I’m an idiot because it’s midnight and I have my alarm set for 5 o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ve been skimming through my old journals, staring at the pages of time passed, wondering how it is that I was so much more focused, in love with the Lord and mature—three years ago. So much for the perseverance of the saints. How can I make these important things happen? Bible study, worship and journaling. I need them. They keep me spiritually vital. But when?
My heart has forgotten how to worship.
How did it happen? I don’t pour out praise, my mind is here now, poetry is long forgotten, music whispers in past history, my meditations are trying to sort out my deathly emotions. Where is God? Where is my passion? How can the two meet again?
Where, my heart, is worship hiding?
Hast thou left it by the way?
Now thou sleepest due to sorrow,
When thou shouldst wake, watch and pray.
Dare to plead again with Jesus,
Dare to wear thyself with praise
Dare to lose thy mind in worship
Dare to waste thy precious days
Seeking, groping, searching duly
For the Ancient One of Days.
Showing posts with label discouragement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label discouragement. Show all posts
Sunday, March 28, 2010
I’m a walking contradiction.
I’m such an impatient person. Such an idealist. I want everything in black and white and perfect. And I’m so ridiculously emotional. Nobody believes me. They all say I’m steady and predictable and dependable and controlled and confident and all kinds of nonsense. I’m not. My feelings wobble like a floppy top. I hate change when I’m comfortable, but when it seems inevitable then I like it drastic and dramatic and as quickly as possible, please. Especially if it seems like it will accomplish ideal.
I went to bed last night feeling weepy and frustrated because I see ideals in scripture and try to obey them, but they don’t seem to be working.
Like church. Christians divide over everything imaginable. Yet, where there are differences, it is hard to balance love and truth. Everyone has different priorities and different hills on which they are willing to die.
And romance.
And homeschooling. Half the kids I grew up with seem in grave danger of a fall because they are too naïve to recognize that the world is full of evil. Many of my homeschooled friends are trading in the values of their parents for whatever works.
And this whole “raising homemakers” thing seems to breed an awful lot of discontent young women.
I’m determined to cling to what I know is right, but why doesn’t it seem to work?
On the other hand, sometimes I feel like I’m compromising. Like I accept the best option instead of demanding perfect. Like, why do I help girls at Choices get signed up for Medicaid and WIC when I don’t believe in either? Why do I help them find jobs when I think it’s a curse on women to be in the work force? Why do I encourage them to bring children into the world when I know that children raised without fathers and in no fear of God have little likelihood of growing well? Yet in this case, I know that the overriding truth is that life belongs to God and it’s not for me to know or decide beyond doing my best to save life. Currently I do that legally and I employ legal means. If it becomes illegal, I will still seek to save lives. And I hope that perhaps I will have opportunity to introduce these women to a different way, but for now the priority is to save lives.
So maybe that’s the point with the other issues—the priority is not perfection. It’s not what works. It’s my obedience to what I know.
It’s very difficult.
This morning when I woke up, all my frustrations had run away with the Sand Man. They didn’t even seem important. Maybe I just get frustrated the more tired I am? And we had an excellent meeting. The S Family and a friend of theirs named John joined us for the meeting, which stretched until one o’clock with lots of encouragement.
It was a beautiful day, so when we got home, Papa and I hopped on his bike and I straddled his new saddle bags as we zipped all over Linker Mountain and Lander’s Loop. The whole ride I wrestled with ideal and simplifying the complicating factors of life as the scenery whizzed by.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t been journaling—because I’m feeling a bit confused and frustrated as I just want things to be either wrong or right. To either go away or happen. I just don’t like waiting.
Which is exactly what the Lord allows to teach me to keep my focus on Him.
Which is exactly what waiting requires—perseverance in doing good.
Lord Jesus, I’m always dissatisfied with the status quo, always frustrated with the slow pace of life and with all the things I perceive as wasted time, emotion and motion. But Father, I know that these are things You ordain and permit to cause me to grow into Your image. If You ordained everything to happen in perfect order and in ideal circumstances, where would I learn obedience? Where would I learn proven character? Where would I learn hope? And where would be the encouragement to fix my eyes on a heavenly kingdom which is imperishable and in which You dwell and rule and everything is perfect? Teach me to use my times of frustration to plead that Your kingdom would come and Your will be done on earth just as it is in heaven. Teach me to be forever dissatisfied with what I currently know and possess of You and always to hunger and thirst for You and for Your righteousness, with the promise that I would be filled. Lord, I’m distracted by things that aren’t even happening—just wanting them to happen so they’ll be over and I can get focused again—but You want to use them to teach me to focus. So strengthen me. You reveal Your goodness and Your worthiness to me every day, but be so kind as to reveal it again and again with constant reminders that I can’t ignore. Pursue me. Rope me in. Keep my eyes on You. I love You. Teach me to love You more.
I’m such an impatient person. Such an idealist. I want everything in black and white and perfect. And I’m so ridiculously emotional. Nobody believes me. They all say I’m steady and predictable and dependable and controlled and confident and all kinds of nonsense. I’m not. My feelings wobble like a floppy top. I hate change when I’m comfortable, but when it seems inevitable then I like it drastic and dramatic and as quickly as possible, please. Especially if it seems like it will accomplish ideal.
I went to bed last night feeling weepy and frustrated because I see ideals in scripture and try to obey them, but they don’t seem to be working.
Like church. Christians divide over everything imaginable. Yet, where there are differences, it is hard to balance love and truth. Everyone has different priorities and different hills on which they are willing to die.
And romance.
And homeschooling. Half the kids I grew up with seem in grave danger of a fall because they are too naïve to recognize that the world is full of evil. Many of my homeschooled friends are trading in the values of their parents for whatever works.
And this whole “raising homemakers” thing seems to breed an awful lot of discontent young women.
I’m determined to cling to what I know is right, but why doesn’t it seem to work?
On the other hand, sometimes I feel like I’m compromising. Like I accept the best option instead of demanding perfect. Like, why do I help girls at Choices get signed up for Medicaid and WIC when I don’t believe in either? Why do I help them find jobs when I think it’s a curse on women to be in the work force? Why do I encourage them to bring children into the world when I know that children raised without fathers and in no fear of God have little likelihood of growing well? Yet in this case, I know that the overriding truth is that life belongs to God and it’s not for me to know or decide beyond doing my best to save life. Currently I do that legally and I employ legal means. If it becomes illegal, I will still seek to save lives. And I hope that perhaps I will have opportunity to introduce these women to a different way, but for now the priority is to save lives.
So maybe that’s the point with the other issues—the priority is not perfection. It’s not what works. It’s my obedience to what I know.
It’s very difficult.
This morning when I woke up, all my frustrations had run away with the Sand Man. They didn’t even seem important. Maybe I just get frustrated the more tired I am? And we had an excellent meeting. The S Family and a friend of theirs named John joined us for the meeting, which stretched until one o’clock with lots of encouragement.
It was a beautiful day, so when we got home, Papa and I hopped on his bike and I straddled his new saddle bags as we zipped all over Linker Mountain and Lander’s Loop. The whole ride I wrestled with ideal and simplifying the complicating factors of life as the scenery whizzed by.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t been journaling—because I’m feeling a bit confused and frustrated as I just want things to be either wrong or right. To either go away or happen. I just don’t like waiting.
Which is exactly what the Lord allows to teach me to keep my focus on Him.
Which is exactly what waiting requires—perseverance in doing good.
