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.

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.

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.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

I was scouring the walls of my shower this morning when I straightened up, bumped my head against the water knob and gave myself a surprise shower. As I walked into the kitchen to start lunch, Mom passed me in the hallway and asked, “Why are you all wet?”

Papa valiantly loaded himself into the Camry to go to work this afternoon. Around six o’clock he came rolling back up the driveway. The nurse had sent him home on limited disability for at least a month. My head was spinning as I heard the verdict. At least a month! What an odd shape for a blessing to come in. Having Papa home for a month is both exciting and daunting—a totally new thought. What in the world are we going to do for a month? And then I laugh. All kinds of thoughts begin to fill our minds—we can finally invite some of the families over that we’ve been hoping to see. And I have some confusion and questions that have been nagging me for months—things I couldn’t seem to resolve on my own but tried to cheerfully ignore. I’m not sure if I can even put words to them, but Papa has been just so busy and tired that I didn’t want to exhaust him. Perhaps he’ll have time to dissipate the fog that surrounds most of my brain and clouds my convictions. So much for recuperation for him--perhaps I'd better hold off a while yet.

I'd scoffed at the official ground hog who, reportedly, turned tail and climbed back into his hole back in February. "He saw his shadow!" they announced. "Six more weeks of winter!" I've never given much credence to weathermen, hairy or otherwise, and we've been enjoying days of warmth and sunshine. "It wasn't his shadow he saw," I declared to Josiah, "It was the new presidential administration that sent him back into hibernation." Today the weather grew nasty again. Cold. Drizzly. Uninviting. The political climate is at least as nasty. I think we're on a collision course with socialism, thanks to nodding, smiling politicians who swear to uphold the constitution and then go at it with a grappling hook. Even Hillary Clinton as Secretary of state didn't turn my stomach like seeing our own Kansas Governor, Kathleen Sibelius, appointed to the cabinet. Bleak is the political horizon, which reminds me once again that the battle is not against flesh and blood but against the principalities of darkness--and I should be spreading light to individual hearts and pleading that Christ will soon return.

Monday, March 9, 2009

An X-ray revealed that Papa’s collar-bone was broken in three pieces. The M.D. told him he might need surgery and shuttled him on to an Orthopedic Surgeon who gave him a sling that fit and a pat on the back and sent him home. In the medical field, they are all still practicing, you know, and none have yet reached perfection. At least they no longer use leeches or seek to balance bile and phlemm and blood. There’s simply nothing to be done for a broken collar-bone, except try to keep it from getting jostled. In the meanwhile, Papa’s neck and chest have turned a rainbow of purples and greens. “It’s kind of fun taking care of him,” Mom announced this evening, “Well, except for the flossing. That didn’t go too well.” As for her, she forgets she has a sore knee at times. Like tonight when she got excited and slapped her knee—then bounced out of her chair crying, “Ow, ow, ow!” Lydia and I strove desperately to control our giggles, but when Mom’s amazing sense of humor won out, we joined her laughing.

This morning I sat cross-legged in beg and opened my Bible to Job. And sighed. Sometimes it seems like a passage in scripture is just alive and teeming with amazing truths and encouragement for exactly whatever I’m experiencing. I’ve eaten up Job in the past, but my mind was blank this morning because Job was a godly man under intense attack. I’m not a godly person and my life is cruising along comfortably. Too comfortably perhaps. Truly, I have nothing at all of which to complain. But as I waded in, the Lord proved Himself all-wise with a completely different angle from a story I thought I knew. Behold the wonderful friends who came to comfort Job in his misery—it truly does bespeak devotion that they came and sat in the ashes with him for days before speaking. But when they spoke, they spoke not the truth of God, nor with compassion and they tore apart everything Job expressed. And God rebuked them for their “counsel without knowledge.” I drew in my breath, reminded again how vital is compassion when offering counsel and how necessary is truth and how dangerous the task of taking on responsibility to rebuke or exhort or offer wisdom. How necessary it is for me know God if I would speak to others of Him and not incur His holy rebuke. And how closed my heart so often is to the possibility that someone might suffer in testing—that they haven’t necessarily sinned. My response to suffering should be to embrace, to listen, to weep with those who weep and only rebuke or counsel when I am certain of the truth from scripture.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

It’s a glorious, quiet Sunday afternoon and my French door is standing wide open. Freckles just galloped by on the rickety porch, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, in pursuit of an insect. In the other room, I can hear Mom and Papa talking about insurance and local doctors and ER costs and nausea.

Sometimes you just know what’s going to happen, but it almost seems as if the knowledge is removed—somewhere outside yourself. When Mom told me she and Papa were going for a motorcycle ride, we started talking about the dangers. In fact, it’s the statistics and dangers of motorcycles that led Papa to decide he’d rather I didn’t have a motorcycle license. As they aired up the tire I had an odd, eerie sensation. Mom tells me she did, too. The whole ride she kept praying for the Lord’s protection, but even more that He would just help her to be calm and to trust Him. As soon as Mom’s ring-tone started, I knew something was wrong—I knew they’d wrecked. Mom’s voice was calm and deliberate, explaining where they were and what had happened and asking me to bring the truck and have Josiah and Tommy drive separately. My mind flashed back to the time, several years ago, when Papa had cut his knee open with the chainsaw. Now, I could hear the same tone in her voice as she said, measured, “I’m fine. The motorcycle is fine. Papa’s injured, but we can take him in ourselves. He’s up at some folks’ house.”

That’s why Mom and Papa are discussing medical procedures. From the way he hunches and winces, Papa must have his broken collar-bone and perhaps even have a broken or bruised rib or two. Mom has a banged up knee.

