Wednesday, October 26, 2011

No documented evidence remains for all the damage I have caused in the last months. I should be relieved. Instead I am disappointed. How will I ever remember all my mistakes which God has kindly redeemed?

It seems as if it has taken eons to arrive here, and now that I am here, I hardly know what I should do with myself. Sure, I have some goals. But what if I actually reach them? Then what will I do?

Lydia’s answer seems reasonable. “You should write an auto-biography.” I’ve never wanted to write an auto-biography. Why would anyone want to read about my life? Why would I want anyone to read about my life? When the time comes that I change my mind, I’ll wish I’d kept my journal more faithfully. “You’ll be famous someday,” she said. I doubt it. The facts are these: God has been very gracious to me and gracious through me and I am humbled. I know the exact location of entrance for any good found lodging in my heart, mind or life.

Marked off for the year are such projects as: assist with Enoch’s birth. He’s here. He’s arrived. He’s dark headed and dark-skinned and growing like a yeast bread. And Elijah adores him. Five weeks in Tulsa both dragged and flew. Elijah bloomed in that time, his speech turning from broken English to complete sentences, his answers changing from parroting to “yes” and “no.” We spent hours together “studying” and listened to every heartbeat we could locate through my stethoscope.

“Listen Jijah’s heartbeep?” he’d ask, picking up the earpieces. I’d press the diaphragm over his heart and he’d listen, mouth open in a smile of awe, big brown eyes fixed vacantly across the room.

“What does it sound like?” I’d ask.

“Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom,” he’d say the rapid thumps. Then he’d make another request, “Listen Booyah’s heartbeep?”

The diaphragm would press against my chest and he’d listen again, his eyes shining.

“What does it sound like?”

In a deeper, serious voice, he would respond, “BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.”

Every morning he’d bid me good-bye as I headed out the door to school. CNA school. My class at Interim Health Care threatened to drown me with homework, but once I found the balance between memorizing the book and passing the test, the world became a bit more sunny again. Perhaps something inside me secretly hoped I wouldn’t like it. That it would be too hard. That I’d be able to come away from the class saying, “Well, I finished that, but enough is enough.” Or maybe I feared it. Or maybe I feared liking it. Or maybe I liked fearing it. I seem to get an awful lot of kick out of anxiety. At any rate, in the end my fears—or were they hopes?—were not realized. Once clinicals began, early mornings at a nursing home and then a hospital, I discovered that white scrubs were just my thing. Even if they were still too big. So much to learn. So many people to help. So much perspective, character, life to uphold, strengthen, encourage and—love. So much opportunity.

Apparently the stress was still enough to pack on the weight for me. In the class final, paired with my seatmate, Brittany, I stepped on the scale for her turn demonstrating taking height and weight. She slowly inched up past one-hundred. At one-twenty she looked confused and started to bump the weights back down. “Keep going,” said the proctor, a little, firm lady of whom we were all terrified. And she did. Past one-thirty. Past one-forty. And she finally stopped at one-forty-three. We looked at each other and blinked as she reported the number. “Now,” the proctor chuckled, “would you like me to take my foot off the scale?” After that tense moment, the rest of the test seemed like a breeze.

A few of my classmates dropped by the wayside as we went, but seven of us finished and graduated and scheduled our state boards. I just didn’t think I should take anything for granted and I stressed about the boards, too. Stressing always helps my performance. No? Tell that to my knotty stomach. Taking Hannah Marie as my “patient” helped relieve some anxiety. In the end I became convinced that the goal was to pass CNAs—as long as they were not safety or health hazards. So I received my certification and came home.

After a couple of days of flurried cooking, cleaning and rearranging of Lauren’s house, that is. Where Mom now resides, calling me to ask where undiscoverable items are lurking. I usually don’t know. Oops.

Here I am now, the proud possessor of a CNA license. A nursing school hopeful. Owner of an almost new car--my inheritance from my Grandma who has gone before me. Trying to wrap up a recording project for my dad. Trying to finish editing a book. A theology book. How can I even begin to explain in a way that will sound like non-fiction? And trying desperately not to get entirely sucked into the presidential campaign, while studying history, Austrian and Keynesian economics, the constitution, and the current state of our country. I can’t decide if my life is making more or less sense every day.

“What is your life goal?” read the essay question for a very profound scholarship contest. That choice of words was deliberately made to suggest sarcasm.

My gut reaction? Well, eventually, I’d like to die.

Yes, that is my life goal. I will be satisfied when I come to death and know that the hard part is over. To me, death is a finish line at the end of a race. It would be easier to run, I think, if I could see the finish line. But, no matter. Life is work. It is pain. It is toil. It is tears. Death is rest. Because death isn’t destruction. Not for me. It is the end of work, pain, toil and tears. It is resurrection to new life. Perfect life. Holy life. Rest. I will no longer feel tiredness, confusion, distraction, temptation, fear, guilt or doubt. Death marks the beginning of life. Real life. Perfect priorities and perceptions. Eternal worship and joy in the Creator.

Almost every day I wake up and think, “I wonder when I will die?”

It’s not like having a sword hanging over my head. It’s like waiting for a promotion.

Oh death, where is thy victory?

Thou now art something I embrace

Not as a chasm fixed and dark,

But as a passageway to grace.

For thou art but a hall to peace,

So sure my soul may be in Christ,

Who triumphed over death and sin

To pave the way that leads to life.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

“Thy hands made me and fashioned me; give me understanding, that I may learn Thy commandments.” ~Psalm 119:73

“Abigail!” Lydia exclaimed from the other side of the room. “How about just one of us talks? Okay?” She’s been saying it rather a lot lately. The reason is simple: since Josiah has left, she and I have developed a distinct habit of saying exactly the same thing at exactly the same moment. Answering questions, commenting, offering advice, even making snide remarks. Far, far worse a connection than I ever shared with either of my brothers. It’s not occasional. It’s almost constant.

I’ve never in my life been such an emotional roller-coaster. I try to pinpoint it to a time, a place, a cause, but I can’t remember. Just when did I become so emotional? I say that, like it is true, but I don’t even remember. Perhaps I have always been this up-and-down.

Apparently, I ride with dignity. The other day Mom commented, “You are such a calm, logical girl. Very much in control of your emotions.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I shrugged.

I suppose that does make me appear unemotional.

This morning I felt strong, determined, hopeful. Two realtors were scheduled for visits and I had a plate of possibilities to pursue online while my parents negotiated. Somewhere in my heart of hearts I believe I must have been hoping we would find a realtor who could work with us to get us what we wanted.

But alas. Alas. Alas. The real estate system is set up like a trap, closed to all but the chosen club. And should one of those chosen club wish to break the caste system, to step out of protocol—well, he is sewn up into a straight-jacket that hardly allows such deviation from the norm.