Lord Jesus, I’m always dissatisfied with the status quo, always frustrated with the slow pace of life and with all the things I perceive as wasted time, emotion and motion. But Father, I know that these are things You ordain and permit to cause me to grow into Your image. If You ordained everything to happen in perfect order and in ideal circumstances, where would I learn obedience? Where would I learn proven character? Where would I learn hope? And where would be the encouragement to fix my eyes on a heavenly kingdom which is imperishable and in which You dwell and rule and everything is perfect? Teach me to use my times of frustration to plead that Your kingdom would come and Your will be done on earth just as it is in heaven. Teach me to be forever dissatisfied with what I currently know and possess of You and always to hunger and thirst for You and for Your righteousness, with the promise that I would be filled. Lord, I’m distracted by things that aren’t even happening—just wanting them to happen so they’ll be over and I can get focused again—but You want to use them to teach me to focus. So strengthen me. You reveal Your goodness and Your worthiness to me every day, but be so kind as to reveal it again and again with constant reminders that I can’t ignore. Pursue me. Rope me in. Keep my eyes on You. I love You. Teach me to love You more.
Monday, June 15, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Burning sun scorches down on a weary child, decked in the armor of a warrior, wielding a mighty sword. Weeping, struggling to survive, crying out for help she watches as the mighty antagonist swings his murderous weapon. On her knees, with her face to the earth and her mind in heaven, she cannot be struck down. Her victor stands over her and destroys the enemy. That was me not so long ago. I fought. I bled. I wept. I prayed. And Jesus, Son of Almighty God, stood by my side and captured the victory. Ah, but the victory had no sooner been sealed than another foe from behind struck me a blow and I wheeled, blood and bile filling my mouth, my world reeling and crashing around me. I dropped my sword. My plea for help died on my lips and I watched as he struck me again—foul fiend. And again. And again. And battered me to the ground where I lay, eyes wide and staring, soul fluttering inside like a trapped moth, spirit dead. And I did not rise. The weight of defeat and darkness spread over my body like a paralysis and left me empty of everything but despair.
To rise again was too painful. To call for help required me to muster my voice. To grip my sword begged my intense concentration. Instead I lay broken and bleeding.
Until yesterday.
As I cleaned the neighbor’s house, the dam inside trembled. I hadn’t wept since the day the Lord had worked in two hearts for an outcome I thought was right. It seemed we’d won. A couple of days later my dreams crumbled when those for whom I'd prayed rejected what had happened and walked their own way. I was too weak from the battle. Used up. Empty. I sank to the ground and never rose.
Until yesterday.
Josiah came to join me and read me a rap song he’d just written. “Is it encouraging?” I asked him. “I need something encouraging.” Then the dam broke and the flood rushed through and down my face, burning my eyes and cutting paths in my cheeks. The tears started and wouldn’t stop. I spilled frustrations, discouragement, anger, doubt, confusion, helplessness. Some to Josiah, some only to the Lord.
And I cried for help. I pleaded for mercy. I begged to be raised from the dead.
Josiah went outside with my phone and I know he called Nathaniel. I finished cleaning alone, weeping, praying, whispering, pleading. Like a person rising from the dead, casting off the burial clothes, free to walk again, to stand again, to see again, to speak again. Free to love again. To feel again. To hope again. To ask again.
Yesterday the Lord picked me up off the battlefield, wounded, bleading and broken-hearted and bound my wounds and reminded me that in Him is peace, in Him is hope, in Him is joy. And in Him is the strength to seek Him.
Today my artificial happiness had vanished, words died on my lips and silliness vanished from my heart. I didn’t need them. They were only a cover for the deeper, darker despair that was eating my soul. Today things were different. Today supper actually looked appetizing. Today I was able to climb out of bed in the morning and face a new day. Today I rejoiced.
And tonight I could face my journal. Tonight I could reflect on the day knowing that the Lord was with me—not because I am worthy but because of His great love.
Child of weakness, I give you this wisdom without a price:
Seek thy strength in the arm that delivers.
Seek thy peace in the hand that calms hurricanes.
Seek thy help in the fingers that scattered the stars.
Seek thy joy in the presence of Almighty God.
To rise again was too painful. To call for help required me to muster my voice. To grip my sword begged my intense concentration. Instead I lay broken and bleeding.
Until yesterday.
As I cleaned the neighbor’s house, the dam inside trembled. I hadn’t wept since the day the Lord had worked in two hearts for an outcome I thought was right. It seemed we’d won. A couple of days later my dreams crumbled when those for whom I'd prayed rejected what had happened and walked their own way. I was too weak from the battle. Used up. Empty. I sank to the ground and never rose.
Until yesterday.
Josiah came to join me and read me a rap song he’d just written. “Is it encouraging?” I asked him. “I need something encouraging.” Then the dam broke and the flood rushed through and down my face, burning my eyes and cutting paths in my cheeks. The tears started and wouldn’t stop. I spilled frustrations, discouragement, anger, doubt, confusion, helplessness. Some to Josiah, some only to the Lord.
And I cried for help. I pleaded for mercy. I begged to be raised from the dead.
Josiah went outside with my phone and I know he called Nathaniel. I finished cleaning alone, weeping, praying, whispering, pleading. Like a person rising from the dead, casting off the burial clothes, free to walk again, to stand again, to see again, to speak again. Free to love again. To feel again. To hope again. To ask again.
Yesterday the Lord picked me up off the battlefield, wounded, bleading and broken-hearted and bound my wounds and reminded me that in Him is peace, in Him is hope, in Him is joy. And in Him is the strength to seek Him.
Today my artificial happiness had vanished, words died on my lips and silliness vanished from my heart. I didn’t need them. They were only a cover for the deeper, darker despair that was eating my soul. Today things were different. Today supper actually looked appetizing. Today I was able to climb out of bed in the morning and face a new day. Today I rejoiced.
And tonight I could face my journal. Tonight I could reflect on the day knowing that the Lord was with me—not because I am worthy but because of His great love.
Child of weakness, I give you this wisdom without a price:
Seek thy strength in the arm that delivers.
Seek thy peace in the hand that calms hurricanes.
Seek thy help in the fingers that scattered the stars.
Seek thy joy in the presence of Almighty God.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
“You’re still discouraged?” Lauren asked me. I hate that I simply can’t shake this heavy feeling of despondency that has settled over my shoulders like a wet blanket. I struggle for truth. I read and read. But I don’t write. Not really write. What would I say? I feel shallow when I talk to people. Lost on the surface of a mirror—just reflecting them back, blocking out any view of deeper inside myself. I laugh a lot. I talk more than I used to. I’m hyper and prattle to Lydia in ridiculous voices. But I feel empty. Lost. Frozen. My heart has become a lump of ice that burns with intense cold inside my chest. And I’ve become secretive again, shutting people off from me. Even Tabby. Because Tabby and I are no longer at the same place. She doesn’t really need me any more. I don’t begrudge her anything—I’m thrilled to see what the Lord is going to do. I just don’t have much to tell her any more and it’s easy just to listen to her tell me about what’s going on in her life. Nothing painful or difficult anymore. She doesn’t really need me.
My dreams and hopes are dead. My thoughts are tangled in a web of should and should not, must and must not, might and might not. I don’t even know where to begin to unravel them. Intense loneliness overwhelms me, no matter who I’m with. Somehow I have withdrawn from the Lord or He has withdrawn from me.
When one has known the presence of the Lord, when one has sat at His feet and heard His voice whisper truth, distance is as deadly as hell. People speak kindly to me, but their voices are from another world. My mind drifts from everything at hand and wanders aimlessly across the scope of the universe searching for something I’ve lost. My heart is full of knowledge, but where is the One I love? In His presence is fullness of joy. In His right hand are pleasures forever.
I am not in His presence and I am miserable.
I wandered the length of the galaxies spread
And found it was formless and empty instead
For only in Thee do all things exist
In the world Thou hast made, it is Thou I have missed.
Sightless, my eyes flicker over creation
I breathe without thinking, yet each inhalation
Leaves me still gasping and wheezing for breath
For a soul wand’ring from Thee is dancing with death.
