blood as sweat.
Beside Thy grief, my own is weak.
I am Thy own. That’s all I seek.
(Noon)
They left me home alone. I sobbed all morning, curled up tight, sheltering my head with my arms. Then I dashed out of the house and down the trail, running like the wind. Finally, worn out and determined to stop crying, to forget it, to let it go, since I can’t change it, I showered, washed my face and made up a to-do list for the day. But just when I think I can get busy and distract myself with a project, my distraction meets a dead-end. I’ve prayed through my prayer chain, I’ve played through several hymns on trusting and sung praises at the top of my lungs. Anything to keep me focused on something else. Anything to drive my assailants away. I’m left clinging to my only hope: Jesus. He loves me. He cares for me. He purchased me with His blood. He is refining me. This is a part of His vast, eternal plan for my perfection, for my sanctification. All things work for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose. He’ll buy back even the most horrible day and make it beautiful in His time and His way.
Lord, my heart can only cling
To Thee, it seems that everything
Will yield against the storms like this;
Betray my soul with one small kiss.
So stand and raise Thine arms on high,
Wake my Savior, lest I die!
Calm the winds and calm the waves.
Thou art God who makes and saves.
(Afternoon)
I’ve been through the gamut of emotions now and have at last settled into a deadly calm. I just came in from a walk (yes, another). It’s a startlingly beautiful day, so I stood in the meadow, praying first, then absorbing, meditating and finally praising. Warm wind caressing my face and toying with my hair sent little shivers of peace down my spine. This is just an awkward bump in the road to becoming a gracious woman, and will teach me so much more patience and humility with others. No? Fifty years from now I’ll look back and laugh. In eternity, it won’t even matter. Learn from it, I must. Be knocked down by it? Never.
Not while Jesus holds my hand.
Already He has been by my side. I’ve spent the entire day humbled before Him, in communion with Him, singing to Him and praying to Him. Isn’t this the result I beg for? Who am I to question the route? If it takes days like this to drive me close to Him, I must learn to welcome them joyfully, to embrace them whole-heartedly and to live in them knowing He is at work in me both to will and to work for His good pleasure.
Lord, I stand before Thee now.
I humbly and contritely bow
Since that is what Thou seeks of me,
I come to Thee on bended knee.
I worship and adore my Lord--
Thou deserves to be adored--
Forgetting worry, fear and shame
In wonder at Thy matchless name.
(Bedtime)
Lauryn’s recital was fun, beautiful and brilliant—just like her. Watching her on stage, I felt so small, childish and second-rate. She’s a beautiful, mature woman. I’m just a little girl, but right now it’s okay to be small and childish if I can climb up in my heavenly Father’s lap and lay my head against His chest. Which I’m doing, and I’m gaining strength, gaining momentum, gaining confidence in Him and His work. Nothing He does is less than perfect—once finished. I am no exception.
Lord, I’ve built my life on Thee
And need not fear the raging sea.
Those around me scorn and talk
But I am safe upon Thy rock.
Solid through the storms of time,
For Thou art greater, more sublime
Than ageless time, much less this breath
I call my life—until my death.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Tabitha shared an interesting tidbit with me tonight, as we quoted from Revelation twenty-one. In the New Jerusalem, if only twenty-five percent of the Holy City were used for dwellings, there would be adequate room for twenty billion people. What a completely new aspect to “in My Father’s house are many mansions.”
I want to see those mansions full.
I want the world to see Yahweh working, changing lives, breaking hearts, healing souls, every day like He did tonight. I found a friend weeping on his face before the Lord, praising God for the breaking, for the answer to his prayers. “Praise God with me,” he whispered. “I knew God answered prayer, but not mine. I’d prayed and prayed for this. Tonight it came. God answers prayers. God answers my prayers.” In a moment crystalline with God’s powerful grace, what have I to say or do? Simply this: witness. Witness and write.
Lord! My spirit’s overwhelmed
With Thee.
I have not words to praise
Thy majesty.
To compare Thy attributes
To things I see or touch
Would fall so short.
Thou art too much.
I want to see those mansions full.