At lunch Papa began to talk of online marketing ourselves. Trying to get our website better optimized to catch web-shoppers. I wilted. I don’t know enough to accomplish the competition necessary online and I don’t believe I will ever be capable of it. Top rankings in search engines requires money, the right website, the right smarts and…well, the right product. I just doubt that a private website for a single house is ever going to bump out established sites like Realtor.com and ReMax. It’s not because our site isn’t pretty. Or well organized. Or well-done. It’s just that people don’t usually Google for homes. They go straight to sites they know of, if they’re smart enough to know where to look. If not, they Google to find MLS listings. I know enough to feel pretty certain I can’t bring in the traffic necessary to sell our home by our website. I feel like I’ve been asked to compete in a barn-raising with a rusty hammer and a few bent nails. The other team, of course, has a truckload of power tools.

After lunch, I sprawled across my bed and cried. Covertly, of course. I cried out to God that my heart hurts. It just hurts. I plead to know when I will be through this—this grieving? Is it grieving? It feels like grieving. Am I grieving the loss of focus? The loss of depth in my relationship with the Lord? But the Lord has been with me. I have not lost Him. He has not lost me. He cannot lose me. Am I grieving the loss of my idealism? That perfect is so out of reach that I must struggle and fight to simply survive? Am I simply battling? Daily aware of a struggle I forgot existed. I don’t know what hurts. I just know my heart is heavy.

A walk in the sunshine and fresh air stirred me up and made me ready to keep fighting. I pulled on my jacket just to escape, to be free with the breath of the wind in my hair and the kiss of celestial fire on my face. As I walked, my spine prickled with determination. God is doing this! He has divinely purposed difficulty and even sorrow in my life to make me strong. Courageous. Because I trust in Him. Can’t I see how dependent He has made me? Pleading for ideas, for creativity, for stamina. Pleading for help to accomplish what must be done.

Dog-ugly is the correct descriptive to describe the hideous creature that came barking and snarling out of the woods at me. Rather a large bulldog of a mutt with a ragged mouthful of sharp teeth. Disgusted, I raised my arm over my head and pointed straight into the ugly beast’s tan-and-white face and shouted, “Get out of here! Go home! Go!” She stopped, taken aback, before beginning her charge again. I stomped and shouted my order, staring her down. She slinked backward and waited until I continued on my way, still wary, since I dislike turning my back on a hostile canine. “Go home!” I ordered one last time, as she slinked along behind me. She picked up her speed and made a sharp turn down a side-road. Probably home. I was attacked by an angry dog once upon a time in a land far away as a little girl. My Papa came to my rescue, shouting down my great white attacker with the authority that confidence and rightness lends. I’ve never forgotten the lesson and never been attacked since.

I returned home with a few new ideas pressing at my mind. There must be other holes in this wall I keep slamming into. And perhaps, just perhaps, if I slam into it enough, it will weaken—and crumble.

Either that, or I will.

During the second interview, I eavesdropped as I worked at my desk. “We’re not desperate to sell,” Papa told the realtor. “We own our home—it’s all paid for and we have no other debts. We don’t have to sell right away.” A comforting perspective.

While I stuffed sweet potatoes and seasoned chicken, Mom pinched together the crusts for a Colorado pie for the neighbors. We talked. And talked. From every angle of every plan to keep us through the next year. She’s an advocate of trusting the Lord. Which I know is right, but I’m not good at. I can always argue, “Yes. We have to trust Him. Nothing will happen without Him. But we also have to work hard. He wants us to grow by working hard and recognizing His work in it.” Which is true, too. How can I find that balance? Sure, the lilies of the fields don’t toil or spin…but if I don’t toil or spin, it’s laziness. The answer isn’t to quit toiling and spinning. It’s to get the proper perspective.

We sat down to pray for supper. My turn, and as Papa asked me to pray about what we’d heard today and our options, I was reminded again of a simple truth. Priorities. All day I’ve struggled to lay my head against the chest of my Heavenly Father and just rejoice that I am His. My mind is overwhelmed and occupied by responsibilities and preparations. How can I maintain my responsibilities while seeking first His Kingdom and His righteousness? Some argue that my responsibilities are exactly that. But it’s not what I do that makes me godly, it’s Who I worship.

Now I am exhausted. And I just want to go to bed without journaling. Again.

Herein lies a sign that the Lord is teaching me perseverance and determination and discipline. I wrote anyway.

In days when I feel dry as the Sahara desert, it’s encouraging to see any little sign of the green growth of spiritual fruit. He will teach me perspective. He will guide me in prioritizing. He will give me wisdom. He will give me strength. He will use all this dry boring effort poured into stuff that burns up and takes wings to fly away to shape me into a worshiper.

Herding sheep taught David to praise.

Lord, this life o’ershadows me,

O’erwhelmed, I take my eyes off Thee,

But as I grope my way about

This is the truth without a doubt:

That though I take my eyes off Thee,

Thou never takes Thine eyes off me.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

“Watch over your heart with all diligence, for from it flow the springs of life.” ~Proverbs 4:23

Oh the nasty, nasty cold, rain that drizzled down from the nasty, cold sky all day today. I like rain, when it’s warmer and leaves behind it the glow of green growing things. Spring rain. Ah, refreshing. But Arkansas nasty, cold Winter rain. Ick. We haven’t seen the sun since Thursday, and even then it was only in a game of peek-a-boo.

Nick delightedly led the way into the kitchen to show me his cooking creations. Crabby Cheese Puffs and Lobster Fried Rice and Deviled Eggs. He was also pretty proud of the fact that he’d made his bed. Mom bestowed a very affectionate pat on his back. Kirby, too, seemed quite willing to have his room inspected and pronounced very orderly. He and Nick have the housekeeping figured out. Nick cooks. Kirby cleans. Together they make a tidy little homemaker. Fun it is, having everyone in on the hosting rotation for church.

Nick shared what he was learning in John chapter eight, and a lengthy discussion followed, regarding the nature of the belief of those Jews to whom Jesus spoke. Papa followed up teaching Paul’s prayer in Ephesians 3. There’s a lot to unpack in these few verses as it seems like Paul prays that believers would understand something that is humanly beyond comprehension, then follows it up with a jubilant doxology to the God who can do the impossible. I wish the other guys would be more forthright in sharing what they’ve been learning. I miss Zach’s simple scripture readings and Mike’s practical application studies and the occasional thoughts or provoking questions for Josiah—and even Bobby, Tommy or Dathan. Lord, take control of our hearts and little assembly and teach us to grow and mature in You. Add to our numbers for edification and exhortation and encouragement and accountability. We need more men. We need more leaders. We need more passion. We need more life. We need more iron sharpening iron.

After the meeting and a very satisfying pot-providence, we curled into chairs, couches and futons as Mom read aloud “The Gospel Blimp.” A modern parable, of sorts, with rather a few embarrassing insights. Oh dear. That’s about all I have to say on the subject.

Au revoir!

January 22, 2011

“Therefore, do not be anxious for tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” ~Matthew 6:34

I just want to curl up, cozy with a mug of blueberry tea and read.

My deep dark confession: I don’t want to journal tonight.

Hate me. Stone me. Boycott me. Shun me. Cast me out of the synagogue. I don’t care. Just don’t take away my book.

Of secondary interest: Lydia has been purging, and doing a right smart job of it, too. In fact, I dare say her bookshelf looks better than mine.