It could have been so much worse. What Mom and I had actually discussed before they left is how many motorcycle wrecks are fatal. Even little spills can do big damage. With their helmets and layers of protection, Mom and Papa had no scratches. They spilled into the ditch on a hairpin curve right in front of a house where people were out in the yard. And they had cell-phone reception—barely. All near-miracles for those of us living out here in the boonies.

Papa just now hobbled through the open glass door in my room, his arm in a sling, a smile on his face. “It’s a pretty day, isn’t it?”

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

I can’t seem to catch up and I hate to move on, leaving behind all the unimportant little things that happen. I’m silly, but dates just stick out in my mind and today makes exactly a year and a half in Arkansas. I realized I’m beginning to conform to the culture. Sunday night, Grandma Sandy offered me a Coke and I asked her “What kind?” She looked at me blankly before answering, “Well…Cherry.”

Just a few things of possible interest before I move on:

Freckles got herself caught in a trap. We rescued her, certain she’d be feeling pretty mellow for the next few days. No such happening. Apparently it was a pretty pathetic trap.

Jacindarella boarded a plane and moved to Peru, with a long-term goal of winding up in Bolivia.

Dathan moved back to Arkansas, one semester short of graduating with his master’s degree, under rather interesting circumstances—involving false accusations and an unjust campus judiciary system. That didn’t stop him from filming several new Homely Hobo videos.

We spent the month of January milking the neighbor’s cow while Olga was in Russia trying to straighten out citizenship issues. Josh Potts was right: milk comes from Wal-mart. The stuff I squeezed from the lumpy udder of Maxine was pure and undiluted labor: unfiltered, unpasturized, unhomoginized. It’s been sometime since my milking days.

President Obama was sworn into office and lied through his teeth when he swore to uphold and defend the constitution. Every action since has been in total opposition of his oath. Hillary Clinton was appointed Secretary of State and Kansas’ own witch of a governor, Kathleen Sibelius has been appointed to his cabinet. I shudder, I quake, I groan. One thing it certainly accomplishes is turning my mind away from politics and back to the nitty gritty of seeking hearts for Christ.

Mom and Papa celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary. In honor of the special occasion, dinner and entertainment were provided by Wynkyn, Blinkyn and Nod aka Stop, Drop and Roll aka Larry, Curly and Mo aka Sin, Cosin and Tangent aka Knife, Fork and Spoon aka Uno, Dos and Tres aka A, B and C etc, etc, etc.

We’re now a family of night owls. Well, sort of. Papa was put on second shift at ConAgra, meaning he works from right after lunch until eleven at night. That’s a little different schedule from heading out for work at 5 AM. But we’re enjoying having the mornings together.

Tommy got himself fired for overstaying at our house. Over speaker phone. We almost felt sorry for him before he confessed that it was a set-up he and his boss had hatched to prank us.

Lydia turned twelve and in honor of her birthday she hosted a tea party. Unfortunately, she has no young lady friends her own age, so her special event was attended by a group of terribly excited young men—between the ages of 20 and 30.

Josiah finished the front deck for our house. Finished with finesse, I must add. It’s simply beautiful, even devoid of his original plan for a grand staircase. We hauled in a load of gravel and added a parking lot out front.

Nathaniel turned twenty-five. Twenty-five sounds so old. At least for my brother.

I set a new personal running record: five miles in fifty-four minutes.

Josiah’s been writing rap for some time now and it’s been steadily growing better. He brings pieces to me, pleading for help and the concept finally rubbed off. I never intended to show my first attempt in that genre to anyone but him, but he enjoyed rapping it so much he wanted to show it to Zach and then the cat was out of the bag. I’ve never labored over a piece of poetry, but that style certainly requires effort, so I take off my hat to those who make a regular habit of it.

Judy was admitted to the hospital for a blockage in her stomach and gave all of us something of a scare. I’ll confess I had no clue whether or not she’d ever come home again, but the Lord cleared up the blockage and brought her home safely. Of course, their car gave up the ghost not long ago, so life is a tight circle of daily happenings for them.

This week I navigated the streets of the Kansas City metropolis in snowy weather all by myself. Well, Josiah was with me, but he’s no help when it comes to navigation. It’d been nearly a year since I’d seen my grandma—my Mom’s mom, so we decided to make the trip. “This is so much fun,” said my eighty-two-year-old grandma who runs a hundred miles an hour (as long as her pacemaker battery is charged), “I’m so glad we get to spend time together without any adults present.” Because at twenty-one, eighteen and eighty-two, we’re all still kids.

That’s all the measurable changes. My mind has been busy running a million different directions. I started over again in the Old Testament in January and I just wrapped up Second Chronicles. I’m always in awe of the concept that I am God’s temple—and He has chosen to indwell me. I find myself lying awake at night trying to fathom God—His size, His majesty, His eternity, His beauty, His power, His glory, His love. It’s when people try to accuse me of being smart that I feel most stupid, knowing I lack wisdom and understanding and feeling foolish in my vain efforts to understand God or to plan His ways. But always, always His ways are good. Dissatisfaction and restlessness have been pervading my attitude for the past several months—some for my spiritual good, some reflective of my selfish tendencies. I can’t bear the thought of mediocrity, or status quo Christianity, so different from the life of Christ. I rage against the expectations of the world, and also of conservative Christendom that seems so content with so much safety, tranquility and comfort and would counsel me to be as well. Yet, how am I set apart and holy? In my raging, I forget that idealism can be a lovely thing when applied to oneself, but a devastating poison when prescribed for others. And I neglect to remember that God was no fool when He placed me exactly where He placed me and that my part is to joyfully submit to my authorities and to sing His praise with every tone in my body and trust Him to orchestrate the majestic symphony of time. I always come back to the same lessons, like a dog chasing her tail, alternately confused and enthusiastic. Obviously, I didn’t earn God’s favor.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

I should have mentioned that my lingering search for a treadmill and total-gym finally paid off and we no longer have need of anyone else’s workout room. Tonight we gathered in the parent’s suite in search of the toasty warmth and also eager to lubricate the treadmill belt. “It’s slipping still,” I informed Papa, and he bravely climbed aboard to try it out. Sure enough, it slipped throwing him forward, then backward until he looked to be doing an Indian war-dance. While Josiah tightened, Papa kept walking at break-neck speed. With an impish grin Josiah winked at us and then grabbed the edge of the belt, causing a ginormous slip which nearly sent Papa tumbling off. We held our collective breath to keep from laughing. “Whoa!” Papa exclaimed. “Better tighten that at least another quarter turn.”