I want the world to see Yahweh working, changing lives, breaking hearts, healing souls, every day like He did tonight. I found a friend weeping on his face before the Lord, praising God for the breaking, for the answer to his prayers. “Praise God with me,” he whispered. “I knew God answered prayer, but not mine. I’d prayed and prayed for this. Tonight it came. God answers prayers. God answers my prayers.” In a moment crystalline with God’s powerful grace, what have I to say or do? Simply this: witness. Witness and write.
Lord! My spirit’s overwhelmed
With Thee.
I have not words to praise
Thy majesty.
To compare Thy attributes
To things I see or touch
Would fall so short.
Thou art too much.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
I’ve discovered the best way to get through Lowe’s in a timely manner. The only way, probably. I call this new game plan: Find Zach. I picked up Miss Emily for a companion in running Mom’s errands. Arrived at Lowe’s we were greeted by none other than Welchy himself, who made sure we found the person we needed, the caulking we needed and even opened another register just to check us out. “Young lady, I need to see your ID,” he quipped as I slid Mom’s debit card. “Are you Lane or Marcia?”
The Lord’s lovingkindness was new and overwhelming today. It would seem strange and unbelievable that always, when I come to the end of my rope and cry out to Him, He answers--almost immediately—if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been told to expect that. Jacinda and I were conversing as I pulled up to Amber’s. “I’ve been praying for you,” she told me. “Really? Thanks! Mind praying a bit more? I’m here.” After knocking, I made a characteristic dash behind the stairwell. It’s tradition now, that I knock and then hide. Amber would be disappointed if she ever opened the door and found me standing there like any normal person. By the time I left the house I was floating and clouds of puffy whiteness and strumming a harp while singing God's praises. At lunch Jacinda asked me how it went. “Great!” was my fervent response. A grin broke out across her face. “I was praying for you,” she said. “First I was praying that God would just let you get through it, and that it didn’t have to be the best time ever, but just better than last week. Then I stopped myself. What was I thinking? I started praying that He would be present and that it would be an amazing time of encouragement. I figured I ought to pray for what I really hoped.” Lauryn and April joined us for lunch, and I found myself reveling at last in some “girl time”.
“You probably don’t remember us,” Jim and Gloria made excuses for me, after arriving at our house tonight. We knew them from the days of my infancy—the Gospel Chapel in Hutchinson, Kansas. “Yes, I do,” I defended myself, and began describing to them the breathing treatments they’d give Rachel, James’ piano playing, their dog Muffin and the house they lived in, right down to the wood flooring in the upstairs where we played hide-and-seek. I easily grasp and recall images—faces, moments in time, outfits, scenes—like snapshots in an interminable mental album. Oh, but those little tasks my Papa gives me slip through the cracks and fall neglected in my memory.
As a final touch to the day, Nathaniel called to chat with me on his way home from Kansas. A chat is defined as a two-hour conversation on every topic in the books—with a definite focus on recording and music. Soon I was caught up in pleasant memories of the days before his marriage, even the night before he arrived in Texas when I talked to him until the wee hours of the morning to keep him awake as he drove, having sent his sickly bride on to bed. Sometimes six months feels as if it were six years. And sometimes I get overwhelmed with sentimentality. Sometimes being defined as very occasionally.
If I were a truly talented writer, I’d be able to sum the whole day up in one word. As a talented-writer-wannabe, I’ll make an attempt: encouraging. Uplifting. Amazing! That was three. I guess I’ll never be a truly talented writer. But I’m something better. I’m alive with the joy of the Lord.
Lord, I often hesitate
To batter down Thy temple gate
With praise and worship for Thy deeds,
Yet this is what my spirit needs.
Today, I’ll take Thy court by storm,
And magnify Thy perfect form
Thy mighty works, Thy priceless words.
Today Thy praises will be heard!
The Lord’s lovingkindness was new and overwhelming today. It would seem strange and unbelievable that always, when I come to the end of my rope and cry out to Him, He answers--almost immediately—if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been told to expect that. Jacinda and I were conversing as I pulled up to Amber’s. “I’ve been praying for you,” she told me. “Really? Thanks! Mind praying a bit more? I’m here.” After knocking, I made a characteristic dash behind the stairwell. It’s tradition now, that I knock and then hide. Amber would be disappointed if she ever opened the door and found me standing there like any normal person. By the time I left the house I was floating and clouds of puffy whiteness and strumming a harp while singing God's praises. At lunch Jacinda asked me how it went. “Great!” was my fervent response. A grin broke out across her face. “I was praying for you,” she said. “First I was praying that God would just let you get through it, and that it didn’t have to be the best time ever, but just better than last week. Then I stopped myself. What was I thinking? I started praying that He would be present and that it would be an amazing time of encouragement. I figured I ought to pray for what I really hoped.” Lauryn and April joined us for lunch, and I found myself reveling at last in some “girl time”.