Ah, Father, Thou sees me, wherever I am.
Like the shepherd who follows the wandering lamb
Please find me here lost and alone and afraid,
By the debt of the Passover Lamb, my debt paid.
Capture my heart once again with Thy grace,
Electrify with Thy redeeming embrace,
And lead me in ways that will bring Thee delight.
Teach me the path that’s both pleasure and right.
My dreams and hopes are dead. My thoughts are tangled in a web of should and should not, must and must not, might and might not. I don’t even know where to begin to unravel them. Intense loneliness overwhelms me, no matter who I’m with. Somehow I have withdrawn from the Lord or He has withdrawn from me.
When one has known the presence of the Lord, when one has sat at His feet and heard His voice whisper truth, distance is as deadly as hell. People speak kindly to me, but their voices are from another world. My mind drifts from everything at hand and wanders aimlessly across the scope of the universe searching for something I’ve lost. My heart is full of knowledge, but where is the One I love? In His presence is fullness of joy. In His right hand are pleasures forever.
I am not in His presence and I am miserable.
I wandered the length of the galaxies spread
And found it was formless and empty instead
For only in Thee do all things exist
In the world Thou hast made, it is Thou I have missed.
Sightless, my eyes flicker over creation
I breathe without thinking, yet each inhalation
Leaves me still gasping and wheezing for breath
For a soul wand’ring from Thee is dancing with death.
Ah, Father, Thou sees me, wherever I am.
Like the shepherd who follows the wandering lamb
Please find me here lost and alone and afraid,
By the debt of the Passover Lamb, my debt paid.
Capture my heart once again with Thy grace,
Electrify with Thy redeeming embrace,
And lead me in ways that will bring Thee delight.
Teach me the path that’s both pleasure and right.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Papa shared his opinion on the issue of Eli’s sons. He pointed out that as those in leadership, representing Yahweh, they incurred a stricter judgment. He also reminded me that Yahweh gives those whose hearts are hard over to their sin, as in Romans chapter one, and also to the wages of sin—death.
Yahweh’s call to Samuel, and Samuel’s quick answer was encouraging. I hope I am always as quick to answer the Lord, “Speak Lord, Thy servant listens.” It must have been distressing to Samuel to hear God’s judgment on Eli and his sons. I was struck through the story with the view of God’s sovereignty. At the time, the capture of the ark and the death of the priests—all of them—must have seemed like Yahweh forsaking His people! Instead, it was judgment on the wicked priests and Eli, who allowed their wickedness, as well as a reminder to the people that the ark was not a good luck charm. Yahweh is with his people when they are obedient and seek Him. But His plan was even larger than teaching the Israelites an important lesson—still He would not allow His name to be blasphemed among the Philistines. They thought they had triumphed over Him, but soon discovered that even their god Dagon must fall on his face in worship of Yahweh. When plagues swept through their cities, they knew it was the hand of Yahweh—and His hand continued to work in guiding the cows, bellowing all the way for their calves, to carry the ark home. Who had everything under control? Yahweh. Who got the glory? Yahweh. He is worthy!
Lord, Thou over rules our plans,
To show us Thou art not a man,
And though we do not understand
Thou still maintains control.
With circumstances that appear
To harm Thy purpose, Thou makes clear
That Thou redeemest, year by year,
Both circumstance and soul.
Yahweh’s call to Samuel, and Samuel’s quick answer was encouraging. I hope I am always as quick to answer the Lord, “Speak Lord, Thy servant listens.” It must have been distressing to Samuel to hear God’s judgment on Eli and his sons. I was struck through the story with the view of God’s sovereignty. At the time, the capture of the ark and the death of the priests—all of them—must have seemed like Yahweh forsaking His people! Instead, it was judgment on the wicked priests and Eli, who allowed their wickedness, as well as a reminder to the people that the ark was not a good luck charm. Yahweh is with his people when they are obedient and seek Him. But His plan was even larger than teaching the Israelites an important lesson—still He would not allow His name to be blasphemed among the Philistines. They thought they had triumphed over Him, but soon discovered that even their god Dagon must fall on his face in worship of Yahweh. When plagues swept through their cities, they knew it was the hand of Yahweh—and His hand continued to work in guiding the cows, bellowing all the way for their calves, to carry the ark home. Who had everything under control? Yahweh. Who got the glory? Yahweh. He is worthy!
Lord, Thou over rules our plans,
To show us Thou art not a man,
And though we do not understand
Thou still maintains control.
With circumstances that appear
To harm Thy purpose, Thou makes clear
That Thou redeemest, year by year,
Both circumstance and soul.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
I whisked soggy leaves up and into the wheelbarrow, watching the heavy storm clouds rolling in. The job was far from done when warm raindrops began splashing into my hair and down my face, and peals of thunder rumbled closer, like wild horses fleeing lightening bolt lassos. Nasty and Taska, the neighbor’s long-haired German Shepherds, appeared as we hung up tools and took shelter under the garage roof. Looking like wolves, but behaving like lambs, the two dogs pressed close, afraid of the thunder and lightening. With Travis and Mary gone, they’d escaped their pen, seeking comfort, and wound up spending the day curled up on our sagging front porch. When Papa and I headed out for a walk this evening, they decided they had better tag along for our protection, but their tails were drooping with weariness by the time we arrived home.
Flipping through loose papers in my clipboard, past silly poetry, finish the quote and “If I…I would” games, I discovered lyrics I’d scribbled at least a year ago. Embarrassed to show it to anyone for fear of having to explain why I’d written something I couldn’t possibly relate to, I’d buried it away among my “Works in Progress.” As I reread them, I became acutely aware of the meter and timing—perfect for the new piano piece that had been haunting me since Thursday night. I just wish I could sing.
I pulled up in front of the Dover Supermarket next to a pickup full of rowdy boys. Immediately I wished I’d parked somewhere else. Their radars picked up “girl” as I kept my face averted, hoping they’d go ahead and pull out. A couple of minutes passed with no such luck, so I finally opened my door and stepped out, pointedly looking away. “Hey there, cutie,” one of the boys called through the open window. Ignoring him I turned my back, shouldered my purse and marched past and into the store. As the door swung closed behind me, I overheard the hooting and teasing, "She showed you!" I’m so sick of this foolishness. I never asked to be a part of this enduring rat-race, this constant head-splitting clamor for attention. Stuffing fresh spinach, lettuce and tomatoes into grocery bags, I fought back tears—tears because I just want to belong to Jesus, I want to be devoted to Him, to be in love with Him, but I’m battling rude boys on the outside and a divided heart on the inside. Lydia and Josiah greeted me with hyper silliness when I arrived home. I freed myself as politely as I could and vanished into my room where I stayed most of the evening, sorting through something that’s been troubling me...it feels like forever. Confused because I'm not finding the resolution I hoped for, frustrated because I can't just let it go and let God. I’ve come to a place I never planned to see.
Lord, my heart weighs much tonight.
I feel I’ve given up the fight
And sat down in the rain to cry,
Subjected to the devil’s lies.
But Lord, Thou art the truth that frees us
By Thy name, the name of Jesus,
Thou wilt lift my heart and face,
And bring the vict’ry through Thy grace.
Flipping through loose papers in my clipboard, past silly poetry, finish the quote and “If I…I would” games, I discovered lyrics I’d scribbled at least a year ago. Embarrassed to show it to anyone for fear of having to explain why I’d written something I couldn’t possibly relate to, I’d buried it away among my “Works in Progress.” As I reread them, I became acutely aware of the meter and timing—perfect for the new piano piece that had been haunting me since Thursday night. I just wish I could sing.