I also neglected to mention that Nick moved in with us yesterday after finishing up his last final. The agreement is that he’ll put in several hours of work per day. This morning he smelled strongly of Windex as he gave every window in the house a thorough shining.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have begun working out again. My bright idea today was sparked while at the Ware’s, cleaning house. A shiny, new shower head lay in the guest bathtub begging to be lovingly placed into its new home. Simple instructions decorated the back, so I slit open the package and installed it. And I did a lovely job, except for the part where it said to screw the hose to the head and finger tighten it. I only used me fingers. I promise! And I hadn’t really even begun to tighten when I heard a sickening “crack!” I waited in trepidation to tell Travis when he got home, but he just laughed and said he’d buy a new one. A better quality one. I crept home in relief.

We finished up Revelation last night and started in on an interesting study tonight. Papa is beginning to feel reinspired to work on a book about the church meeting and we get to help him! Sometimes I hear the words “First Corinthians” and am overwhelmed by an enormous faintness. Is there no other book in the Bible? Sunday night I struggled to pay attention as I heard again a teaching I’ve heard so many times. But today I skimmed through my journal from the first six months here in the not-so-sunny south and was overwhelmed, amazed and reminded of all that I had learned. This book is Papa’s vision. It’s his dream for ministry. I don’t really understand it. I lack his enthusiasm, his drive, his goals. But this is his vision. My joy, my place is in catching his enthusiasm, encouraging his dream and helping his endeavor.

Life stirs within this languid breast. A faint flame is flickering. I must catch it and fan it into a blaze! How have I been languishing and dying all this time? How have I been weeping for myself and avoiding all that is best?

“It takes courage to worship,” says Shai Linne, speaking of the High Priest of bygone days. But worship yields such fullness. Such joy. Such delight.

Here I am to worship.

Lord, I take the faltering step
To come inside the rended veil
To worship at Thy holy throne
To live again within Thy court
To rediscover joy in Thee
To pray with renewed energy
To hope for better things to come
To chase Thy Priest, the Lamb, Thy Son.

Because I am Completely Single

(From 2 Peter 1:2-11)

And society insists I should be whining about it. Secular society proclaims that something must be terribly amiss if I have no boyfriend while Christian society simply insinuates my second-rateness by asking, “You’re still not married?”

Because a significant other is, after all, the measure of completeness.

Step back in time with me to a day when I was at enmity with God, excluded from His promises, cut off from His mercy by my sin. Having rebelled against Almighty God, choosing myself over Him, I found myself in a place of stark emptiness, alone, accursed, afraid. Single. Strip me back to the raw bones of helpless humanity and my needs become apparent—only one: to know God. Jesus stepped in, offering His life a ransom for my sins, redeeming me into a relationship with God, saving my soul from eminent death and destruction and betrothing me to Himself for eternity. Jesus took an empty, meaningless life and hid it in His making me complete.

In Christ, God granted to me everything pertaining to life and godliness. Do I lack?

Once upon a time you, too, were incomplete. Broken. Empty. Excluded from God’s mercy. But if you know Christ, you have everything. You are complete. Society doesn’t know God and tries to fill His place with everything imaginable: talent, money, beauty, fame, intelligence, experience, health, food, power, family, friends and romance. None of these complete you. Not even having all your appendages attached and in working order makes you a complete person. Completeness is apart from anything you can touch or see. Knowing Christ, you have escaped the corruption that is in the world by lust. Lust that is never satisfied, that always wants more. That we pursue until it controls us. You needn’t pursue anything but Yahweh.

Does this make “other” things evil? Not at all. Each of these things is a responsibility given by God to glorify Him. Every good thing and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights (James 1:17). He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, will He not also along with Him, graciously give us all things (Romans 8:32)? We know that God will supply all our needs according to the riches in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:19). Take it back to the basics and we discover that we only have one primal need—to be saved, to belong to God. Everything else is a bonus. More. Above and beyond. An overflowing cup.

If your Heavenly Father met your primal need for a Savior, so miraculously bridging the gap between fallen man and perfect deity, does He have the power and wisdom to will and to work in your life for His good pleasure? Is there really anything “missing”? Are you incomplete? Lacking something?

Of course not. You have everything you need for life and godliness. Jesus. The lover of your soul. The bread from heaven. The pearl of great price. He beautifies the afflicted with salvation. He heals the soul. He makes wise the foolish and strengthens the weak. He is a father to the fatherless and a friend to all those who call on Him.

I realize that reflecting on these almost cliché truths sets your heart at ease and puts a smile on your face—for the duration of about two minutes. Just until the next wedding announcement arrives or you climb into bed alone. When sitting patiently, singing “Jesus is all the world to me” fails to stave off those second-rate blues, forget waiting to be pursued by a man and pursue!

Pursue Yahweh--Seek to know Him intimately, what pleases and displeases Him, His goals, His purposes, His promises. While you are unmarried, you have so much time energy and emotion you could be pouring into seeking Yahweh and building a foundation that will hold strong through the rest of your life. Are you wasting that time in pining for a husband when you already have a Perfect Lover?