“You probably don’t remember us,” Jim and Gloria made excuses for me, after arriving at our house tonight. We knew them from the days of my infancy—the Gospel Chapel in Hutchinson, Kansas. “Yes, I do,” I defended myself, and began describing to them the breathing treatments they’d give Rachel, James’ piano playing, their dog Muffin and the house they lived in, right down to the wood flooring in the upstairs where we played hide-and-seek. I easily grasp and recall images—faces, moments in time, outfits, scenes—like snapshots in an interminable mental album. Oh, but those little tasks my Papa gives me slip through the cracks and fall neglected in my memory.
As a final touch to the day, Nathaniel called to chat with me on his way home from Kansas. A chat is defined as a two-hour conversation on every topic in the books—with a definite focus on recording and music. Soon I was caught up in pleasant memories of the days before his marriage, even the night before he arrived in Texas when I talked to him until the wee hours of the morning to keep him awake as he drove, having sent his sickly bride on to bed. Sometimes six months feels as if it were six years. And sometimes I get overwhelmed with sentimentality. Sometimes being defined as very occasionally.
If I were a truly talented writer, I’d be able to sum the whole day up in one word. As a talented-writer-wannabe, I’ll make an attempt: encouraging. Uplifting. Amazing! That was three. I guess I’ll never be a truly talented writer. But I’m something better. I’m alive with the joy of the Lord.
Lord, I often hesitate
To batter down Thy temple gate
With praise and worship for Thy deeds,
Yet this is what my spirit needs.
Today, I’ll take Thy court by storm,
And magnify Thy perfect form
Thy mighty works, Thy priceless words.
Today Thy praises will be heard!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
My Lord is merciful indeed. At this moment I feel calm, at peace and rested, like a weaned child leaning against her mother. Torrents of tears subsided, confusion wiped away, struggles laid down at the feet of the all-powerful, all-knowing God. He hands me my broken heart, now mended with His mercy, and I place it back in His hands for safe-keeping, praying only that there it will remain until eternity.
I buckled on my armor this morning, determined to fight my way through the throngs of enemy to the sanctuary of praise and the mercy seat of Almighty God. A heroic attempt, perhaps, though rather misguided. I flung out, swinging wildly, madly and without much direction, stumbling, blinded by tears and constantly beaten down. Each step of the way the enemy pounded me with accusations, distractions, discouragements and lies, and under every blow I crumbled and wept. Every tear was captured in God’s bottle, to be wiped from my heart some day when I stand before Him.
My heart sank to the floor when Papa called me to say that Taylor was coming over for supper and to get some Bible questions answered. I could hear the enthusiasm in his voice. I tried to echo it. Inside I wanted to curl up and cover my head and give up without reaching God’s temple. The last thing I wanted tonight was company—especially not a guy—especially not Taylor, steady Taylor, one of the few guys I actually admire, one of the only guys I’m honestly half scared of.
Papa invited any of us to join their discussion, but I sought refuge in Josiah’s room, playing his drums. I felt weaker than stone soup, used up emotionally, and it wasn’t long before I quit, bravely trekked through the dining room where they still discoursed and made it safely to my own haven, where I knelt under the merciless attack of the enemy. How long I cowered, arms protecting my head, tears cutting canyons down my face, I don’t know. As I cried out to my Savior He came, cutting assailants left and right with the Word of His mouth, shattering fears, doubts and worries, sending light and warmth into the darkness of my heart. As He gathered me in His arms and carried me back toward His sanctuary of praise, He hushed me, and I leaned my head against Him. “I’ve got you,” He whispered, and the truth dawned on me, bright and pure. He’s got me. I’m His. I’m safe. The enemy can’t touch me. How could the enemy bring an accusation? My judge is my justifier. How could the enemy distract me? He is in all things and in Him all things hold together. How could the enemy discourage me? I don’t hope in myself—I hope in the Lord, who is the lifter up of my countenance. How could the enemy convince me of lies? I know the Truth.
