Wednesday, January 12, 2011

“One thing I have asked from Yahweh, that I shall seek: that I may dwell in the house of Yahweh, all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of Yahweh and to meditate in His temple.” ~Psalm 27:4

It’s rather a humorous moment in time when you discover, while pressing your clothes, that your breath is creating more steam than the iron.

I was valiant when I pulled on a skirt today. And I actually wore it for close to half an hour, before I took pity on my poor, shivering limbs and changed. Papa and I arrived early at the Internet Marketing Conference for which we’d received tickets. We stood in the sunshine streaming from the cafeteria window and watched as other guests arrived, most not conforming to the requested business casual. Poor, I thought, as I watched them file in. Many of them seemed to be on the low side of the bell curve for income. Of course. That’s why they would be at a free internet marketing conference. Who could blame them? Stores Online Inc. was emblazoned across the polo of the gentleman who took our registration and pointed us into the conference room. Where we sat. And sat.

Finally our speaker, Mr. Mike Webb, took the platform. Papa whispered to me, “His father is named World Wide.” How appropriate for an internet conference.

He was very up-front about extra costs, realistic about effort required and reasonable about expected results. He pumped up the audience with declarations of his honesty and the quality of Stores Online’s help. Expected. It was a promotional dinner. And he offered great prices for great services. At least, from the sound of them. “You can check this out for yourself!” he declared over and over. But he never gave us the chance. At the end of the day, he was offering impressive exclusive rates for a workshop—if we could qualify and if we signed up before we left the room. What about checking this out for ourselves? What about research. “If you even have to stop and think about this price,” he insisted, his eyes wrinkling up, “then you’ll never make it. You’re just one of those do it tomorrow folks that never does it.” All around me, folks agreed enthusiastically. Someone needed to take a shower. Of course, as he’d pointed out, on the internet, no one cares who you really are.

We filled out our questionnaires to see who would and who wouldn’t make the grade to qualify for an invitation and exclusive rates to the workshop. I filled in the answers I knew they were looking for. I couldn’t wait to get started, I marked. And I was willing to put maximum effort into it. Because I’m not so introspective that I can’t see what’s coming. My name was called with the rest of those who qualified. Almost everyone. Immediately, they hustled to the back of the room to register for the workshop and pay down their money.

I sat down to eat my free sandwich.

Whether he noticed me in particular or whether others who had received certificates of qualification were also missing the invaluable opportunity, I don’t know. With an air of great patience, Mr. Webb carefully explained that the opportunity was only good until we walked out of that building. We couldn’t call in later, hoping to catch the workshop. We couldn’t show up at the workshop without registering. As soon as we left, our lovely little certificate would be worthless. Our certificate that said we were worthy to attend a training workshop and receive a free netbook because we put down the right answers on a short questionnaire. Anybody that wanted the opportunity to go should have known which answers would have been considered worthy.

He looked straight at me from across two tables as he spoke and I smiled at him and ate my pickle.

“It makes me sad,” he said, after a drink of water, “to see people drowning. But I’m doing this for you. Some of you even qualified and aren’t going to do anything about it. It makes me even sadder to see someone drowning and to throw them a lifeline and watch them refuse it and continue to drown. I can’t help you if you won’t even help yourself.”

He had gone out of his way to be very reasonable. He’d encouraged us to be reasonable and to think reasonably about whether this was something we could take on and succeed at. He’d been up front about fees and costs. Didn’t he expect us to think reasonably about it?

It might be a legitimate business. It might be a good deal. I’d have loved to do a bit more research later and consider it. But if they’re so confident that they can deliver, why aren’t they willing to give us some time to back check them? I pondered if he was paid a flat fee or a commission based on how many attendees sign up.

As I’d listened to the presentation, I was overwhelmed by the subtle seduction of greed. “You’re here because you want more money” and “you wouldn’t be here if you were satisfied with how much money you have.” They offered free, then they offered cheap, to get you into a program that promised to teach you how to make more money. Sure, it was a marketing conference. I expected it to be all about money. Mr. Webb hyped up the audience and built up their trust by insisting that Stores Online Inc. works to make money for them. Sure. Nobody works to make money for someone else. Or at least, if they do, it isn’t intentional and they don’t market it. I watched a group of folks, none of whom looked lavish of money, write over big checks without a second thought, paying for the chance to make money. And I wondered how many of them would ever actually reap back that price. The play on greed and impulsiveness disgusted me.