I pulled up in front of the Dover Supermarket next to a pickup full of rowdy boys. Immediately I wished I’d parked somewhere else. Their radars picked up “girl” as I kept my face averted, hoping they’d go ahead and pull out. A couple of minutes passed with no such luck, so I finally opened my door and stepped out, pointedly looking away. “Hey there, cutie,” one of the boys called through the open window. Ignoring him I turned my back, shouldered my purse and marched past and into the store. As the door swung closed behind me, I overheard the hooting and teasing, "She showed you!" I’m so sick of this foolishness. I never asked to be a part of this enduring rat-race, this constant head-splitting clamor for attention. Stuffing fresh spinach, lettuce and tomatoes into grocery bags, I fought back tears—tears because I just want to belong to Jesus, I want to be devoted to Him, to be in love with Him, but I’m battling rude boys on the outside and a divided heart on the inside. Lydia and Josiah greeted me with hyper silliness when I arrived home. I freed myself as politely as I could and vanished into my room where I stayed most of the evening, sorting through something that’s been troubling me...it feels like forever. Confused because I'm not finding the resolution I hoped for, frustrated because I can't just let it go and let God. I’ve come to a place I never planned to see.
Lord, my heart weighs much tonight.
I feel I’ve given up the fight
And sat down in the rain to cry,
Subjected to the devil’s lies.
But Lord, Thou art the truth that frees us
By Thy name, the name of Jesus,
Thou wilt lift my heart and face,
And bring the vict’ry through Thy grace.
Thursday, March 17, 2008
Travis put us all in stitches, describing the plight of his dentures. Tricky things to make, are dentures, and take hours of intense labor, as I’ve discovered from being in the lab with Papa. It’s hard to convince the wayward teeth to stay in one’s mouth, as poor Travis has discovered. “Super glue works for many things,” Mom offered, jokingly, but Travis only shuddered. “It doesn’t work for this! I tried it!” Out pop his teeth, before he continues, “I go to eat oatmeal with a big spoon and wind up putting my food on top of my teeth instead of between them. The first day I got them, I was driving down the highway with my windows rolled down and I sneezed. I barely caught my teeth on their way out the window. Just the other day I coughed and they went flying across the floor. ‘Mary!’ I yelled. ‘Get me my dentures, would you?’ She says, ‘I ain’t touching them!’” Then there’s the time he lost them in a movie theatre. He’d taken them out to eat popcorn and rolled them into his sweatshirt, then gotten up to move, forgetting about them. Soon he and the manager were crawling around in the dark with a flashlight, poking under people’s feet, more entertaining than the movie, as they searched for the missing mouthpiece. Travis knows we’re believers. We talk with him frequently. But none of us has yet shared the gospel. Why is it that those who live so near us, who give us so many opportunities, seem the most frightening? As if sharing the best news on earth would somehow hamper our relationship.
I think I made a million phone calls today, and received a million more. I can’t even remember why. I know I wasn’t selling vinyl siding. Thankfully, they weren’t either.
As usual, I’d disconnected the wireless device after checking my e-mail and attempted to reconnect it to Papa’s computer. Nothing. No recognition. Uh. What? I checked the USB cables, tried several other ports and then tried reconnecting to my laptop. Power, yes. Data, no. Oh great. That meant a hardware issue. I quickly dug out our latest bill and called AT&T. Emily, my very kind AT&T representative walked me through several troubleshooting processes (again) and deduced the same thing. Here’s where I found her impressive: instead of simply transferring me over to the warranty department and leaving me on my own to explain myself and my data, she went on hold with me—even disconnected me, so I wouldn’t have to wait, and then called me back when she finally got through to a representative, where she introduced us, passed on the problem and I soon had my issue resolved. Well, at least as well as I could hope for. The upshot is that we’re expecting a new device Monday. Until then, we shall be entirely cut off from the electronic world. Funny how dependent we’ve become on e-mail and internet that a few days without that option seems like a hardship.
I’ve been lingering in the word bridge between Deuteronomy and Joshua, captured by one theme: “Have I not commanded you, be strong and courageous! Do not be terrified or discouraged, for Yahweh is with you.” Could there be a more appropriate time for this command, when it seems a few giants are undefined giants are facing us? Fascinating is the wording. Not, “you can do it” or “you’re big enough for this” or “you’re the man!” as the world would tell us—falsely. A command: be strong and courageous. Make the choice: don’t be terrified or discouraged. Why? Because Yahweh is with you. Us. Me. Forty years before, Joshua’s generation had trembled, had feared, had become discouraged, forgetting the mighty deeds Yahweh had done on their behalf. Now, as an eighty-year-old man, come again to the edge of the promised land, God reminds him over and over again to be brave! To fight with might for the right. Because Yahweh Himself is with him, fighting for the sake of His name.
Be strong in Yahweh and in the strength of His might. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against rulers and principalities of darkness. We’re not battling idolatrous Canaanites, but the very bloodthirsty darkness that controlled them. Therefore, we should gird ourselves with the armor of God, that we may stand firm. Clothed with truth, guarded by righteousness, walking in peace, shielded by faith, protected by salvation and doing battle with God’s word and through the far-reaching power of prayer.
And pray for what? For boldness. “Have I not commanded you be strong and courageous!” Because the Creator and Sustainer of all life is with me wherever I go. Because the battle is not mine, it’s His. Because He has already won the victory and ensured that I will receive the unfading wreath of eternal life.
The story of Jericho’s downfall seems overly familiar at times, but the command for silence set me to thinking. Why would God command silence as His people paraded around the walls of Jericho? In a dearth of words, I find myself growing thoughtful, pondering, meditating. No doubt the men of Israel found themselves recalling how Yahweh had piled up the water of the Jordan so they could cross, how He had brought them so far, they could see the ark in front of them, leading the way, remember the beautiful object lessons it contained, think on God’s promises kept and this new one: that the walls would come crashing down when they obeyed. Jericho was a battle won through worship—unquestioningly obeying God’s commands. Silently, so as to focus on Yahweh and His power. Then the shout—the cry of faith that the victory was won and the answering rumbling that sent the massive walls into piles of dust and debris. As I buckle on my armor for spiritual battle, I am reminded that God does the fighting—our part is to worship, to obey, to shout the cry of victory.
Lord, Thou bids me take my sword,
And in the true strength of Thy word,
The courage which Thy presence lends,
The power which Thy spirit sends,
To take the battlefield and fight,
Against the strongholds of the night,
Tear down discouragement and fear,
And so the devil’s strongholds here.
I think I made a million phone calls today, and received a million more. I can’t even remember why. I know I wasn’t selling vinyl siding. Thankfully, they weren’t either.
As usual, I’d disconnected the wireless device after checking my e-mail and attempted to reconnect it to Papa’s computer. Nothing. No recognition. Uh. What? I checked the USB cables, tried several other ports and then tried reconnecting to my laptop. Power, yes. Data, no. Oh great. That meant a hardware issue. I quickly dug out our latest bill and called AT&T. Emily, my very kind AT&T representative walked me through several troubleshooting processes (again) and deduced the same thing. Here’s where I found her impressive: instead of simply transferring me over to the warranty department and leaving me on my own to explain myself and my data, she went on hold with me—even disconnected me, so I wouldn’t have to wait, and then called me back when she finally got through to a representative, where she introduced us, passed on the problem and I soon had my issue resolved. Well, at least as well as I could hope for. The upshot is that we’re expecting a new device Monday. Until then, we shall be entirely cut off from the electronic world. Funny how dependent we’ve become on e-mail and internet that a few days without that option seems like a hardship.