Amber stopped by on her way back from Mountain Home. “My therapist is so awesome!” she exulted. “She assigned me homework of looking up verses to see what God says about my worth.” I stood my iron up and reached for my Bible as we began to discuss some verses. Because self-esteem is not the issue. We didn’t make ourselves. But recognizing God’s work—and ourselves as His creations—that is the esteem we must cultivate. Amber sat on my bed, carefully attaching flowers to a couple of headbands—creating. In the end, she had a couple of fun, new accessories. Creation. Something we learned from God.

I’ve achieved emotional equilibrium. I decided I would never be anxious again. Or discouraged. It’s just not worth the emotional energy and besides that, it accomplishes nothing. I’ve come to grips with the fact that life is difficult, but I can’t help surviving. Until my time comes to die (which blessing I will embrace with rapture *ooh, a pun*), I will manage to survive everything else that happens to me, whether I try or not. I can’t lengthen my life by worrying. And, frankly, I can’t actually shorten it, either. My times are in His hand. So I might as well forget about worrying.

The end.

I told Tabby of my resolution today, via Bluetooth attached to my ear while I deep-cleaned the far end of the house. On the other end of the line, I could hear a moment of profound silence followed by her giggle. “Well, if you’ve really figured that one out,” came her reply, “then you’d better write a book. It would be a best-seller.”

A pause before I rejoined. “Well, I started to…but it was really stressing me out.”

We were having one of our “entertain ourselves at our own expense” pow-wows. First we make a case for why a besetting weakness is so stupid. Next, we point out how that besetting weakness besets us. If you’re ever hard up for laughs, poke fun at yourself. With someone who knows you well. I promise, you know all the best places to poke.

It’s like this: we can’t stand drama. In fact, we often shrug when we see others stressed out and comfort them with words like, “It’s not such a big deal, really. You’ll survive.” Of course, that’s because we have earth-shaking, ear-shattering, moon-melting, sun-darkening, global-warming-kinds of crisis in our lives. You know, the kinds of drama we look back on and think, “That really wasn’t such a big deal. I survived.” That kind of drama. And we are always calm, cool, collected and…you guess it. Stressed out. You try surviving global warming. If the polar ice caps melt, the world will be flooded!

Which is why I’ve decided not to be anxious.

Besides that, the flood is past and promised never to occur again. The world will be destroyed with fire!

I suppose that would cause some global warming. Nothing a new heaven and new earth won’t solve. And the best part is what dwells in the new heaven and earth—righteousness.

Surprising, isn’t it, how poking fun at yourself can bring you into a proper perspective?

Even between the time I talked to Tabby and the time I am journaling when I don’t want to, that nauseating fear of failure has gripped my mind a half dozen times. Yipes! Someone actually bought into my whole “I am a smart person who can tutor your poor child” ad? My hands start shaking as I type a very pert, very professional e-mail response. Do I even remember eighth grade math? I think I can hear my bones rattling. Eek! Did I totally oversell myself answering that florist that I am pretty familiar with RussVegas? Can I memorize a map before Valentine’s Day? What if he wants me to do more work? Am I capable of negotiating? My heart melts into a pool of wax and drains out a crack in the bottom of my shoe. Oh yeah! Those poor homeschool mothers. Are they signing their kids up for class number boring? Maybe I shouldn’t have revealed that I’m a published author. It’s not like I’ve written a Newberry. Can I ever deliver to the expectations I raised with that one? My adam’s apple swells to the size of a grapefruit. And this CNA stuff. Um. What if I totally fail the boards? And what if I can’t make enough money? What if I can’t hold down a job? What if I can’t, you know, do things right?

And then rushes in the determination. I have to. I don’t have a choice. I just will. Other people do it. I can, too.

On its heels gallops the third horse of the apocalypse: his rider’s name is discouragement. I don’t want to become a CNA and work in a nursing home. Sure, CNA sounds like a wise first step in the medical field, as well as a very useful set of service abilities. And I don’t think medical training is ever wasted. But I can hardly bear nursing homes. I really don’t want to tutor. What if the kid isn’t even willing to work at it? I don’t want a “job.”

Last comes the pale rider of emotional numbness. When I suddenly realize that I’m not feeling anything. Sure the anxiety is gone. And the discouragement. In its place lurks a pale, sunless-moonless sort of existence.

You can see why I’ve resolved not to be anxious.

Jesus commanded me not to be anxious.

Ah! But there is a deeper current to His words than my paltry resolution has demonstrated. “Do not be anxious for your Heavenly Father…”

He knows what we need. He provides. That’s why I’m supposed to seek His kingdom first and His righteousness.

It doesn’t really matter whether it’s a big deal or not.

He doesn’t function on back-up plans like His tiny creations. He just has one sovereign plan. And it includes earth-shattering, ear-splitting, moon-melting, sun-darkening and, yes, some serious global-warming. Followed up by a new heaven and new earth in which righteousness dwells.

Oh yeah! Bring it on!

I’ll probably be hiding in the cleft of the rock until it’s all over.

You spoke the world into existence by the power of Your Word,

And You will slay the prideful devil with the same eternal sword.

This, this power that stretched the heavens from the corners of the sky

Is the power proceeding from You on which a man must feed, or die.

This Word that You spoke, oh so softly, as a fragile, wordless babe

Will be thundering back in glory, turning every word to praise.

Friday, January 21, 2011

“Do not let kindness and truth leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. So you will find favor and good repute in the sight of God and man.” ~Proverbs 3:3-4

Today marked the thirty-third anniversary of the founding of the Scott family. Mom tagged along with Papa to school (his idea) and they caught dinner at the Chinese buffet in town. I was disappointed that they came home too full to eat the cheesecake I’d made them.

I called both my brothers to remind them and they still forgot. Silly boys. I remember the year I signed Nathaniel up for an online calendar and plugged in all kinds of reminders of special occasions for him. He was insulted.

Mom and Papa cuddled on their bed, looking through old photo albums and reminiscing. Sometimes you realize that you’ve known your parents all your life and still don’t know everything about them or their past. My folks have weathered some heavy storms. Mom giggled as she reminded Papa of their first home—a little trailer house in a trailer park run by an older, toothless couple named Doris and “Snooks” Snufflebean. This dearly beloved couple peeled their potatoes with a knife, leaving far too much nutritious flesh for my frugal mother to pass up. They’d give my parents the peelings to fry up. I certainly never knew the folks myself, but the names were enough to send me into a fit of laughter. Just watch—I’ll be swept off my feet by a “Snooks” Snufflebean.

“And remember that little neighbor boy?” Papa chuckled. “He must have been about four.” “The red-head,” Mom added. “Yeah.” Papa’s eyes twinkled. “He would ask a question and when you told him the answer, he’d say, ‘I know it.’” I sat up straight. “So that’s where you got it!” Papa nodded, and then a suppressed giggle broke out. For as long as I can remember, he’s done just that. Ask me a question and when I answer, say “I know it.”

Last night I believe a spider was tap-dancing in my throat. This morning it felt more like a bite. But a couple of vitamin C and zinc lozenges knocked the itsy bitsy irritation right down my drainage spout. I don’t stop and thank the Lord enough for my ridiculously good health.

Today’s triumph: I stayed awake during Bible time after breakfast.