Pursue your family--There is no shame, no indiscretion in a girl wooing her father or brothers. Certainly none in her reaching out to her mother or sisters. While you are unmarried you have so much time, energy and emotion that you could pour into the relationships that will best prepare you for marriage and uphold you through it—the relationships God has already blessed you with. He who is faithful in small things will be given great things (Mark 25:21). Are you wasting this precious training ground by day-dreaming of “escaping” it?

Pursue relationships with other girls—When Jesus healed the Gerasene demoniac (Mark 5:1-20), the man begged to go with Jesus. His request was a good one. Your desire for marriage is also. But Jesus told him “no.” That “no” was not a punishment. It was a redirection. The Lord had work for that man to do. The result of his cheerful obedience was that, even though Jesus had to leave the area, the entire region heard the good news of Jesus’ salvation. While you are unmarried, you have so much time, energy and emotion that you could be pouring into relationships with other girls. Are you wasting it feeling sorry for yourself when others could benefit from your encouragement?

Endure! Press on! Knowing that by the testing of your faith you will be perfect and complete, lacking nothing (James 1:2-4)! Be diligent to supplement your faith with moral excellence, consistently choosing to do the right thing. Your moral excellence comes from the knowledge of Christ! You come to know Christ through self-control and diligent study of Him and His word, which requires perseverance in your desire for God. Reach out to others, be kind to others. Forget about being “in love” and love! For real.

And guess what—you’ll find that you’ve been preparing for marriage in the best way possible. Or for whatever else the Lord might throw your way. You’re not depending on a husband to complete you. Or a father. Or a friend. Or anything else. Only Christ is perfect. Only Christ will never disappoint. In Christ you are complete. Lacking nothing. That is the secret of contentment in all circumstances (Philippians 4:11-13). Married? Single? Widowed? Your completeness comes from Christ. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

If these qualities are yours and are increasing, you’re neither useless nor unfruitful! You’re not incomplete. Second-rate. In Christ, you have everything you need for life and godliness. If you practice these things, you will never stumble. You’ll be so busy enjoying both that you’ll forget about the fact that you’re “still not married.” That you only turn down one side of your bed. You’ll forget to evaluate guys in light of your “husband-worthy” list. Time will fly by while the Lord is at work writing the life-stories that only He knows how to compose. Being completely single is an opportunity to be completely singled out to serve the Lord only. It’s an opportunity that, most likely, will not last forever.

Why would I whine about being free to serve Yahweh wholly? Why would I worry whether the God of eternity takes note of the ticking of a biological clock? Why would I feel as if I’m missing out on all the things God doesn’t have for me right now? I’ve got everything I need. In Christ I am complete.

Once I was a broken child,
Marked for death, by sin defiled,
But Thou hast brought me near by grace
To gaze upon Thy perfect face.

Complete in Jesus Christ I stand,
He holds me wholly in His hand,
I need no argument or plea—
He died to set my spirit free.

This is the love that Jesus brings,
Who left His throne as King of Kings,
And donned my sinful flesh to prove
The height and breadth and depth of love.

Complete in Jesus Christ I stand,
Receiving mercy from His hand
I trust that He will also give
Whatever I most need to live.

What else should I demand or plead?
I have no other pressing need
But to partake of Love Divine
And to be His as He is mine.

Complete in Jesus Christ I stand,
And dare to open wide my hands
To let go of my hopes and dreams,
Be emptied to be filled by Him.

Because He’s Not Sentimental

“Did you watch that Mark Twain movie with us?” Papa asked me as I sat on his bedroom floor. “No,” I answered. “Was it good?” He shrugged. “He had a daughter—his youngest I think. Susie was her name. I guess he was kind of enigmatic. Hard to understand. And she really just intuitively understood him. They were very close.” I looked up. “I think I remember hearing that,” I answered. “Didn’t he get really depressed when she died?” Papa nodded, but he didn’t say anything more. When I came to kiss him good night he said, “I love you, Baby.” “I love you, too,” I responded, thinking how far we’ve come since the days of my early teens, when we seemed to have drifted miles apart. Then he added, “Hearing about Mark Twain’s daughter made me think of you.” My heart swelled and pressed against the inside of my ribs so I could hardly breathe. I didn’t answer. What could I say? Papa’s not a sentimental person. He rarely says things that earn an “aw.” I quietly walked down the hall and into my room, my eyes filling with tears—happy tears. What amazing things Jesus can do! Just a few words, but I knew exactly what he meant. He couldn’t have said it better.

Lord, ‘tis Thou whose grace imparts
The turning of a father’s heart
To his daughter, hers to him
And sets love like a diadem

Upon the brow of each in Thee,
To mirror Thy paternity.
When I gaze on both my fathers
I am blessed among all daughters.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Back in the day, speech judges suggested I consider a career in TV or Radio broadcasting. Humorous, since I rarely pay attention to either. Nick had a brilliant idea for a new voice mail message for his cell phone—an important news flash about an escaped maniacal penguin which interrupted his usual greeting. Most entertaining were the friends who thought my voice was an actual automated recording.

I’d been attempting to play some rag-time when Sleeper arrived, guitar in tow, hoping for a jam session. It’s been too long since I’d played with a guitar. Leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the piano bench, he dragged inspiration out of me with misinformed statements like: “You know what you’re doing. Just play!” Just when Sleeper’d be getting the hang of my chord progression, I’d change it up or throw in some off chord, just to see what he’d do. “If I ever record a CD,” he said, shaking his head at one point, “You’re playing piano.” To hear some real piano, he should play with Bruce. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve never played like that before in my life and likely never will again. Perhaps that maniacal penguin has rubbed off on me.