I’ve been lingering in the word bridge between Deuteronomy and Joshua, captured by one theme: “Have I not commanded you, be strong and courageous! Do not be terrified or discouraged, for Yahweh is with you.” Could there be a more appropriate time for this command, when it seems a few giants are undefined giants are facing us? Fascinating is the wording. Not, “you can do it” or “you’re big enough for this” or “you’re the man!” as the world would tell us—falsely. A command: be strong and courageous. Make the choice: don’t be terrified or discouraged. Why? Because Yahweh is with you. Us. Me. Forty years before, Joshua’s generation had trembled, had feared, had become discouraged, forgetting the mighty deeds Yahweh had done on their behalf. Now, as an eighty-year-old man, come again to the edge of the promised land, God reminds him over and over again to be brave! To fight with might for the right. Because Yahweh Himself is with him, fighting for the sake of His name.
Be strong in Yahweh and in the strength of His might. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against rulers and principalities of darkness. We’re not battling idolatrous Canaanites, but the very bloodthirsty darkness that controlled them. Therefore, we should gird ourselves with the armor of God, that we may stand firm. Clothed with truth, guarded by righteousness, walking in peace, shielded by faith, protected by salvation and doing battle with God’s word and through the far-reaching power of prayer.
And pray for what? For boldness. “Have I not commanded you be strong and courageous!” Because the Creator and Sustainer of all life is with me wherever I go. Because the battle is not mine, it’s His. Because He has already won the victory and ensured that I will receive the unfading wreath of eternal life.
The story of Jericho’s downfall seems overly familiar at times, but the command for silence set me to thinking. Why would God command silence as His people paraded around the walls of Jericho? In a dearth of words, I find myself growing thoughtful, pondering, meditating. No doubt the men of Israel found themselves recalling how Yahweh had piled up the water of the Jordan so they could cross, how He had brought them so far, they could see the ark in front of them, leading the way, remember the beautiful object lessons it contained, think on God’s promises kept and this new one: that the walls would come crashing down when they obeyed. Jericho was a battle won through worship—unquestioningly obeying God’s commands. Silently, so as to focus on Yahweh and His power. Then the shout—the cry of faith that the victory was won and the answering rumbling that sent the massive walls into piles of dust and debris. As I buckle on my armor for spiritual battle, I am reminded that God does the fighting—our part is to worship, to obey, to shout the cry of victory.
Lord, Thou bids me take my sword,
And in the true strength of Thy word,
The courage which Thy presence lends,
The power which Thy spirit sends,
To take the battlefield and fight,
Against the strongholds of the night,
Tear down discouragement and fear,
And so the devil’s strongholds here.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
I hung up my toothbrush, wiped my hands and opened the bathroom door, at last free to sit down and just be alone. A pale, blue figure stood forlornly outside, squinting at the light. “Abigail,” came Lydia’s sleepy voice. “I think I have a bunch of chigger bites on my back. They itch. Can you do something for me?” It’s pretty early for chiggers. I pulled her into the bathroom, slid her shirt over her head and gasped. Her little back was mottled and blistered with a nasty rash. “What did you eat today?” I demanded. “What did you do outside?” The mountain ranges were crawling up her neck and arms, across her belly and down her whole backside. Half an hour, several antihistamines, a body rub of ant-itch cream and clean clothes later, I am finally sitting down in the quiet. It’s already past ten-thirty.
This in flight fueling just doesn’t seem to work for me.
Unthought thoughts seem to pile up in my arms, like a load of firewood, needing only one thing: to be laid on Yahweh’s altar as a pleasing sacrifice to Him.
I thought I could wish Him good-morning while fixing breakfast, but others trickled in, greeting, laughing, asking questions. As soon as we’d finished breakfast, I clambered outside and wrangled our poor, dilapidated weed eater to the floor, to fill it with fuel and attempt starting it. “Homelite” I read over again and again as I futily cranked it. “Simply reliable.” Reliable would not have been my word of choice, considering the polished wood string head (Josiah’s creative craftsmanship), the shuddering blade ensemble (held together by bolts and electrical tape) or the fact that I had opened up the side and pulled out the air filter so I could manually choke the engine, while spraying in starter fluid. Finally she roared to life and managed to rattle every bone in my body as we attacked the brush crowding out the back lane. Just as I finished up, ol’ Homelite gave a shudder, parted ways with her muffler and went out sounding like a motorcycle on a respirator. But I finished the job. Barely in time to snatch a quick shower and head out the door with Nathaniel and Lauren in an attempt to find Lauren some new dresses. “You’re my favorite person to shop with,” she confided. Shopping might not be my most favoritist activity in the world, but if it’s the only one in which I surpass Nathaniel, I will seek to be the best fashion consultant/shopper helper the world has ever known. Our hurried spree came to an end in time to see us arriving “fashionably late” (so Lauren said) and Donnie’s open house. Open houses are painfully awkward creatures. I arrived, I said “hi”, I joined the volleyball game, I ate, I had snatches of numerous conversations with numerous people. Listening over a dull roar is a talent I do not possess. Making small talk is another. Spiking a volleyball is a third. But the important thing is that Donnie enjoyed the event, felt special because I was there (well, me and a few others) and proved to be a master in serving volleyball.
For the fifteen miles home, my mind reached blindly for the “alone time” I was promising myself. Because my plans are so important. Because I am so important. Home arrived with a new set of demands. Make supper. Wash dishes. Clean the house. Get ready for more company. Fix food for tomorrow. My outer shell smiled as I spooned jell-o into a pan and chopped a crop of dusty pototatoes. My inner being wept. Slicing the turkey, Mom asked for prayer about several things weighing on her mind. I slammed a butterfly net over my wandering mind and put it in a jar on the counter in front of me, hoping to hold it present to listen to her. “Lord!” I plead, “I just wanted to be alone!”
“I know the feeling.”
Made in the likeness of sinful flesh. A priest who can sympathize with our weaknesses. Often Jesus tried to creep away with His disciples, to be alone, to pray, to talk to His father, but the clamorous multitudes hunted Him out, seeking only to eat the loaves and be filled. One day He fed five thousand, spent the night in prayer, crossed the sea on foot through a storm only to be greeted on the other side by those He’d hoped to evade. At last, those same men and women who had so eagerly sought Him before, turned against Him and demanded His death. Hardly a chance to be alone that night, as He faced the most terrible agony possible—paving the way for me to come to Him.
Now that I’m finally alone in the dark and quiet, my head droops. “I’m too tired, Lord. I’m exhausted. I just need to go to sleep.”
The disciples were too tired to watch and pray by the side of their Lord. Too tired to savor those last few moments with Him before He was betrayed. Too tired to seek their comfort, solace and strength from Him—the only strength that could save them from falling into temptation, that could strengthen their willing spirits.
Some things should never be left for tomorrow.
Tomorrow never comes.
Lord, when I think sleep is better
Than to be alone with Thee,
Bind me with Thy love’s strong fetter,
That my heart, enchained will be.
I dare not sleep without first seeking
Thou, Who art my source of power.
I hear the Savior softly speaking,
“Watch and pray throughout this hour.”
This in flight fueling just doesn’t seem to work for me.
Unthought thoughts seem to pile up in my arms, like a load of firewood, needing only one thing: to be laid on Yahweh’s altar as a pleasing sacrifice to Him.