Kindness and truth, the Proverb pairs. It’s been simmering in my mental soup all day. There’s a balance there. Kindness without truth can be a wuss. Truth without kindness can be a bully. Kindness and truth. Bind them together inwardly and outwardly. Together they bring good reputation in the sight of God and men. I’m called to tell the truth in love. Stand for what is right, yet humbly. Fight for what God commands, yet gently. Live by the standard of holiness, yet approachable. Merciful. Compassionate.

Lord, Thou art both love and light.

Thy kindness is that Thou dost right.

Yet in Thy holiness Thou prove

That there is room in Thee for love.

And Thou would have me so reflect

The beauty of Thy intellect.

For knowledge makes the foolish proud,

While wisdom lives to love out-loud.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

“Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety upon Him because He cares for you.” ~1 Peter 5:6-7

Last night I dreamed I was a missionary to the Ghenges River. Only it looked more like the Amazon. Trees that stretched into heaven, silent, verdant, yet holding hidden stories. I kept asking my guides about piranhas as we canoed, barefoot, with our pants rolled up to the knees to keep them dry.

I awoke this morning to a grievous discovery. First it rained. Then it snowed. At breakfast, Papa volunteered to help me as I rescued my clothes from the line, shook out myriads of perfect, unique snowflakes and loaded them into the dryer.

He’s been so tender lately, even as he holds my hand during meal-time prayer, so careful to thank me frequently, telling me “I love you, baby,” every night, and gently saying “Abigail, wake up” when I struggle miserably to stay awake during Bible time. It’s been driving me crazy for months now. It doesn’t seem to matter—little sleep, or plenty—I fall asleep any time I am not going. I’ll be wriggling, trying to keep myself awake, changing positions, sitting up, shifting my gaze. Slowly my body begins to relax. The strength simply slides down from my face and drains out my little toe. My eyes cross, my vision blurs and suddenly I am being called back from a blissful slumber. Not only is it infuriating, it’s embarrassing.

I waded through six telephone book pages of attorneys today, searching, not for legal representation, but for an office cleaning job. Obviously, attorneys are the right kind of people to target with this kind of service. They all already had a cleaning lady. Next I called florist, looking for extra contracting as a delivery girl for holidays. After several of them kindly told me they already had a pool to draw from, I was startled to hear one say, “Actually, yes we do that sometimes. Are you familiar with RussVegas?” Swiftly, I retrieved my jaw from the floor and answered. He quizzed me a little—asked my age, where I lived, if I had another job and told me he did indeed need a “jumper” for Valentine’s Day. And that he would probably call me—and seemed pleased by my offer to come in next week. A very small possibility, but still, after a host of “nos” it’s always nice to hear a “yes.”

Papa was very quiet, pensive as we drove through the slush into a soggy RussVegas. The radio told tales of the sexual trafficking of children at the Super Bowl. Inwardly, I raged against the demons who would dare to destroy what God has made. Papa whistled through his teeth and seemed almost about to speak. That little knot of not knowing twisted inside my stomach, until I asked if he was tired. “No,” came his answer, “Just thinking.” We picked up applications from a fitness center—and then from a few less glamorous places. “I ought to have you apply to some of these places a few days after I do and see if they discriminate based on my age.” His blue eyes stood out, crisply highlighted by his white goatee and golden skin. Handsome. Trim. Strong. But something else. “Are you discouraged?” I ventured. “A little bit,” he admitted, and I began to see more clearly. “Mostly just because I might not be able to finish the PTA program and have to go back to corporate work.” He looked weary. In all my past longings to be a man, I never really grasped how much pressure is really on a man. Sure, when times are good, he can thrive and flourish and grow strong like a cedar in Lebanon. But when times are lean, he not only grows lean, but he watches his family grow lean, as well. Sure, Papa can always find a job—with some heartless corporation that just wants to own him and drive him into the ground with hours and counter-productive activities. That’s what he’s staring at. The possibility of going back to something that slowly sucks out his life. He’s too old for up-and-coming jobs. Too experienced to out-bid the young guys. And too independent to sell his life for stability.

I do think he’d be a good PTA. He’s been good at everything he’s done. I think he would enjoy it. Once upon a time, he began his college career in physical fitness. And he eats up medical information like a caterpillar about to change forms.

I want him to make his goals.

A tiny flame sprang up deep inside me. Where I’ve been blindly stumbling, just trying to help out, battling discouragement and disillusionment, I see. Not a path. Just an attitude.

Kelley at Homeland Realty hadn’t offered much hope when I’d propositioned her about “alternative” routes to selling our home. SharpMLS didn’t seem too promising when I finally got ahold of Mr. Jude T. Smith—a month after my original messages to him. Somehow in all this crumbling economy jargon there must be at least one more little thing I can do to push a little harder. Bingo. I can proposition all the rest of the local realtors. Maybe one will bite, but at least they will all know about our home, have access to our website and know we are willing to pay a finder’s fee. I think I sent a dozen e-mails this afternoon. Tonight I already had two responses. A very pleasant one from Ms. Tabatha at Remax, offering all she could. And a bite. Another, smaller realtor saying, “I’m willing to negotiate. Call me.” Sent from his iPhone.

I couldn’t help grinning as I read the messages to Mom and Papa. It’s like we’re back in the game again. Maybe we can score a touchdown yet.

When your Papa says to you, “I’m so glad you’re not giving up,” you want to keep fighting. At least, if you’re me. I noticed, while working in the barn the other day, that the fighter is reawakening in me. “You don’t have to carry that if it’s too heavy,” Papa told me as I hoisted a rugged, blue-sprayed pallet. So I carried it.

Papa is hoping we can sell the house before his heavy load of classes starts in June.

While cuing up a BBC “Life” episode, he turned to me and began, “I don’t really just want you to get a job to get a job.” Agreed. I was browsing indeed.com at a snail’s pace. “I would want it to be something that would be good skills for you to have—things that could serve your family. And maybe some orphans.” He smiled as he began to tell me about a CNA training program in Little Rock—two weeks prep for the state boards. It would be a first step toward any medical goal. That could be followed by some work in a nursing home, perhaps. Practical training that would never go to waste, plus some income. Better income than scrapping up odd jobs. I am certain I wouldn’t actually enjoy working in a nursing home. Just walking into the place turns my stomach with the lingering stench of decaying lives. Have you ever smelled hopelessness? Visit a nursing home. Perhaps I could administer hope. And it could be service. And it could prepare me for service. Service often includes stomach turning.

My mind felt numb at the thought of taking training and studying for boards and taking a job. It’s so foreign.

It would be one more tool in my toolbox.

Perhaps my life isn’t as old and stale as it seemed. In this hardest year of my life, past now by three weeks, I can see God carefully laboring and fashioning, while I cried and complained and demanded answers. What He is fashioning, I don’t know. I know the tumult of desires that rages below the surface of my supposedly analytical mind. To be a helper, a wife and mother. I was unaware how distinctly I desired that until this year past. To pour life and energy into lives that God can shape and mold, hoping, praying, trusting that they will join their parents in service to the King. To throw the rope of God’s good news to the lost, to wrap my arms around the lonely, to depend on God for daily life. Somewhere in that mixture is an intense interest in the human heart, mind and body. A desire to relieve suffering, to hold, to help, to heal.