My brother is a good man. His e-mail reply this morning tied up one issue in a neat little package to put away in my china cabinet for later. Lauren finished the task with a phone call in the afternoon. I know I over evaluate, and wind up only wrestling myself—a losing situation, it seems. Conversely, God’s grace can turn it on end for a win-win. Lauren even tossed out the possibility of co-authoring a book, or even a blog, devoted to exploring issues for godly women from both sides of the fence: singleness and marriage.

“They” say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. “They” have never learned the secret of contentment—I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Today I am the Lord’s single woman, living under my father’s protection, headship and guidance. Today I re-evaluated my life in light of honoring him and discovered it severely lacking as wish after wish, goal after goal of his came to mind that I had left incomplete or marked unimportant. If I want to embrace the Lord’s will, I must embrace my father’s ministry and do what I can to further it by serving him. The temptation to simply “try to do better” was strong, but the conviction that I should confess my negligence to him won out. To mentally decide to surrender is not to lay down one’s sword. Embarrassing it is that my dad and I communicate best through e-mails—but we are both visual. Write it out for us and we’ll get it. I wrote out for him how the Lord had used his teaching Sunday to convict me and then listed the things I could think of that I’d not finished, asking for his direction in them. His reply was a gracious and kind acknowledgement. Details will follow shortly.

The rest of the day I tried to bring closure to several dragging tasks he’d asked me to do. Every step of the way I ran headlong into brick walls. Someone needed me for this. Could I do that? Phone calls wouldn’t go through, customer service certainly didn’t seem interested in helping the customer. How am I supposed to fulfill my great aspirations of serving my dad if the rest of the universe doesn’t share them? Sit still and the day is calm, but start running and you’ll feel the wind tugging against you. But at the end of the day, it’s the one who ran into the wind who sleeps the soundest.

Yahweh, Thou art great and kind,
Thou will not leave my soul behind
When Thou dost gather those Thou loves
To carry us to Thee, above.

Yahweh, teach me to rejoice
And lift an ever thankful voice
To Thee, for Thou hast heard my prayers
And hushed and stilled all of my cares.

Friday, January 18, 2008

Today I took scissors to both Mom and Lydia’s hair. Or hairs, if we want to get technical. Josiah promised to cut his own Sunday morning.

Mom and Papa pulled out of here around two headed for Horseshoe Canyon Dude Ranch and a weekend to themselves to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Thirty years. What a time stamp.

I would smash my biological clock with a sledgehammer, were it possible. Every time we receive another wedding invitation that annoying, little love-bird pops out cuckooing at the top of his lungs and making me feel left out. Left out of what, I’d like to know? The rest of the day I drooped like a weeping willow—at least inwardly. Lydia read me a story about horses and I started sniveling. It seems everyone is going through the same struggle at the same time. Or maybe we’re just always struggling with this little imp we'll call the “wish for wifery”. What is it about being married that captures the entire desire system of a young woman and prevents her from functioning in a disinterested or content frame of mind?

I can’t say that I greatly admire Jacob. I mean, the man had the nerve to wrestle with God, to demand that God bless him before he would let Him go. How irreverent must he be? God could have slain Jacob. He didn’t have to bless him. Why did Yahweh Almighty, God of Hostss, allow a weak, disobedient man to wrestle with Him—and prevail? In those early dawn hours, while Jacob wrestled with God for his very soul, God reached out and marked Jacob His own. The limp that Jacob, now named “One who strives with God”, would carry to his grave would remind him of that night he saw God face to face and his life had been preserved. Mercifully. One touch put his hip out of place. How helpless he truly was in the hands of Almighty God! God delights for us to wrestle with Him, our will and His struggling so that when we demand He bless us, we can see how completely helpless we are. Everything we have is a blessing. Every step we take that we do not limp is a mercy of the Lord’s. The very fact that our life has been preserved is Yahweh’s compassion and long suffering.

Lord, when I wrestle Thee I find
That Thou dost show Thyself more kind
For Thou could crush and Thou could kill
Yet Thou preserves and keeps me still.

To come to Thee should bring my end
Yet Thou hast chosen me Thy friend
And wrestling with Thee only proves
How powerful Thy saving love.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Not only should you not judge a book by its cover, but you should also beware judging by its language. Josiah and I ventured out to buy wood from yet another source and found our seller chewing tobacco, destroying the English language, cordial, kind, with amazing customer service and one of the most naturally born gentlemen I’ve met. “Aroun’ here,” he mumbled, sending out a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground, “we don’t let ower leddies work. We’ll handle it, ma’am. Won’t take us long.” I protested that standing by while he and Josiah loaded the pick-up made me feel useless. “Not useless,” he chided. “Yer doin’ the drivin’.” Whatever qualms I might pick with the South, the folks down here treat each other with respect, and chivalry turns up in even the least promising places.

As we passed the High School on the way home, we noticed Zach’s pick-up parked near the road and remembered he’d be speaking to the Christian Student Union. We said a quick prayer, pulled in, left a note under the wiper and continued on our way. Some people are simply predictable. “It will mean a lot to him,” Josiah and I told each other. “He’ll call us when he finds it.” Should we have been surprised when the phone rang mid-afternoon and Zach’s voice came over the line? “Thanks for the note,” he said, “it meant a lot to me.”

I suffer from a severe guilt complex. Please say you didn’t notice. I’m forever finding fault with myself and hearing my name fills me with dread that I will be rebuked. As if I were rebuked often. When Papa asked me for his SLR camera, which I have used for several years now and was packed with my things during the move, I felt a funny little knot of fear work itself into my vocal chord. As it vanished behind his bedroom door, I worked my nimble thoughts, trying to untie the straining throat, until he came out and asked to see me in his room. “What did I do wrong?” I wondered. “How was I not taking good enough care of it?” Backpack, lenses, filters, camera and cleaning supplies lay scattered across the bed. “See this?” he asked, waving his hand over the extend of my photography experience. I took a breath, waiting for the punch line. “It’s all yours.” Some moments hang on the edge of eternity before finally dripping through the chasm of time. If time hadn’t caught it’s breath along with me, I’m sure I’d have suffocated and this journal entry would have never existed. Instead I gathered the precious pieces into my arms, carried them into my room and deposited them on my own bed to be cleaned and put away after supper.