Why did I embark on my battle alone? Determined to make my way to God. My Savior is the way. When I cry to Him, He is there. I am His temple. Wherever I am, I can seek Him and find that He is always on His mercy seat, extending to me the golden scepter of life.
Lord, I sought Thee and I found
That accusations can’t confound
When I am safe within Thy arms.
Free from doubt and sin’s alarms
I stand before Thee and I know
My enemy Thou overthrows
Today, just as Thou triumphed when
Thou rose and conquered death and sin.
I buckled on my armor this morning, determined to fight my way through the throngs of enemy to the sanctuary of praise and the mercy seat of Almighty God. A heroic attempt, perhaps, though rather misguided. I flung out, swinging wildly, madly and without much direction, stumbling, blinded by tears and constantly beaten down. Each step of the way the enemy pounded me with accusations, distractions, discouragements and lies, and under every blow I crumbled and wept. Every tear was captured in God’s bottle, to be wiped from my heart some day when I stand before Him.
My heart sank to the floor when Papa called me to say that Taylor was coming over for supper and to get some Bible questions answered. I could hear the enthusiasm in his voice. I tried to echo it. Inside I wanted to curl up and cover my head and give up without reaching God’s temple. The last thing I wanted tonight was company—especially not a guy—especially not Taylor, steady Taylor, one of the few guys I actually admire, one of the only guys I’m honestly half scared of.
Papa invited any of us to join their discussion, but I sought refuge in Josiah’s room, playing his drums. I felt weaker than stone soup, used up emotionally, and it wasn’t long before I quit, bravely trekked through the dining room where they still discoursed and made it safely to my own haven, where I knelt under the merciless attack of the enemy. How long I cowered, arms protecting my head, tears cutting canyons down my face, I don’t know. As I cried out to my Savior He came, cutting assailants left and right with the Word of His mouth, shattering fears, doubts and worries, sending light and warmth into the darkness of my heart. As He gathered me in His arms and carried me back toward His sanctuary of praise, He hushed me, and I leaned my head against Him. “I’ve got you,” He whispered, and the truth dawned on me, bright and pure. He’s got me. I’m His. I’m safe. The enemy can’t touch me. How could the enemy bring an accusation? My judge is my justifier. How could the enemy distract me? He is in all things and in Him all things hold together. How could the enemy discourage me? I don’t hope in myself—I hope in the Lord, who is the lifter up of my countenance. How could the enemy convince me of lies? I know the Truth.
Why did I embark on my battle alone? Determined to make my way to God. My Savior is the way. When I cry to Him, He is there. I am His temple. Wherever I am, I can seek Him and find that He is always on His mercy seat, extending to me the golden scepter of life.
Lord, I sought Thee and I found
That accusations can’t confound
When I am safe within Thy arms.
Free from doubt and sin’s alarms
I stand before Thee and I know
My enemy Thou overthrows
Today, just as Thou triumphed when
Thou rose and conquered death and sin.
Monday, February 11, 2008
“Well, hello,” Miss J mimicked my phone answering, informing me I sound exactly like a Cinderella doll her girls have. I haven’t yet decided how I feel about this resemblance.
I’m a wimp. It’s embarrassing, disappointing and true. I started out this morning on a liquid fast, complete with good intentions to spend the day on my knees seeking breakthrough. I prayed. A little. After fixing quiche I wimped out and ate supper. Mostly because I didn’t want to try to explain myself. I wasn’t even hungry.
The passage Tabitha and I quoted tonight hit home, with comfort and hope. As Jesus revealed the New Jerusalem to the disciple whom He loved, He said, “These words are faithful and true: Behold! I make all things new!” Then He continued, describing the Holy City—there God will be among His people and He will wipe the tears from their eyes. There will be no more death, no more mourning, no more pain. Those things will have passed away. Future perfect tense, because the future will be perfect. My thoughts strayed to the Psalms where David pleaded for the Lord to take account of his wanderings. “Put my tears in Your bottle,” he pleaded, then continued with confidence, “Aren’t all my tears written in Your book?” The Lord is as eager for the day when all is new as are we. He is as eager to pour out His mercy on us, to wipe our tears away. He is waiting patiently, not willing that any should perish, for the day when we will be in His presence and know fullness of joy.