I pray that the Lord would grant wisdom. Is this, too, part of the preparation?

Preparation, I whisper. Preparation for what?

I look at life and I see, all that I have been was preparation for who I am now. All that I am now, must be preparation for what I will become. What is it? I don’t know. Probably someday a wife. Because I stare at my clients at the clinic and I think, “These young women need an older woman to train them to be sensible, pure workers at home.” I am not yet that older woman. I want to walk that path to gain the wisdom and maturity to be that older woman. Probably someday, I will be a widow. Because most of the older women I know are. I am not afraid of widowhood. In it lies rare potential. I hope someday to open heart and home, married or single, to the Fatherless of the world. I hope to be strong enough to help the faint. I hope to have courage to rescue the captives, following in the footsteps of my Lord. To heal the broken. To bind up wounds. Medical training is never wasted. Could this be preparation for what I am to be? But it is not so much preparation for what I will become here—on earth—as what I will become at the glorious appearing of Jesus, when I am forever revealed as I was intended to be. Blameless through Christ Jesus. Glorified through the power of His resurrection.

In mercy, the Lord is carrying me, through a maze of life where I might be lost or destroyed. In mercy, He will carry me to the end. And through the end. To the beginning.

Yahweh, You stretched the heaven above,

The stars tell stories of Your love.

In distant suns the tale I’ve read

Of how You crushed the serpent’s head.

These flaming worlds fell from Your hand

To show that nothing halts Your plan

And You will reign as Lord supreme,

Beginning and the End, and King.

I think I understand the stars.

You’ve named them all, both near and far

And set them as a sign for me

To measure my infirmity.

And yet, I gaze at heaven above—

It is not stars, but me, You love.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

“Therefore, gird your minds for action, keep sober in spirit, fix your hope completely on the grace to be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ.” ~1 Peter 1:13

Inadvertently, I left my laundry dangling forlornly from the clothes line tonight. I hope it doesn’t snow.

“Did you see what I did?” exuded my dear Mother, pointing to the hanging file on the study wall. I paused, noting the empty bottom section. “Did you do the budget?” She nodded, her smile stretching across my face. “You did it for me last week,” I protested. She nodded again. “I miss it.” She what?! For how many years did I watch her performing that hated task, groaning over mistakes, pecking at the computer keyboard, face-palming when an account didn’t balance properly. Not because she can’t handle money, but because she hates computers. I shook my head to be sure I’d heard her correctly. “I miss cooking and cleaning, too.” She added.

As Lydia and I changed into our dusty, dirty, saggy, baggy, stained and distressed mode of dress for an afternoon of outdoor enterprises, she commented, “This outfit makes me feel like I’m ten. Because this is how I dressed when I was ten.”

I looked her up and down, taking in her puppy-covered fleece sweatshirt and faded denims before I responded. “This outfit makes me feel thirty, because this is how I dressed when I was thirty.” I tossed my classy flats aside and pulled on my no-longer-white tennis shoes.

Lydia rolled her eyes and let out a huge chicken squawk. A very good one, in my opinion.

I raised my eyebrows. “A chicken?”

She snorted. “A chicken laying an egg.”

“Because,” I tried that one on for size, “that’s how you dressed when you were a chicken laying an egg?”

Some things are only funny to sisters.

In the next instant she’d drawn her hair up into a poofy bun. “Who do I look like?” she asked, critically eyeing her reflection in the mirror.

I made a very reasonable attempt at a guess. “A chicken?”

“No,” she rolled her eyes again. “It’s a sticktight.”

I blinked. “A sticktight?”

“Well, no,” she huffed. “That’s not the right word, but it’s like sticktight.”

I blinked a second time. “Like sticktight?”

She made a helpless gesture. “You know. It sounds like ‘sticktight’ but it’s a different word.”

If I only blinked twice in the course of a conversation, my eyes would get very dry, so I blinked again.

“It’s like when a person is stuck in a box.”

And the light came on in the dusty attic of my brain. “Oh, you mean a stereotype?”

Pleasure oozed out every pore in her body and she beamed at me endearingly. “Yes! It’s like a stereotype holiness hairstyle.”

My mind came alive with a mental image—a sticktight decked out in a poofy, holiness hairstyle. “Sticktight, huh?” I said, and we cracked up again.

If you’ve never been a sister, you just wouldn’t understand.

The barn claimed our attention, as Papa attacked the stored lumber with a vengeance, throwing boards down from the rafters which he deemed “old” or “decrepit.” Discrimination at its finest. “We need to saw them up for firewood,” his voice drifted down from ten feet in the air. Dutifully, I trudged off for “my” pathetic corded girl-size chainsaw. Salvaged from a broken pole-saw. Plugging it in, I primed the engine and fired it up. It gave two wheezing moans and sank into a deep slumber out of which I was unable to rouse it. “Try the Skil saw,” Papa suggested, as another board clattered into the dust at my feet. The Skil saw made more promising noises, but after chewing through a couple of pieces, I heard Papa’s whistle far above me, in the world outside my hearing protection. I stopped sawing and looked up. He looked pensive, a dimple peeking out from the corner of his white goatee. “Why don’t you pile those up and I’ll knock ‘em off with the chainsaw in no time.”

A very sensible idea.

“Were you singing while you fixed supper?” Mom’s voice broke into my thoughts as she handed me a sudsy plate. We’ve been hand-washing the dishes most of the winter this year. Short Josiah, we just don’t make enough mess to merit running the dish-washer.

A second was all the time I needed to make a quick reconaissance into recent history for the answer. “Yes.” (“Lamb of God” to be exact. Before I drifted off into a brown study running mental facts and figures to test the wisdom of drop shipping and web-marketing and supposed success rates. This is undoubtedly the reason that food sometimes gets better done than could be desired, when I am cooking.)

She pointed toward the condensation beading up across the window. “Well, you steamed up the windows.”

In other news, I finally have arrived. At my long-awaited goal. From across the dinner table, Mom plaintively commanded Lydia to stop growing. “You just look so grown up these days!” she complained.

Lydia looked pleased.

“That’s because she’s wearing my clothes,” I reminded the family. Only half a joke.

Papa looked over his plate at Lydia, who had discovered how deliciously distracting the potatoes were, their flavor enhanced by too much attention to herself. “It’s true,” he added his opinion. “They make her look sophisticated.”

In retrospect, perhaps it is not I who have arrived at the goal: sophisticated. It could be Lydia. But at least it is because of my clothes.

Jacindarella’s study of First Peter inspired me, and I made a quick read today. This man’s life and legacy stand out to me as a stark contrast in strength and fragility. From a work-man’s standpoint, I see Peter as the strong, brawny, hard-worker. From a religious stand-point, he was unlettered and untrained. He had a Galilean accent. He smelled like fish. But he was humble. Pliable. Passionate. And devoted. Even though his mouth ran ahead of him like a herald, he meekly took rebuke and sought restoration time and again. Once upon a time, he said, “Depart from me for I am a sinful man!” Later he declared, “Where else would we go? You have the words of eternal life.” In this letter, he pleads with believers to keep in mind the precious blood of Christ and live in holiness. Stop and consider how personal were his words, “The precious blood of Christ.” Peter, the fragile stone, who slept while this precious blood dripped from the body of his praying Lord. Who stood beneath the cross of his Beloved Master, agonizing over his denial, as this precious blood dripped away Christ’s life. Who raced to the tomb and found it empty. Who was restored by the never-ending grace of Jesus and charged to “tend my lambs.” I want to take a closer look at it, drawing the parallels between Peter’s admonishions and the lessons Christ taught him.