I launched out on a journey through the entire Bible today. In the past—the far, far past—I used to attempt the straight through read, only to find myself bogged down in Leviticus and Numbers. If by some miracle I reached solid ground back in Dueteronomy, I was sure to skip Song of Solomon (it wierded me out) and usually wind up on repeat mode in Psalms and Proverbs. Hopefully I shall reach my destination in Revelation this time. So far the simple truth of the gospel has stood out in perfect relief: fallen man, saved through believing God as evidenced by obedience. Tragedy to triumph—in order to bring God glory. And blessings—He blesses those who obey Him.

Lord, may I ever, eager be
To magnify Thy will in me,
That all who chance to read my story
Pause and give Thee all the glory.

May I prove that I am Thine
By making known Thy greatest sign:
Changing water into wine
By changing worthless lives like mine.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Sometimes the beginning is the most boring place to start. The beginning to my day certainly was no exception. RussVegas was crowded, busy, full of people and all that goes along with such things. I experienced my first train, cutting right through the middle of town and stopping traffic for four lights back, and keeping us stopped through six light changes. Congestion refers to more than just a head cold.

I knocked on the Dobies’ door shortly after eleven, and then stepped to the side to hide. I seem to have a nasty habit of hiding in, around or behind doors. When Judy opened the door, she stood there, quietly gazing out onto the empty porch until I popped out and said, “Uh…boo!” Inside, I did Amber’s hair while we all laughed and talked, then the two of us girls headed out for an impromptu picture shoot with an impromptu photography lesson. We wound up by looking at First Corinthians eleven—the head covering passage—followed by John chapter five. Sadly, twenty years have passed since I left Amber’s house, and I can barely remember what Jesus spoke about: His witnesses—His works, the Holy Spirit, the Father and Scripture and John. Amber is beginning to desire to read on her own again, and I need to be a bit more forceful in confirming that.

TCBY slipped in and out of my mind as I headed for Lauryn’s house, so I pulled into the drive-through to order an ice-cream cone—a super rare treat. “May I take your order?” came the polite albeit crackly voice over the intercom. First I requested a White Chocolate Mousse cone, but it was not meant to be, due to the popularity of the item. “Do you have the eggnog, then?” I asked. Once again, I seemed to have good taste—if popularity defines good. “Let’s try the strawberry cheesecake,” I offered. “Okay! Come right forward to the first window and we’ll have that for you immediately.” Slowly I pulled forward to the little sliding, glass window. How long does it take to dip up a cone with frozen yogurt? I sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Inside I could see workers scurrying madly about, but no one appeared at the magical window. Confused, I wondered if I’d driven to the right window. A car pulled up behind me, circled around past me and disappeared around the side of the building. “They must know where they’re going,” I thought, feeling blonde, and followed—clear around the building—to see them parked and talking placidly to a worker outside. “Well, that wasn’t right.” I shrugged, shifted into reverse and backed back around the building to the original window, still waiting empty and forlorn. Just then a TCBY guy came scampering around the building from where I’d just come, waving an ice-cream cone. “Was this the right window?” I asked, rolling down my window. “Yeah,” he said. “Very sorry about that. We’re just running super busy today.” He handed me my cone and backed away. “This one’s on us. Enjoy!” I did, of course, but if I’d known ahead of time I’d have ordered a waffle cone.

The blessing was an interesting one to ponder. I have desires. Natural, usually. Innocent, mostly. It’s not wrong for me to pursue my desires, providing they don’t conflict with the Lord’s word. But often He says “no”. Sometimes even several times. Does it mean what I asked was wicked? No. Does it mean I should give up? No. It means I should seek Him and keep pursuing desires that He’s not closed the door on, praying that He will give me His desires, trusting that what He has in mind is better. I should even pray that He would close doors on desires that may not be His will. Was the strawberry cheesecake cone better than the White Chocolate Mousse one? You bet. It was free. It might sound ridiculous to pull spiritual lessons from an ice-cream parlor, but I think the Lord would have everything remind me of Him and His truths. Was it God’s will that I have a free cone? Honestly, I don’t believe God cares what flavor of ice-cream I eat, but He does have lessons for me, in everything, if I will keep my heart open. And thanking Him for the special, little gift is undeniably appropriate. Somehow, it was also precious to me, in light of immediately following events.

I arrived at Lauryn’s house and dove right in, helping her with the darling Christmas ornaments she was decorating for her Junior High girl’s class. We’d not been working long when she began to share what was happening in her life. And here, in the fashion of classic British literature, I draw the curtain over the ensuing scene.

During supper dishes, the Lord reminded me how I had made a request which He had answered in a very specific way today. A huge burden lifted from my heart as I realized my prayer had been answered. It never ceases to amaze me how faithfully He answers, if I only am alert to recognize His answer.

Mom walked in to my room, demanding a fine for the clothes she picked up off my desk chair after my hurried departure this morning. They were sorted last night, and awaiting ironing. All sorts of sharp comments about late fees for the grocery list she was stuffing into my pocket as I walked out the door slithered about my mind like snakes. I bit them back and paid her, feeling humiliated somehow, as always. Perhaps it’s because I’m twenty years old, and still must bow to my parent’s standards of a clean room. As soon as she left, I burst into tears. Huge sobs that racked my whole being set me trembling from head to toe. Awash once more in the feeling of worthlessness, the lies that I am not good enough, so completely, undeniably alone after an emotionally charged day, I cannot deny myself the relief of tears.