Lord, my tears have filled Thy jar
And Thy return cannot be far
Then Thou shalt wipe all weeping eyes
And bring us laughter from our sighs
For in that day, from death we’re free!
And greater, Lord, we’ll gaze on Thee
And lift our hearts and raise our voice.
In Thy presence, we rejoice.
I’m a wimp. It’s embarrassing, disappointing and true. I started out this morning on a liquid fast, complete with good intentions to spend the day on my knees seeking breakthrough. I prayed. A little. After fixing quiche I wimped out and ate supper. Mostly because I didn’t want to try to explain myself. I wasn’t even hungry.
The passage Tabitha and I quoted tonight hit home, with comfort and hope. As Jesus revealed the New Jerusalem to the disciple whom He loved, He said, “These words are faithful and true: Behold! I make all things new!” Then He continued, describing the Holy City—there God will be among His people and He will wipe the tears from their eyes. There will be no more death, no more mourning, no more pain. Those things will have passed away. Future perfect tense, because the future will be perfect. My thoughts strayed to the Psalms where David pleaded for the Lord to take account of his wanderings. “Put my tears in Your bottle,” he pleaded, then continued with confidence, “Aren’t all my tears written in Your book?” The Lord is as eager for the day when all is new as are we. He is as eager to pour out His mercy on us, to wipe our tears away. He is waiting patiently, not willing that any should perish, for the day when we will be in His presence and know fullness of joy.
Lord, my tears have filled Thy jar
And Thy return cannot be far
Then Thou shalt wipe all weeping eyes
And bring us laughter from our sighs
For in that day, from death we’re free!
And greater, Lord, we’ll gaze on Thee
And lift our hearts and raise our voice.
In Thy presence, we rejoice.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Checking my e-mail revealed what was on Papa’s mind. The same Person Who laid it on my mind must have been at work in his heart as well. About the Choices program (which I had yet to bring up again) he wrote, “I think this would be a good outreach to the community, with you as the ambassador for our family. We’ll talk some more. Love, Papa.” I just finished scribbling in my best answers to the questions on the volunteer application. I’ll call Christy tomorrow for training. The rest will be in the Lord’s hands. I’m excited. I get to go to public school!
So often my heart cries out with Moses, “Lord, show me Thy glory! I want to see Thy face!” and the Lord answers, “You cannot see my face and live.” I know I’ll see Him in all His splendor someday—and then I will live to the fullness of my existence. As God sheltered Moses in the cleft of the rock and covered him with His hand, He passed before Him proclaiming His name and character—His glory. “Yahweh, Yahweh God, compassionate and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in lovingkindness and truth; who keeps lovingkindness for thousands, who forgives iniquities, transgression and sin; yet He will by no means leave the guilty unpunished.” This is the God I worship. This is the glory of His name.
Lord, Thy name holds so much more,
It holds out hope forevermore,
For in Thy name, Thou promised me
That Thou forgives iniquity.
And in Thy name I see Thy plans,
For now Thou covers with Thy hand
Lest I should see Thy face and die,
Yet someday Thy face will grant life.
So often my heart cries out with Moses, “Lord, show me Thy glory! I want to see Thy face!” and the Lord answers, “You cannot see my face and live.” I know I’ll see Him in all His splendor someday—and then I will live to the fullness of my existence. As God sheltered Moses in the cleft of the rock and covered him with His hand, He passed before Him proclaiming His name and character—His glory. “Yahweh, Yahweh God, compassionate and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in lovingkindness and truth; who keeps lovingkindness for thousands, who forgives iniquities, transgression and sin; yet He will by no means leave the guilty unpunished.” This is the God I worship. This is the glory of His name.
Lord, Thy name holds so much more,
It holds out hope forevermore,
For in Thy name, Thou promised me
That Thou forgives iniquity.
And in Thy name I see Thy plans,
For now Thou covers with Thy hand
Lest I should see Thy face and die,
Yet someday Thy face will grant life.