I thought I could wish Him good-morning while fixing breakfast, but others trickled in, greeting, laughing, asking questions. As soon as we’d finished breakfast, I clambered outside and wrangled our poor, dilapidated weed eater to the floor, to fill it with fuel and attempt starting it. “Homelite” I read over again and again as I futily cranked it. “Simply reliable.” Reliable would not have been my word of choice, considering the polished wood string head (Josiah’s creative craftsmanship), the shuddering blade ensemble (held together by bolts and electrical tape) or the fact that I had opened up the side and pulled out the air filter so I could manually choke the engine, while spraying in starter fluid. Finally she roared to life and managed to rattle every bone in my body as we attacked the brush crowding out the back lane. Just as I finished up, ol’ Homelite gave a shudder, parted ways with her muffler and went out sounding like a motorcycle on a respirator. But I finished the job. Barely in time to snatch a quick shower and head out the door with Nathaniel and Lauren in an attempt to find Lauren some new dresses. “You’re my favorite person to shop with,” she confided. Shopping might not be my most favoritist activity in the world, but if it’s the only one in which I surpass Nathaniel, I will seek to be the best fashion consultant/shopper helper the world has ever known. Our hurried spree came to an end in time to see us arriving “fashionably late” (so Lauren said) and Donnie’s open house. Open houses are painfully awkward creatures. I arrived, I said “hi”, I joined the volleyball game, I ate, I had snatches of numerous conversations with numerous people. Listening over a dull roar is a talent I do not possess. Making small talk is another. Spiking a volleyball is a third. But the important thing is that Donnie enjoyed the event, felt special because I was there (well, me and a few others) and proved to be a master in serving volleyball.
For the fifteen miles home, my mind reached blindly for the “alone time” I was promising myself. Because my plans are so important. Because I am so important. Home arrived with a new set of demands. Make supper. Wash dishes. Clean the house. Get ready for more company. Fix food for tomorrow. My outer shell smiled as I spooned jell-o into a pan and chopped a crop of dusty pototatoes. My inner being wept. Slicing the turkey, Mom asked for prayer about several things weighing on her mind. I slammed a butterfly net over my wandering mind and put it in a jar on the counter in front of me, hoping to hold it present to listen to her. “Lord!” I plead, “I just wanted to be alone!”
“I know the feeling.”
Made in the likeness of sinful flesh. A priest who can sympathize with our weaknesses. Often Jesus tried to creep away with His disciples, to be alone, to pray, to talk to His father, but the clamorous multitudes hunted Him out, seeking only to eat the loaves and be filled. One day He fed five thousand, spent the night in prayer, crossed the sea on foot through a storm only to be greeted on the other side by those He’d hoped to evade. At last, those same men and women who had so eagerly sought Him before, turned against Him and demanded His death. Hardly a chance to be alone that night, as He faced the most terrible agony possible—paving the way for me to come to Him.
Now that I’m finally alone in the dark and quiet, my head droops. “I’m too tired, Lord. I’m exhausted. I just need to go to sleep.”
The disciples were too tired to watch and pray by the side of their Lord. Too tired to savor those last few moments with Him before He was betrayed. Too tired to seek their comfort, solace and strength from Him—the only strength that could save them from falling into temptation, that could strengthen their willing spirits.
Some things should never be left for tomorrow.
Tomorrow never comes.
Lord, when I think sleep is better
Than to be alone with Thee,
Bind me with Thy love’s strong fetter,
That my heart, enchained will be.
I dare not sleep without first seeking
Thou, Who art my source of power.
I hear the Savior softly speaking,
“Watch and pray throughout this hour.”
Saturday, February 23, 2008
I'm ashamed of the horrendous language that just came out of my mouth. “Mom’s reading her Bahble,” I answered an inquisitor. I stopped cold in horror. “Ah just said ‘Bahble’ didn't Ah?!”
Undoubtedly, the best part of the whole day was contained in my bowl at supper—homemade ice cream, made from our creamy “real” milk, in celebration of Nathaniel’s birthday. Somebody stop me before I go all mushy and sentimental, denying that he could be twenty-four, and recalling all the sweet things he used to do for me—like push my swing so that I’d hit the tree, or pull down my dress-up skirt in front of neighbor boys (he thought I was wearing shorts underneath), or chase me around the yard with locust skins (and stick them all over me when he caught me), or rubber band the sprayer nozzle in the kitchen when it was my turn to do dishes, or tell me stories about horrible ways he could die until I wound up crying (he was pretty proud to think I’d miss him so much). By the time he went off to pave his new road at college when I was sixteen, we were best friends, and I did miss him. A lot.
Now he gets to torture someone else. “Nathaniel!” Lauren cracked the bathroom door open and I looked up, knowing the problem immediately. “Did he take your clothes?” “Yes,” she answered, as he emerged from the guest room, snickering.
Still a bit damp from her shower, but finally dressed, Lauren joined me on the couch for some good, old heart-to-heart. As I poured out my frustrations with myself, my confusion with my priorities and my detestation of my motives and thoughts, her face filled with peaceful joy—like nothing I’ve seen before—and she took on the role of encourager, like I’d never witnessed from her before. “There is no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus,” she reminded me. I’ve been saved, not just from the eternal penalty of sin, but also from guilt. From rules I can't live up to. From penalties for sins of omission. I need to quit helping the accuser beat myself up and start accepting the Lord’s grace immediately. Perfection I possess—in the person of Jesus.
Did anyone hear that? I’m considered righteous, free to walk in newness of life without the Law prodding and poking and threatening me.
All because of Jesus.
Lord, Thou snapped in two my chain,
Whence came these bonds that still remain?
Have I sought to be enslaved,
To Law, which never helps or saves?
Perfection is not found in me,
But in incarnate deity.
These are the bonds that I would choose—
Those who serve Thee, Thou dost loose.
Undoubtedly, the best part of the whole day was contained in my bowl at supper—homemade ice cream, made from our creamy “real” milk, in celebration of Nathaniel’s birthday. Somebody stop me before I go all mushy and sentimental, denying that he could be twenty-four, and recalling all the sweet things he used to do for me—like push my swing so that I’d hit the tree, or pull down my dress-up skirt in front of neighbor boys (he thought I was wearing shorts underneath), or chase me around the yard with locust skins (and stick them all over me when he caught me), or rubber band the sprayer nozzle in the kitchen when it was my turn to do dishes, or tell me stories about horrible ways he could die until I wound up crying (he was pretty proud to think I’d miss him so much). By the time he went off to pave his new road at college when I was sixteen, we were best friends, and I did miss him. A lot.
Now he gets to torture someone else. “Nathaniel!” Lauren cracked the bathroom door open and I looked up, knowing the problem immediately. “Did he take your clothes?” “Yes,” she answered, as he emerged from the guest room, snickering.
Still a bit damp from her shower, but finally dressed, Lauren joined me on the couch for some good, old heart-to-heart. As I poured out my frustrations with myself, my confusion with my priorities and my detestation of my motives and thoughts, her face filled with peaceful joy—like nothing I’ve seen before—and she took on the role of encourager, like I’d never witnessed from her before. “There is no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus,” she reminded me. I’ve been saved, not just from the eternal penalty of sin, but also from guilt. From rules I can't live up to. From penalties for sins of omission. I need to quit helping the accuser beat myself up and start accepting the Lord’s grace immediately. Perfection I possess—in the person of Jesus.
Did anyone hear that? I’m considered righteous, free to walk in newness of life without the Law prodding and poking and threatening me.
All because of Jesus.
Lord, Thou snapped in two my chain,
Whence came these bonds that still remain?
Have I sought to be enslaved,
To Law, which never helps or saves?
Perfection is not found in me,
But in incarnate deity.
These are the bonds that I would choose—
Those who serve Thee, Thou dost loose.
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.
Monday, February 4, 2008
The sounds of military aircraft barely scraping the trees in one’s backyard are not overly comforting at 10 o’clock at night. On the heels of a bout of loneliness because everyone else had homework or other catch-up work claiming their attention, I found myself sitting down to write.
I will find the good in today, because it belonged to the Lord. Why should I be so discouraged these days? Why should I feel forgotten and alone? Why am I allowing the enemy to pursue and overtake me and beat me down? The Lord is my strength and song and He has become my victory!