Two truths I know: I know that God does not cause temptation or evil. And I know that He causes all things to work for good to those who love Him. To those promises I cling, knowing that He is at work, both to will and to work for His good pleasure. In Him all things hold together.

Lord, Thy holiness holds true
In everything Thou’ll ever do
Thou will not cause this child to fall
And Thou wilt hear my every call.

And Thou dost work my circumstance
To write Thy own divine romance
That everything my life may bring
Will drive me to Thy arms, my King.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Sometimes the beginning is the most boring place to start. The beginning to my day certainly was no exception. RussVegas was crowded, busy, full of people and all that goes along with such things. I experienced my first train, cutting right through the middle of town and stopping traffic for four lights back, and keeping us stopped through six light changes. Congestion refers to more than just a head cold.

I knocked on the Dobies’ door shortly after eleven, and then stepped to the side to hide. I seem to have a nasty habit of hiding in, around or behind doors. When Judy opened the door, she stood there, quietly gazing out onto the empty porch until I popped out and said, “Uh…boo!” Inside, I did Amber’s hair while we all laughed and talked, then the two of us girls headed out for an impromptu picture shoot with an impromptu photography lesson. We wound up by looking at First Corinthians eleven—the head covering passage—followed by John chapter five. Sadly, twenty years have passed since I left Amber’s house, and I can barely remember what Jesus spoke about: His witnesses—His works, the Holy Spirit, the Father and Scripture and John.

TCBY slipped in and out of my mind as I headed for Lauryn’s house, so I pulled into the drive-through to order an ice-cream cone—a super rare treat. “May I take your order?” came the polite albeit crackly voice over the intercom. First I requested a White Chocolate Mousse cone, but it was not meant to be, due to the popularity of the item. “Do you have the eggnog, then?” I asked. Once again, I seemed to have good taste—if popularity defines good. “Let’s try the strawberry cheesecake,” I offered. “Okay! Come right forward to the first window and we’ll have that for you immediately.” Slowly I pulled forward to the little sliding, glass window. How long does it take to dip up a cone with frozen yogurt? I sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Inside I could see workers scurrying madly about, but no one appeared at the magical window. Confused, I wondered if I’d driven to the right window. A car pulled up behind me, circled around past me and disappeared around the side of the building. “They must know where they’re going,” I thought, feeling blonde, and followed—clear around the building—to see them parked and talking placidly to a worker outside. “Well, that wasn’t right.” I shrugged, shifted into reverse and backed back around the building to the original window, still waiting empty and forlorn. Just then a TCBY guy came scampering around the building from where I’d just come, waving an ice-cream cone. “Was this the right window?” I asked, rolling down my window. “Yeah,” he said. “Very sorry about that. We’re just running super busy today.” He handed me my cone and backed away. “This one’s on us. Enjoy!” I did, of course, but if I’d known ahead of time I’d have ordered a waffle cone.

The blessing was an interesting one to ponder. I have desires. Natural, usually. Innocent, mostly. It’s not wrong for me to pursue my desires, providing they don’t conflict with the Lord’s word. But often He says “no”. Sometimes even several times. Does it mean what I asked was wicked? No. Does it mean I should give up? No. It means I should seek Him and keep pursuing desires that He’s not closed the door on, praying that He will give me His desires, trusting that what He has in mind is better. I should even pray that He would close doors on desires that may not be His will. Was the strawberry cheesecake cone better than the White Chocolate Mousse one? You bet. It was free. It might sound ridiculous to pull spiritual lessons from an ice-cream parlor, but I think the Lord would have everything remind me of Him and His truths. Was it God’s will that I have a free cone? Honestly, I don’t believe God cares what flavor of ice-cream I eat, but He does have lessons for me, in everything, if I will keep my heart open. And thanking Him for the special, little gift is undeniably appropriate. Somehow, it was also precious to me, in light of immediately following events.

I arrived at Lauryn’s house and dove right in, helping her with the darling Christmas ornaments she was decorating for her Junior High girl’s class. We’d not been working long when she began to share what was happening in her life. And here, in the fashion of classic British literature, I draw the curtain over the ensuing scene.

During supper dishes, the Lord reminded me how I had made a request which He had answered in a very specific way today. A huge burden lifted from my heart as I realized my prayer had been answered. It never ceases to amaze me how faithfully He answers, if I only am alert to recognize His answer.

Mom walked in to my room, demanding a fine for the clothes she picked up off my desk chair after my hurried departure this morning. They were sorted last night, and awaiting ironing. All sorts of sharp comments about late fees for the grocery list she was stuffing into my pocket as I walked out the door slithered about my mind like snakes. I bit them back and paid her, feeling humiliated somehow, as always. Perhaps it’s because I’m twenty years old, and still must bow to my parent’s standards of a clean room. As soon as she left, I burst into tears. Huge sobs that racked my whole being set me trembling from head to toe. Awash once more in the feeling of worthlessness, the lies that I am not good enough, so completely, undeniably alone after an emotionally charged day, I could not deny myself the relief of tears.

Two truths I know: I know that God does not cause temptation or evil. And I know that He causes all things to work for good to those who love Him. To those promises I cling, knowing that He is at work, both to will and to work for His good pleasure. In Him all things hold together.

Lord, Thy holiness holds true
In everything Thou’ll ever do
Thou will not cause this child to fall
And Thou wilt hear my every call.