For isn’t this what Christ told him? “After you have turned, strengthen your brethren?”

The enemy demands to sift,

Yet in this, is God’s gracious gift,

For Satan, fueled by hate for man,

Is still within God’s sovereign plan.

And God, in kindly love and grace

Has granted Satan time and space

To sift the chaff and purify

That man, his God, might glorify.

For when God turns him back from sin

His soul’s a battle God will win.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

“When you pray, rather let your heart be without words than your words without heart.” ~John Bunyan

I woke up a half dozen times last night, thoughts conceived, ideas forming, plans about to be delivered. Lying in bed, covers pulled up to my cold nose, I regurgitated data I’d subconsciously taken in back in our early days on Ebay, running mental calculations, forming a selling model, and weighing risks. I think I might know a small online business venture that will pay its own way. But it could have waited for its hatching until daylight and left me to slumber in peace.

My father has certainly raised an odd crop of children. Sometimes I look back on the day’s happenings and simply chuckle. Now devoid of sons, he packed his girls up in their coveralls and trekked out in the woods to cut wood. Not so surprising or odd. But when the lawn-tractor, to which we’d attached a trailer to haul logs, showed a tire puddled up into a flat mess, the really interesting began to happen. Lydia and I made a super team, as I jacked up the tractor and she retrieved the green slime and began to take careful measurements. Actually, the jack was too tall for the lawn tractor, and I had to pick up the rear end while she shoved it under. After chocking the wheels, of course. She showed me how to take out the valve needle and pump in the slime, then I hauled out our bubble of compressed air and pumped it back into a healthy donut shape. Viola. Back to business. After we finished, Lydia was dispatched to disconnect the battery cables, to save the battery over the winter months.

I’ve gotten used to doing odd kinds of jobs myself, but the humor is hitting home to me now that my thirteen-year-old sister is out-manning most of the men coming out of Americana college life. And teaching me a few techniques in the process.

"Where’s the salad spinner?” I asked aloud, a floury tortilla-to-be in hand, as I opened cabinet doors and peered into shelves. On the other side of the blanket that partitions the living room from the kitchen, I heard Lydia pause in her piano practicing. But that was the extent of an answer. A salad spinner doesn’t just disappear. Especially not our watermelon-sized contraption. Baffled, I went in search of Mom, the forever reorganizer, to discover if my missing tool had been relegated to the back shelves of some distant cabinet. No such luck. Returning to the kitchen, I opened the door to the cabinet where it should have been, just on a whim. And there it sat, calm and contented, and very obtrusive. Exactly where it had not been five minutes before. “Lydia!” I hollered, and the piano stopped again. “What?” came her innocent response, followed by a giggle. She’d misplaced it while stowing away clean dishes and decided it would be funnier to replace it than to ‘fess up.

I sat before the Lord today feeling entirely empty. Empty, but at rest. I read nothing. I prayed nothing. I thought nothing. But I knew again that I was before the Lord. That there is not a hiding place on earth I could be that He is not, not a word I could whisper that He would not hear, not a tear I could cry or a smile cross my face that He would not see. And I walked away, silent, but calm.

Why do I strain and weep and plead

When Thou art all I want and need?

And Thou art He who hast pursued

Me with Thy mercy, rich and good.

I cannot be more close to Thee

Than Thou hast worked through Calvary

And resting in Thy risen Son

Has made my soul, in Thine, as one.

I wrestle with Thee for Thy grace

And plead to see Thy precious face

When Thou hast lavished grace on me

And promised for eternity

To be my sun, my shield, my light.

‘Tis Thou hast vict’ry in this fight!

Thou won the battle before time.

Why should I need a surer sign?

Friday, January 7, 2011

“Let the name of God be blessed forever and ever, for wisdom and power belong to Him. And it is He who changes the times and the epochs; He removes kings and establishes kings; He gives wisdom to wise men, and knowledge to men of understanding. It is He who reveals the profound and hidden things; He knows what is in the darkness, and the light dwells with Him.” ~Daniel 2:20-22

“Why don’t you save this for tomorrow breakfast?” Mom was talking about the breakfast I’d fixed this morning--an apple strueselish contraption the looked pretty appetizing. I hid a smile, knowing her reasoning. Josiah is coming home tonight and will be here tomorrow. An emptying nest is hard on this Mamma bird, and she’s excited about his visit.

I forgot how rapidly homeschool moms can talk. I hope I didn’t sign myself up for something I will regret. We've not been involved with the local homeschool group since moving here, but my sparse local connections include some of the “head” ladies. In the past I’d been asked to consider teaching a coop class or two, and was recently reminded of this option. I’m afraid to confess that I just agreed to teach some Creative Writing classes later in the Spring. I’ll be using the curriculum I wrote for past classes, which settles my nerves. I felt like a snowplow, trying to get through details with the lady who heads up the coop. Just press through. When she takes a breath, I get the opportunity to ask another pertinent question or clarify exactly what I AM offering and am NOT. But it takes determination and stamina to get the info I need and be sure she has the info she really needs, too. I'd actually like to do a more serious Public Speaking class--maybe from home, but I'll have to stew a bit more on that. I never would have guessed, ten years ago, just how valuable public speaking skills would prove to be, in so many moments of my life. Even just the aspects of learning to communicate clearly and concisely, controlling eye contact and facial expressions and gaining poise have been invaluable. Especially for an introvert like moi.

“So, guess who won!” Mom sounded pretty tickled over the crackly cell-phone connection. She and Papa had just made their scrap metal deposit at the metal-recycling facility. If I’m not very much mistaken, it was my far-out I-have-no-idea-so-I’m-saying-something-extravagant which came closest to the bull’s eye. Almost $150 for a trailer load of junk.

Damaris messaged me today. “I just read ‘Created to be His Helpmeet’ for single women and I want to talk! When can I call you?” I chuckled and then sighed. Chuckled, because Damaris makes me chuckle. And I’m impressed! She must have devoured the book which, for a girl who doesn’t like to read, is pretty impressive. And I sigh, because I don’t really have anything to say on the subject. I’m tired of talking about marriage. Or singleness, really. I just want to be back in the place I was a year ago, blissfully oblivious, cheerfully racing along, clear-minded and undistracted. But, says the Preacher in Ecclesiastes, “Do not say the former days were better than these, for it is not from wisdom that you say this.”