In search of a much-needed break from Leviticus, that book of Law and Order, I spent several hours creating a “prayer chain”—scraps of colored cardstock clipped to a keychain and containing the folks I need to be praying faithfully for, as well as a ring of amazing verses about prayer, praise, promised blessings, holy living and the gospel, to keep with me and work on hiding in my heart for future reference. Already my "prayer chain" has several important, specific prayer requests. I need to e-mail Hannah, but I don't know what to say. And I need to call Amber, but I didn’t feel like talking. I heard Mom’s slippers pad-padding into my room and looked up to see a strange look on her face. “Aunt Helen and Paul were in a bad car wreck,” she said. They weren’t hurt, but it sure could have been nasty. Someone is looking out for them. Someone is giving me another chance to obey and share the gospel again. I need to e-mail Aunt Helen. It never slows down. It never stops. It’s a battle to the death—my death.
There is no more strength in my body, soul or spirit.
Lord, Thou must hear and heed
It is Thy power, Thy strength I need!
To do Thy work, to do Thy willing
I need Thy Holy Spirit’s filling
And convicting and His leading,
Hear my weakened spirit’s pleading
Be Thou mine as I am Thine
And turn my water into wine.
I will find the good in today, because it belonged to the Lord. Why should I be so discouraged these days? Why should I feel forgotten and alone? Why am I allowing the enemy to pursue and overtake me and beat me down? The Lord is my strength and song and He has become my victory!
In search of a much-needed break from Leviticus, that book of Law and Order, I spent several hours creating a “prayer chain”—scraps of colored cardstock clipped to a keychain and containing the folks I need to be praying faithfully for, as well as a ring of amazing verses about prayer, praise, promised blessings, holy living and the gospel, to keep with me and work on hiding in my heart for future reference. Already my "prayer chain" has several important, specific prayer requests. I need to e-mail Hannah, but I don't know what to say. And I need to call Amber, but I didn’t feel like talking. I heard Mom’s slippers pad-padding into my room and looked up to see a strange look on her face. “Aunt Helen and Paul were in a bad car wreck,” she said. They weren’t hurt, but it sure could have been nasty. Someone is looking out for them. Someone is giving me another chance to obey and share the gospel again. I need to e-mail Aunt Helen. It never slows down. It never stops. It’s a battle to the death—my death.
There is no more strength in my body, soul or spirit.
Lord, Thou must hear and heed
It is Thy power, Thy strength I need!
To do Thy work, to do Thy willing
I need Thy Holy Spirit’s filling
And convicting and His leading,
Hear my weakened spirit’s pleading
Be Thou mine as I am Thine
And turn my water into wine.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
I’ve been wandering in a spiritual desert for days now, lost in Leviticus and floundering through my emotions. My emotions have been teetering on the edge of utter destruction since Thursday, assaulted by every possible discouragement. I feel stuck in a rut, lost here, not sure what I’m supposed to be doing while “at home”, wondering if anything I’m doing is more than wood, hay or stubble and will survive the fire of time. Wondering what the Lord has for me next and why He hasn’t brought it yet. Is it because I’ve not finished something or learned something or I’m not ready yet? If so, how do I prepare? What in the world am I supposed to be doing? Also looking around at everything I own, detesting my possessions, beginning to think that I should again empty my savings on the altar at the Lord’s feet. Didn’t He provide so that both my cameras now work splendidly? Aren’t those the cameras He generously provided? Why do I think I need a “better” one? Especially when a missionary could live for two years on the amount I’m hoping to spend on a camera.
I also found out yesterday that a good friend had made a foolish, God-dishonoring decision. Surprise could not be tagged onto my list of emotions, but I’d clung tenaciously to the hope that she would choose better than that. She stole a car and ran away in the middle of the night to stay who-knows-where in town before finally flying out today. Now I think of all the times the Spirit pricked me to challenge her salvation even, as well as her behavior and attitudes: the past year or two clearly demonstrates an attitude of selfishness. I can think of many times my mind and heart rebelled and I thought of ways I could throw off the chains that bind me to this household (so the Deceiver tells me). Ultimately my heart is softened and I am brought to repentance because I can’t bear to drag my Savior’s name through the dirt. By His mercy I pray I never give the enemy cause to blaspheme—by speedy repentance when I sin, even in thoughts. Watching her actions I whisper to myself, “But for the grace of God, there go I.” But still, deep inside bubbles a well of anger. How am I to sort out if it is righteous indignation or fleshly wrath? One is pure, the other sin.
This is not the way I want to live my life, defeated, discouraged, confused by other's actions and circumstances I can't control.
Discontentment. Restlessness. Discouragement. Unhappiness.
Boil it down into one word: selfishness.
I must cling to Jesus. Worship Jesus. Adore Jesus. Serve Jesus. Praise Jesus. Love Jesus. Speak of Jesus. Sing of Jesus. Think of Jesus. Dream of Jesus. Be consumed by Jesus so that there is no room for anything else.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Lord, Thou art the breath that fills me
Would that Thou in mercy kills me
E’er I might in folly wander
From the presence of Thy splendor.
Why does simply living tempt me
From the paths in which Thou leads me?
I beg the comfort of Thy rod—
Discipline Thy child, O God.
I also found out yesterday that a good friend had made a foolish, God-dishonoring decision. Surprise could not be tagged onto my list of emotions, but I’d clung tenaciously to the hope that she would choose better than that. She stole a car and ran away in the middle of the night to stay who-knows-where in town before finally flying out today. Now I think of all the times the Spirit pricked me to challenge her salvation even, as well as her behavior and attitudes: the past year or two clearly demonstrates an attitude of selfishness. I can think of many times my mind and heart rebelled and I thought of ways I could throw off the chains that bind me to this household (so the Deceiver tells me). Ultimately my heart is softened and I am brought to repentance because I can’t bear to drag my Savior’s name through the dirt. By His mercy I pray I never give the enemy cause to blaspheme—by speedy repentance when I sin, even in thoughts. Watching her actions I whisper to myself, “But for the grace of God, there go I.” But still, deep inside bubbles a well of anger. How am I to sort out if it is righteous indignation or fleshly wrath? One is pure, the other sin.
This is not the way I want to live my life, defeated, discouraged, confused by other's actions and circumstances I can't control.
Discontentment. Restlessness. Discouragement. Unhappiness.
Boil it down into one word: selfishness.
I must cling to Jesus. Worship Jesus. Adore Jesus. Serve Jesus. Praise Jesus. Love Jesus. Speak of Jesus. Sing of Jesus. Think of Jesus. Dream of Jesus. Be consumed by Jesus so that there is no room for anything else.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Lord, Thou art the breath that fills me
Would that Thou in mercy kills me
E’er I might in folly wander
From the presence of Thy splendor.
Why does simply living tempt me
From the paths in which Thou leads me?
I beg the comfort of Thy rod—
Discipline Thy child, O God.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
If I hadn’t promised Amber I’d come into R-ville today, I’d have stayed at home and cuddled up in my bed to read. Chilly rain held out the promise of sleet and snow, so I bundled up right down to a stocking cap and boots. The snow waited until tonight to fall, and I know we’ll be waking up to a beautiful blanket of sparkling white and a sugar dusting on the pine trees.
I spent the morning shopping until I detested every single store in town. No one seemed available on campus, and when my phone rang it was Amber sounding like a choking frog on the other end. “I’m sick,” she informed me. “You better not come over.” I ran by Choices, planning to take my application in. Their hours claimed they were open, but clearly the hour-board was mistaken. Perhaps the electricity loss had put them out of business for the time being.
Campus finally greeted me, cold and lonely, in midafternoon as I headed to the library to deliver something from Lydia to Jacinda. I’d love an explanation for why everyone was having a hard week. Jacinda was wilting under a load of frustrations. Lauryn’s grandpa had a heart attack and her parents were gone. Shoko was simply stressed. April was super busy. Emily was lonely with Lindsey and Becki both gone. Somehow we’re all missing something, and I wasn’t feeling overly joyful myself to offer it to others.