I tucked my certificate into my computer bag, pushed my potato chips aside and ate my brownie.

We arrived home and sold the dining room rug for more money than the workshop would have cost. I think maybe we’re doing a-okay selling online, for now. Thank you, Craigslist.

I found my heart exposed in Psalm 27. And I found His heart exposed in return. “Be strong and let your heart take courage; yes, wait for Yahweh.”

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

It just didn’t seem fair to keep Locks of Love waiting any longer. For days my curly locks have gotten tangle in my scarf, snaggled by my coat collar, captured by the backs of chairs, entangled by the straps of purses and generally, frequently closed in doors. I took a deep breath before launching into an outstanding appeal. “Papa, can I cut my hair?” “How much?” he looked at me out of the corners of his eyes. “Locks of Love needs ten inches. I could cut off a foot and still have it here,” I drew an imaginary line just below my breastbone. And that was that. I couldn’t believe how easily I had secured his permission. Grandma, who had come home with us for the week, was equally enthusiastic. Josiah and Lydia were curious. Mom simply came up with a mile-long list of to-dos that prevented her from finding time to make the severance. A thin disguise for her unwillingness to see me shorn. Finally she was persuaded to lop my locks, which she did with a constant chorus of, “Are you sure you want to do this? Well, it’s gone now. I can’t put it back on.” As soon as she finished layering I took a quick look in the mirror and stared, aghast. With short, straight hair, I’d just gone back to being twelve again. My ponytail lay forlorn and lifeless on the tile counter. “I think it looked better long,” Josiah said quietly from the doorway. Well. What’s done is done. I shrugged, bagged up my ponytail and went to take a shower.

A short time later we all piled into the car for a trip into town for the inevitable shopping experience. I could have done without shopping. Lauryn met us in Belk for a quick “hello.” “I have something to show you,” she told me excitedly over the phone. I paused for a minute to think. “Did you find a car?” Her voice dropped. “How’d you guess?” then the buoyancy returned as she laughed, “of course you would guess.” I got the drop on her with the surprise. She noticed my missing hair immediately and squealed. “Oh, I like it! It’s so cute!” (I didn’t stop to ask her if that was a twelve-year-old cute or a mature, sophisticated cute.) Then she demanded, “What did Zach say?” I blinked. “Zach? Uh…I just did it this morning. He hasn’t seen it yet.” Why in the world did she ask about Zach? Aside from everything being a big deal to him. “He’s so funny,” she went on. “I can’t wait to see what he’ll say. Just the other day he was telling me, ‘Abigail’s just growing and changing so much.’” I blinked again, confused. “Not Lydia?” I shook my head and started laughing. “That makes me sound like I’m twelve or something.” Lauryn laughed, too. “I was like, ‘Now Zach, what do you mean? Abigail’s only like a year younger than we are.’ He never really said what he meant.” We shared a laugh at Zach's expense. He's certainly generous with providing entertainment. I’ve only known Zach for a couple of years. I can’t have grown and changed that much.

The opportunity to see Zach’s response came this evening when he walked through the doorway while I worked on supper. He looked at me hard for a little while and then said, “Did you cut your hair off? Come over here so I can look at you!” Such bossiness. Sometimes he really does make me feel twelve. After a critical examination, he announced, “Wow. You look about twelve.” The rest of the night he talked about my hair. “Are you pretty stoked about it? You’re glowing. I’m pretty stoked about it.” Then he paused. “What did your dad say?” And he proceeded to demand who else knew and make conjectures about how different people would react, stopping periodically to ask questions like how much had I cut off? I have no clue whether it made me appear to be growing and changing (hopefully from twelve to twenty-one), but I would guess he approved. He’d certainly have made it clear if he hadn’t. As for glowing, my nose might have been red. I was cold.

Who’d have guessed a hair-cut would be such a big deal, aside from being a Nazarite and keeping a vow?