Daniel yielded me some profound encouragement today as I started over again. Praise from the prophet's lips before he revealed the king's dream. "Let the name of God be blessed forever and ever, for wisdom and power belong to Him. And it is He who changes the times and the epochs; He removes kings and establishes kings; He gives wisdom to wise men, and knowledge to men of understanding. It is He who reveals the profound and hidden things; He knows what is in the darkness and the light dwells with Him. To Thee, O God of my fathers, I give thanks and praise, for Thou hast given me wisdom and power; Even now Thou hast made known to me what we requested of Thee, for Thou hast made known to us the king's matter." I just found it encouraging to be reminded of the power with which God revealed to Daniel and to be reminded that this is the same God of whom James writes "If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God who gives to all men generously and without reproach and it will be given him." My heart is so heavy these days, lost in the weight of a situation that appears irreconcilable. I feel like I've seen a lot of these lately, and it makes me tremble. Because there are times when I am desperately trying to simply do what is right, but when I feel like others will perceive me as deluded and cruel or when it seems I am standing alone. Sometimes we stand alone for what is right. But sometimes we stand alone because we are self-deceived, self-motivated, arrogant and selfish. What if I am the one deceived? And so I've been pleading with the Lord for convictions seasoned with humility. I must stand and do and defend what I believe is right. Yet with grace. Yet with humility. Yet with an open heart. I must be willing to be mistaken. I could be blind.

Oh Yahweh! Give me wisdom’s light

To seek and know and do what’s right.

Give me the strength and desperate need

To pray, and weep, and beg and plead.

Give me a mind that understands

Both waiting and Thy active plans.
Give me a heart of praise for Thee

When Thou reveals Thy ways to me.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

t has seemed good to me to declare the signs and wonders which the Most High God has done for me. How great are His signs, and how mighty are His wonders! His kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and His dominion is from generation to generation.” ~Daniel 4:2-3

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, they say. Whoever they are. Today we scavenged up every scrap of metal that we don’t need and sorted it into piles of aluminum, steel, brass and copper. I drove the pick-up to Travis’ and backed it right up to his trailer. From there, I was more than willing to let Papa take over. Trailer hauling is NOT one of my specialties. Between the four of us, we loaded an old, boat hull that has been out in the woods since before our time. A deer blind, perhaps?

"Abigail,” Mom’s voice broke into the celestial realm of my thought-world as I absently scooped up supper leftovers and rushed them into the refrigerator. “Come here. I want to show you something." Translation: "I know you are absent-minded and will never remember this conversation if I don't jolt you out of your own mind and make you pay special attention to this very important instruction I have." I shoved the last dish in the refrigerator and came over to where she pointed at the edge of the sink. "See this soggy raisin?"

I cracked up. Because I knew exactly what she was going to say.

She tossed me a funny look before continuing, "I pulled it out of the drain and put it here to use to re-bait my mousetrap and I don't want you to throw it away while you're cleaning up."

I about toppled laughing. That's exactly what I knew she would say, but it struck me as hilarious that she went to the effort, not only of salvaging the raisin, but of getting my attention and carefully instructing me about the purpose of this single soggy raisin. Can you imagine the lecture I’d have endured had I swept that soggy raisin into the sink and dumped it with the compost? Ah, this is my mother. So frugal. Not just to save the raisin, but to jealously guard it from potential disaster, even taking great effort to be sure to capture my elusive attention. This, folks, is why we own our home and all our cars. And why my dad is able to go back to school at fifty-six with no worries and no payments. I think I had tears creasing my cheeks. Mom’s a good sport; soon she was laughing at herself, too.

I began reading Daniel today. I’ve been debating whether to start reading straight through the Word again, or simply to go book-by-book as I have been. For now, at least, book-by-book won out. Some days I read chapters only to stop, at the end, wondering what I even read. What am I to do with what I read? Where do I find what I need to keep going? Where do I find the answers I need to keep my life focused and moving toward the Lord? Where do I find the food I need to keep growing. Stale, I could call myself. And it disgusts me. I want to be vibrant, verdant and growing, like the tree planted by streams of water.

Lord, I crave Thy blessed pathway

In Thy Word I want find

All that Thou would have me doing

With my heart, my mind, my time.

Quiet me and teach my spirit,

Through the Spirit Thou hast sent

That I’d understand Thy purpose

For my earthly flesh—this tent.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

“Oh Yahweh, who may abide in Thy tent? Who may dwell in Thy holy hill? He who walks with integrity, and works righteousness, and speaks truth in his heart.” ~Psalm 15:1-2

“Are you purging again?” Lydia groaned, standing in our bedroom doorway. “You’re always purging. Don’t touch my stuff.”

First, my defense: that’s an exaggeration. I’m not always purging. Quite. I have been trashing and getting rid of rather a lot lately. Well, I think it’s a disease I caught several years ago that has just been growing in intensity. I just don’t like stuff. It makes me feel tied down. Heavy. Like being fifty pounds overweight. But don’t worry. I’m not obsessive. I still have a bed. And a few keep-sakes. And a box of old letters from friends. Yes, the keep sakes and old letters are fewer than they used to be, but still.

Second, my confession: I was purging. I was cleaning out my file cabinet and trashing old documentation that I simply don’t need. I hadn’t meant to start purging. I was actually looking for the files of writing and speech classes that I’d taught and noticed that, well, there were a lot of other files full of papers that I really didn’t need.

Oh yeah! And third: I wasn’t purging Lydia’s stuff. Although I probably could do a splendid job of it, if she’d ever let me.

Among one poor, neglected file of awards and accomplishments, I discovered a couple of pages from 1994. My baptism request, submitted to the elders of Topeka Bible Church, and a letter from a dear, old lady in the congregation, encouraging me afterwards. Both made me chuckle. The baptism request was filled out in Papa’s handwriting, but there was no doubt as to the originality of the word choice. My favorite verse? Psalm 15 which we were memorizing as a family at the time and which was a very important Psalm to me, since I wanted to dwell in the hill of the Lord. And my testimony? It went like this: “When I was 4 I heard my Mom and Nathaniel talking about his baptism. Then I decided to ask Jesus into my heart—to take control. I’ve been happier ever since. Now I don’t wish that I had everything that I don’t have.” Signed with my full name.

A covetous little urchin, apparently.

But even those simple little words brought conviction to me. I decided to let Jesus take control. And I’ve been battling to do the same every day since. And the words of Psalm 15 came back to mind, still firmly embedded in my memory, and still shaping the measure to which I hold myself. And fall short. The one who may dwell with Yahweh is the one who walks with integrity, works righteousness and speaks truth in his heart…he swears to his own hurt and does not change. I remember how aware I was of the necessity to be righteous before God and my inability to achieve it. That’s why I needed Jesus to take control.

Sometimes I forget the simplicity of the truth that I so clearly grasped when my mind and life were so much simpler.

“Now I don’t wish that I had everything that I don’t have.”

Right now I wish I had contentment. And trust. And integrity.

Because I don’t have them.

And I should.

Lord, who may stand before Thy throne,
Or dare to call Thy temple home?
For all of us have missed the mark
And stand before Thee, naked, stark.
Integrity, we don’t possess,
Our hearts are home to wickedness.
Our tongues speak evil, greed and pride.
Our fig-leaf works can never hide
Our desecration of Thy name,
And so we hang our heads in shame.
Yet this Thou dost, for broken man,
Thou broke Thyself to make us stand,
Thy holy name and grace to bless,
Enrobed in spotless righteousness.