What is the secret of rejoicing in all things? Perspective. But it’s so much easier to preach than practice. Feeling down? Remember all the blessings the Lord has poured out on us, both spiritual and temporal. The temporal may shift and change, the spiritual and carved in stone—white stones.
Lord, Thou bids me to rejoice
And lift to Thee a praise-filled voice,
But sometimes I find my voice to break
And then Thy praises I forsake.
Teach me to abide in Thee
A holy, living entity
That takes my sustenance from Thee
Rejoicing in eternity.
I spent the morning shopping until I detested every single store in town. No one seemed available on campus, and when my phone rang it was Amber sounding like a choking frog on the other end. “I’m sick,” she informed me. “You better not come over.” I ran by Choices, planning to take my application in. Their hours claimed they were open, but clearly the hour-board was mistaken. Perhaps the electricity loss had put them out of business for the time being.
Campus finally greeted me, cold and lonely, in midafternoon as I headed to the library to deliver something from Lydia to Jacinda. I’d love an explanation for why everyone was having a hard week. Jacinda was wilting under a load of frustrations. Lauryn’s grandpa had a heart attack and her parents were gone. Shoko was simply stressed. April was super busy. Emily was lonely with Lindsey and Becki both gone. Somehow we’re all missing something, and I wasn’t feeling overly joyful myself to offer it to others.
What is the secret of rejoicing in all things? Perspective. But it’s so much easier to preach than practice. Feeling down? Remember all the blessings the Lord has poured out on us, both spiritual and temporal. The temporal may shift and change, the spiritual and carved in stone—white stones.
Lord, Thou bids me to rejoice
And lift to Thee a praise-filled voice,
But sometimes I find my voice to break
And then Thy praises I forsake.
Teach me to abide in Thee
A holy, living entity
That takes my sustenance from Thee
Rejoicing in eternity.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Apparently the bewildered bird yesterday prophesied falsely. It’s freezing today.
Josiah and I had a huge fight this morning. It lasted perhaps five minutes, but the intensity was enough to work out all my restless energy. The fight was entirely my fault. I guess I’m worn down emotionally, tired of making peace, being cheerful, seaking to serve, pleasing everyone, being a gentle, quiet and at-home kind of girl. Everyone else had run to RussVegas and I was filling my sink with soapy, sudsy dishwater while Josiah talked to me when he reached over and pulled out the sprayer nozzle. The next thing I knew, cold water had blasted me in the face. Deep inside I thought it was funny and outwardly I was only mildly annoyed but a little imp of anger tugged at my heart and I began to scold. Josiah was laughing and insisting it was an accident, but I worked myself into a white-hot passion. I wanted to hit him as hard as I could (which is pretty hard). Not because I was really angry, but because a desire for conflict raged inside me, demanding release. I can’t remember the last time I was angry like that—where it actually came out in words and nearly blows, instead of being stifled by studied silence. For the past couple of weeks it has seemed that my emotions had completely shriveled up and died, and I’ve been living my life on pure control. The fight blew over as quickly as it had begun and we stood, washing dishes in sullen silence, tears of repentance mingling with the still un-dried remains of the cold blast and dripping into my steamy dishwater. Finally we both rushed into apologies. Most impressive through the whole situation was Josiah’s self-control. There was a day when his temper flared up at nothing, like a cherry bomb in the presence of fire. Now he could kill me if he wanted to. He never even struck. It’s moments like these when I recognize spiritual warfare and the fact that I am a new creature. Becoming angry was an effort. I chose to be angry, to think up angry things to say and to threaten. I dug up that ugly side from somewhere hidden deep away because I wanted to. I had to work up the passion to continue. In all honesty, I was not in the least overcome by sin, but chose it for the moment because that is what I wanted. It wasn’t too strong for me, I sought it out.
How strange. Why did I do it?
Lord, no sin can ever bind me
No temptation seek or find me
But Thou also dost provide
Thy own grace in which to hide.
I can conquer through Thy power
Evil forms in evil hours.
Before I even cry to Thee
Thou looses bonds and sets me free.
Josiah and I had a huge fight this morning. It lasted perhaps five minutes, but the intensity was enough to work out all my restless energy. The fight was entirely my fault. I guess I’m worn down emotionally, tired of making peace, being cheerful, seaking to serve, pleasing everyone, being a gentle, quiet and at-home kind of girl. Everyone else had run to RussVegas and I was filling my sink with soapy, sudsy dishwater while Josiah talked to me when he reached over and pulled out the sprayer nozzle. The next thing I knew, cold water had blasted me in the face. Deep inside I thought it was funny and outwardly I was only mildly annoyed but a little imp of anger tugged at my heart and I began to scold. Josiah was laughing and insisting it was an accident, but I worked myself into a white-hot passion. I wanted to hit him as hard as I could (which is pretty hard). Not because I was really angry, but because a desire for conflict raged inside me, demanding release. I can’t remember the last time I was angry like that—where it actually came out in words and nearly blows, instead of being stifled by studied silence. For the past couple of weeks it has seemed that my emotions had completely shriveled up and died, and I’ve been living my life on pure control. The fight blew over as quickly as it had begun and we stood, washing dishes in sullen silence, tears of repentance mingling with the still un-dried remains of the cold blast and dripping into my steamy dishwater. Finally we both rushed into apologies. Most impressive through the whole situation was Josiah’s self-control. There was a day when his temper flared up at nothing, like a cherry bomb in the presence of fire. Now he could kill me if he wanted to. He never even struck. It’s moments like these when I recognize spiritual warfare and the fact that I am a new creature. Becoming angry was an effort. I chose to be angry, to think up angry things to say and to threaten. I dug up that ugly side from somewhere hidden deep away because I wanted to. I had to work up the passion to continue. In all honesty, I was not in the least overcome by sin, but chose it for the moment because that is what I wanted. It wasn’t too strong for me, I sought it out.
How strange. Why did I do it?
Lord, no sin can ever bind me
No temptation seek or find me
But Thou also dost provide
Thy own grace in which to hide.
I can conquer through Thy power
Evil forms in evil hours.
Before I even cry to Thee
Thou looses bonds and sets me free.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
My consciousness reached awareness by five in the morning, but hardly passed that point the rest of the day. I wish being tired were simply an emotion I could wrap up inside one enormous rejoice in the Lord and tuck away under my pillow. Like the restlessness I am busily coating with contentment. It’s a never-ending cycle. Clawing its way through my shroud of contentment, this unnamed restlessness is bound and determined to gnaw my bones and set my teeth on edge. What do I want? I don’t know. An adventure of some sort. A mountain to climb. A wall to scale. A river to ford. So that I can quit with the drama and focus on simply surviving.
I accomplished to find success empty. I pursued recreation to find boredom. I slept to waken tired. I walked the house as in a dream—a forgotten dream.
My discontentment stems, not from a lack, but from an overabundance. Distractions. Temptations. Hindrances. Other things. I have enough of everything but the Lord.
Lord, Thy bounty is increased
And yet my want is not released
But wanders, restless, by Thy stream
And feeds a wild, elusive dream.
But everything I seek is dry
And can not please my lustful eye.
Naught in this world can seek or save,
Thou art the One my spirit craves.
I accomplished to find success empty. I pursued recreation to find boredom. I slept to waken tired. I walked the house as in a dream—a forgotten dream.
My discontentment stems, not from a lack, but from an overabundance. Distractions. Temptations. Hindrances. Other things. I have enough of everything but the Lord.
Lord, Thy bounty is increased
And yet my want is not released
But wanders, restless, by Thy stream
And feeds a wild, elusive dream.
But everything I seek is dry
And can not please my lustful eye.
Naught in this world can seek or save,
Thou art the One my spirit craves.
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.”
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.”