This growing and changing thing is nagging me. Changing for the better? Not possible. I’m still so frustrated with myself and dissatisfied with the growth and change I see—or don’t see, really. My heart and thoughts and motives are forever so unholy. So impatient. So selfish. I feel like I’ve taken a huge nose dive, in a deadly spiral just opposite of where I need to be going. I’d hoped no one else had noticed a change for the worse.

Lord, I want to grow and change
Into the image of Thy Son,
And yet I never seem to grow
Or change for better, either one.

I know that Thou hast promised me
That Thou’d complete what Thou begun.
And all that Thou hast done is good,
Through Jesus Christ, Thy perfect Son.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

“Dude! Cecil got saved!” is replaying over and over in my head. It helps of course that Papa is striding around the house repeating it as well. The enthusiasm is contagious. So is the language. We visited First Baptist in D-town with Zach (or he with us, to be technical) and got to hear the testimonies of a group of teens in whom the Lord is working—including Cecil, who is one week old in Jesus. The glory is all the Lord’s. In the words of Cecil himself, “God is just great!” Over and over again. Which actually is pretty Biblical. The guys are all part of Zach’s Bible study, which Josiah’s joined a few times, and the girls are gearing up for some time in the Word with Lindsey. As each of the teens stood up and shared what God had done in their lives and how He is at work in the school (“Even the locker room has changed,” said John. “Now we all just talk about Jesus.”), my mind kept coming back to Choices PRC and the abstinence program question that still dangles unanswered before me. Once I found myself resisting it, then slowly relenting as I suspected this might be something the Lord had for me. Tonight I saw that the Lord is alive and moves even in public schools. I met kids who I know will be allies from the audience. For the first time since Papa mentioned it to me last fall, I want to do this thing for the glory of God.

I need to broach the subject again with Papa and see what he’s thinking.

Papa’s decided to teach through Galatians on Sundays and started out with an overview from Acts of the history of the Galatian churches. He assigned us the task over overviewing the book itself for the purpose and theme of the letter. I’ll wager a guess based on the best of my memory abilities: The theme is the gospel is salvation through faith not through the works of the law, and the purpose is to awaken a group of believers who have become enamored with law-keeping—especially circumcision. As believers we are freed from the Mosaic law to keep the law of liberty—not to gain salvation, but as a result of it.

On the topic of Mosaic Law, I found myself immersed in it as I waded through the middle of Exodus. Somehow the rules and regulations there had always breezed by me. Quite simply they boil down to one word: responsibility. If we want to learn something from the Mosaic Law, that’s the first step: God wants us to take responsibility for our actions. Of course, it’s also the predecessor for the important truth that we can’t remedy some actions and are hopeless lost before God—without His merciful Son. It all comes back to God’s worthiness because He alone is both just and justifier.

Lord, Thy law can’t take my hand
And lead me to Thy promised land,
But it can drive my soul to Thee
And Thou leads to eternity.

And so I see Thy law, while good,
So often is misunderstood
And though it never is erased
It cannot substitute for grace.

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

It never fails. On the heels of an emotionally charged day, I crash and burn under the load of boredom the next. Boredom. Restlessness. Frustration. A deadly combination which mixes, bubbles and threatens to overflow.

What in the world am I doing? Where is all my time going? Some days I feel like I spend half my life cooking, cleaning and washing dishes and it’s probably not too far off. When I go for an hour run, what have I really accomplished? When I spend an hour writing to the Willises, what of that time will count for eternity? I beginning to feel like a thin coating of peanut butter—spread out so much that I can’t even gather myself together to be of any nutritional benefit. A bit of this, a dab of that, a pinch of the other and voila! We have casserole de la Abigail. Serve it up hot with potatoes. From one thing to the next until I’m strung out like a pan of spaghetti and can’t even focus on one task to finish it.

Christy, the speaking coordinator for Choices, and I had a lovely little conversation today and she kindly laid out the abstinence presentation they give in schools. Dubious is still my word of choice. The longer I listened the deeper I sank in doubt. The phrases, statistics and charts prove to me again and again that even those public schooled sixth graders know more about sex in its various forms than I do. I’m okay with that. There are some bits of knowledge that aren’t very important to my current stage of life. However, I suppose it could be argued that I know more about abstinence than many of them. So the decision hangs heavy on my mind and heart, nagging me like a naughty child. Bluntly, honestly and in the purity of my conscience I will say without pretending (albeit redundantly): I do not want to do this thing. I have no desire in the world to join this project. This presentation is last on my list of things I’d like to do in 2008. In fact, I’M AFRAID.