Monday, January 3, 2011

“Sow with a view to righteousness, reap in accordance with kindness; break up your fallow ground, for it is time to seek Yahweh, until He comes to rain righteousness on you.” ~Hosea 10:12

“Come look at this,” the Papa of my dream said. The we of my dream crowded around him as he showed us a facebook profile picture of Dathan…and a blue-eyed blond girl. It was definitely not Freckles. Every morning I wake up remembering very normal-seeming dreams. Very convincing normal-seeming dreams. What is this new phenomenon?

My dream wouldn’t be entirely ridiculous, considering what I see every time I do sign into facebook. As Jacinda put it, “Spring is in the air. Early.” It’s not just the young crop, but now I think all the signature singles are finally tying the knot, leaving room for the next generation of signature singles. That would be me and Jacinda, since our friends are rapidly forsaking us. Tsk, tsk.

In other news, Lydia handed me down a pair of shoes and we traded jeans.

My mind is still on vacation. I struggled to recapture it and get in gear as I sat down with Rosa for our ESL lesson. We’re working through the first book, which really is below her. Mostly. She always knows far more vocabulary than we have, but we’re working on pronunciation and learning grammar as we go. I try to get her warmed up with some easy words and exercises, then let her read a bit and work into some conversation last. I’ll ask her questions to step her through a conversation with me and then I write down what she has told me and let her copy it. It’s a fun way to get to know her while working her toward being able to converse with others. I had no idea that she lived on a little farm of sorts. With a cow and a calf. They are going to eat him, she told me. Poor boy. Her sense of humor is charming. She named her sheep dogs Kirby and Kirbina. Next week, she tells me, she wants to work on prepositions. I think I swallowed more air than I could hold before answering, “Okay.” Prepositions?! How will I ever explain and teach prepositions?

Lydia helped me wrestle the furniture back into the clinic counseling rooms Emily and I painted over the break. Big ideas are undoubtedly my specialty, and I have a million of them in mind for “modernizing” the look of the clinic. If only I existed in three persons.

“I have a baby bump,” my regular client beamed, standing up as I entered the waiting room. “Look at you!” Sure enough, she’d bubbled out while I was gone. I learn all the interesting maternity tricks from my clients. Like using a rubber band to allow for more waist room or sucking mint candies first thing in the morning to help with morning sickness.

Our new year regrouping meeting stretched on as we caught up and refocused on a new year and new goals. Sherry bounced ideas and thoughts off of us, encouraging us to think of ways to restructure the Earn While You Learn curriculum to really get single moms on their feet and refocused and to change lives. We’d like to figure out a better way to disciple girls who say they want to follow the Lord. And we’d like to be getting girls off of welfare and preparing them to have healthy families someday. My mind felt like scrambled spaghetti as I listened. I’m there, one hundred percent, on the “we need to” end. But how? How do you help someone change their life if they aren’t interested in changing? And, obviously, only God can truly change lives.

The year has just begun and already I feel numb. Overwhelmed. “How?” echoes down the hallway of my intellect. I see the goal and I see the present. In between lies a yawning chasm of human weakness.

And. Well. God spanned the infinite chasm between God and man. And that is how. He can do whatever He pleases. He will be great and greatly magnified.

Praise Him.

What seems to man a senseless plan
Is wisdom vast and deep
For man must rest his weary head
In God, who does not sleep.
What seems to man a worthless lamb
Is that the Shepherd seeks
Because the cross is for the lost
God’s strength is for the weak.
What seems to man a senseless plan
Is mercy vast and deep
When that same man can understand
That he is Christ’s lost sheep.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Apart from God every activity is merely a passing whiff of insignificance. ~Alfred North Whitehead

This year started so quietly, creeping in as we slept. Well, it did creep in as we slept. And then it wasn’t so quiet. Just after midnight, Papa trooped into our room, shining a flashlight, saying, “Happy New Year! Is your window rattling? Did you hear fireworks? Something is terribly noisy.” I hadn’t heard it, but I sat up and groggily tried to give him many returns. Lydia mumbled something and rolled over.

At breakfast the next morning, Lydia commented, “Last night I dreamed that Papa came into our room with a gun and a flashlight.”

Church this morning was a quiet affair with only Nick and Kirby gathered around our tiny dining room table. I guess tiny is only in comparison to the monstrous slab that we sold just before Christmas.

Two days in, and all is well. Or quiet, at least.

I remember the first New Year after moving to Arkansas. I looked back and thought, “Wow. That was the hardest three months of my life. Scratch that. That three months was harder than the rest of my life.”

That might as well have been a century ago.

Excuse me for a moment while I get nostalgic and misty-eyed.

In fact, January of last year feels like a life-time ago.

Last year started out so quietly, so peacefully—even more so than this year. And then, it exploded. And nearly all of it is a blank page in the annals of my past. Such irretrievable loss. It leaves me no visible excuse for my serious case of insanity.

Okay. I’m done.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

This morning at breakfast Papa announced, “I’m on vacation today. Let’s make silly putty.”

After breakfast, I strapped on a carpenter's belt and followed Josiah outside for a deck-building day. The poor guy has quite the motley crew--mostly me--but he's pulling off an outstanding deck building project. Sometimes I step back and realize that I'm proud of my baby brother. He's turned into a man I respect--for the ability God has blessed him with, and for his heart of service to God. My mind drifts back on the days when I worried and cried for his soul--before Nathaniel called him to repentance. The work God does is profound.

As we worked, we talked, and I vented.

I’m such a negative person.

I’ve really been encouraged and growing and strengthened so much lately, but the last few days have overwhelmed me with negative thoughts. At night when I sit down to write, suddenly I am so frustrated that if my life were written on a page, I would wad it up and burn it, just to have it all gone. It seems like such a stark failure and so absolutely pointless—like everything I believe and stand for will never be proven to be right and will never bring God glory. And like I will never be perfected. I hate being negative. I want to trust and praise and worship God and to love and serve and forgive others. I know I’ve been raised as a critical thinker, but my heart is critical, too. How can I change it? How can I become someone who focuses on God and His goodness and tries to proclaim His mercy and empowerment to others, instead of just watching and evaluating and thinking hoards of harsh, judgmental and condemning thoughts? This is not what I want to be, yet I feel forever sucked into a garish mud-hole of criticism. I feel the critical influences all around me and I find myself shrinking from them—yet these are also sources from which I have learned so much wisdom. How do I learn wisdom without being negative, cynical and condemning of others?

All afternoon I despised myself for being so negative. Yet, that is negative, as well. Self-condemnation equals defeat. There is no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus. It’s in light of God’s mercy that I can renew my mind and offer myself a living sacrifice.

I need to start where I am, with simple obedience and rejoicing today. Tonight. Tomorrow. I need to quit trying to make what I know is right make sense or look right to others, quit worrying about how I make God look and just obey. He can take care of His own image. I’m just supposed to be seeking to be conformed to His image. Abigail, just obey. Just obey.

Sometimes I think I'm just a lump of silly putty, myself.

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.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I weep.

Monday, 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.