How do I know if my time is being wasted? How do I know what I should be doing right now? How do I know what the Lord wants of me?

Lord, see my heart? I cry,
It’s sitting at Thy feet, while I
Am left to cook and clean and scour!
It is wasting hour on hour!

Lord, tell my heart to help me,
But I heart Thy voice speak to me:
“I wish that thou would join thy heart
It has picked the better part.”

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Thursday, my routine mail check produced a Victoria’s Secret magazine—still coming to us though we’ve tried and tried to shake them. I smuggled it into my bedroom, out of sight of the men in the family and stuffed it into my trashcan to await an opportune moment for me to send it to a fiery end. Today, I dug it out to wreck my vengeance on it. It all began when I ordered something for my sister-in-law, and checked the "Do not send me e-mail or magazines" option. Magazines began arriving a short time later, anyway. I called, demanding that they stop sending the advertisements. We moved, and again they found us.

Viciously I ripped the offending magazine to shreds. Why did they have to make this kind of “soft-core” pornography, anyway, and slip it into our homes under the pretense of selling us ladies’ items? There’s no doubt in my mind what the true purpose of such marketing can be. Are we marketing lingerie or women’s bodies? A woman can evaluate lingerie just as well on a manikin. There's no special appeal to her through the sexy poses. How many men and boys pick up a Victoria’s Secret magazine, never to buy a bra or bikini, but to be forever ensnared by the demons who inspire pornography? Overwhelmed by the truth of this marketing scheme, I fed the shreds to a dying fire, crying from sorrow and smoke. With the ashes of ruined women before me I vowed never to order from Victoria's Secret again.

After finishing the day’s work, I found myself flying down the woodland trail Josiah and I built. Out of condition, I was surprised to find myself not out of breath. In spite of jeans, work boots and a denim jacket I ran full out, nearly sprinting for over half a mile, until I came to the clearing and spied Josiah hunched over his Bible. Quickly I turned around and returned home.

I hold in my hand a note signed “The Sinner”--as if there were only one. It is an apology, simple, straightforward and humble and I know who the author is, in spite of the apparent anonymity. At this moment, with tears chasing each other down my cheeks, I am overwhelmed by one simple truth: I am equally worthy of the signature. How could I deserve an apology?

Lord, if I am grieved by sin
How more art Thou, so pure within?
And if a sin fills me with sorrow,
How much more must be Thy horror?

A miracle it is that I,
Who caused Thy perfect Son to die,
Should by His death be so forgiven
As to dwell with Thee in heaven.

Concerning the Future

I’m at a place in my life where I often think about the future. I know that’s a good thing...most of the time, but it can also be a distraction from what the Lord is trying to work into my hard heart now. I catch myself daydreaming, wondering, asking what God’s will is for me—meaning, what He’s got planned for me in the future—instead of focusing on what He wants me doing now. Such foolishness! Getting ahead of the Lord, trying to guess His gifts before they’re finished and wrapped, trying to make decisions that haven’t even come up in my life yet! “What should I do if...” “What should I say if...” “I just can’t handle it if...” I should be seeking what the Lord wants me doing now—today. His will isn’t some mystical feeling in the pit of my stomache. It’s not a voice whispering in the back of my mind. It’s not revealed through visions and premonitions. He doesn’t lead through impulses, or even through the well-plotted schemes of people. He leads through my obedience to His known will—as laid out in His word.

As I’ve been studying His word, seeking His will, and looking back at my own life, I’ve been convicted, encouraged and comforted with His ways.

He’s always got it under control...and He’ll lead me across every bridge that we come to.

I gaze at the future and try to decide
A question that’s not yet been posed.
Between here and there stands a powerful door
That may be left open—or closed.

The light I have now leaves my choices too dim.
I worry, I fret—and I pray.
The question unanswered is unanswered still,
But it begs not my answer today.

I focus on Jesus. The future grows pale.
He points me to look at my past.
I know there’s a question that waits undefined—
But I won’t seek an answer ‘til asked.