And Thou dost work my circumstance
To write us a divine romance
That everything my life may bring
Will drive me to Thy arms, my King.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Imagine one of those little, bug-eyed chihuahuas. Once they start shivering, they simply can’t stop. That’s a pretty good visual of me right now. This house is pretty drafty, not to mention sprawling, and we’ve not been here long enough to accumulate a stash of seasoned firewood. This morning dawned bitterly cold, albeit sunny, and the temperature inside was no great improvement on that outside. Before he left, Papa gave me the task of calling into the faithful Dial-a-trade to see if my extraordinary radio talents could scare up any seasoned firewood. Which done, I worked at my desk, a faithful secretary, awaiting the truckloads of incoming phone calls I knew would be rolling in. The phone rang and I answered, politely. “Yeah,” came a high-pitched drawl from the other end. “I’ve got me some good, seasoned pine here, I’ll sell ya for seventy-five a rick.” “I’m sorry,” I answered, “I don’t need pine, I need a hardwood that’ll give more heat.” Across the line came gales of laughter, and a familiar voice. “This is the Papa. She fell for it, Gene!”

Our newest guest acquisition comes as a spotted salamander, discovered in a cold, little heap by Mom as she gathered an armload of firewood for her bedroom stove. The little fellow was quickly transported inside where he alternately curls into a ball in the sunshine on the floor or hides under anything handy—Josiah’s math book, my sweater and the big pillow. My mind goes back to article I once wrote on the Siberian Newt—a salamander who’s been known to freeze alongside woolly mammoths, only to scurry away again once thawed.

I dove into Sibelius after supper—a supper consisting of my first attempt at Indian food—to orchestrate my Christmas wishes. Arranging “We Three Kings” has proven challenging. I can hear so much more in my head than I can get down on paper, such is my limited knowledge of the intricate workings of music. In other words, I might be a great composer, if only I knew anything about writing music. Please take note of the obvious sarcasm before you pity my ignorance. The song itself is one which I used to think trite and childish—especially since the myth of three wise men simply springs from the three gifts. But the line, “King and God and sacrifice”, denoting the spiritual significance of the three gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh caught my attention this year and set me pondering. Interesting how I’ve heard it said that Jesus was prophet, priest and King. He was also King and God and sacrifice. The parallels are breathtaking: King of Kings. Prophet and God—speaking for Himself about Himself, because He needs no greater testimony. Most outstanding, both priest and sacrifice. The old testament speaks of the need for spotless gifts, for purified priests, for sacrifices offered to make the priest holy enough to enter the Holy of Holies. In Jesus we have a priest, the only perfect man, entering the Holy of Holies to sacrifice Himself. On the altar, before God, He laid aside all that was divine and holy, took on all that was wicked and sinful, and gave His own life, the ransom for many. When He cried out, “It is finished! Paid! Done!” the curtain covering the most Holy Place was torn in two pieces, from top to bottom, permitting access to those sprinkled by the precious blood of the Lamb of God. Today, though I may not present Him with gold and frankincense and myrrh, I can recognize Him as King and God and Sacrifice, and worship Him for His worthiness to fill all three offices.

Lord, Thou left Thy throne on high,
To shroud Thy deity and die,
The sacrifice for every sin,
That, sprinkled, we might enter in.

And by Thy sacrifice to claim
A people called by Thy own name.
Three times holy, Great I am:
Worthy God and King and Lamb.

Monday, November 19, 2007

I plinked my way through the entire Christmas Carol section of the hymnal over our lunch hour. I can’t claim it was inspiring, mood-setting, or even half-way pleasant to listen to, but I’m sure it was good practice for me. Sometimes I am honestly surprised how many of the notes I actually play correctly, and there’s very little that is more rewarding than pleasantly surprising oneself. After all, oneself is the hardest to pleasantly surprise. Poor Josiah lay on the living room floor, entreating me to continue, simply because he was lonely after being sick all day. We’re supposed to head for the flatlands of Kansas City for Thanksgiving on Thursday, but I’ll be pleasantly surprised again if we’re not under the weather and venturing only as far as the nearest Kleenex box or glass of water.

I spent the day plotting and scheming to please Papa. Suddenly it dawned on me just how lax I was being to actually pray for him. Sure, I pray for me and my relationship to him, but do I pray for him? If we’re to pray for kings and rulers and all in authority, and if the king’s heart is like channels of water in the hand of God, to turn whichever way He pleases, then surely God can turn my father’s heart to me.

I managed to get the East side of the barn cleaned up the rest of the way—all the raking finished, the vines cut and the needles, vines, woodchips and leaves conflagrated. That’s my fancy way of saying that the whole project went up in smoke. Which was the goal, of course.

And supper went off smoothly. As I was eating the Mexican casserole for supper, I bit into a slightly crunchy onion and my stomach turned over. “Papa will say the onions aren’t done,” I confided to my inner being, and my inner being nodded her head wisely. But when Papa arrived home and sat down to eat, his only comment was, “tasty” while helping himself to seconds. I looked at my inner being, and she looked back at me, and we were both pleasantly surprised.

As Mom and I hashed through monetary issues of “who owes who what for what, when, where and why” I suddenly gave way to a shower of tears, watering my cheeks which, I imagine, will soon be growing a very healthy crop of rice. Embarrassed, I began to make excuses, which only resulted in Mom gushing forth in like manner. So there we sat, a twin fountain-head, bonding through the element of water. Filtered water, even. At any rate, the bonding was accomplished amid a veritable rainstorm, but the foundation that was laid is secure from ever washing away.

In fact, his writing has inspired me to again seek out my own, and I reopened “Eldenwood” today, reread what I’ve written and added in a few segments. I want to sit down and hash out this story I want to tell. There is so much truth I would put in, yet I don’t want to overdo it—already I’m thinking a sequel is in order. Desperately, passionately, I want to paint truth with the brush of fiction, so I know I must write it on my knees before a holy God who will judge my work by fire to see what will remain. May it not be burned as wood, hay or stubble, but instead be only refined as precious metal and gems.

Lord, this day was truly Thine

I’ve naught to claim, or blame or whine.

When I am weak and seek Thy face

Then you extend me all Thy grace.

And when I fill my soul with praise

Thou can take hold of single days

And make them flow in song to Thee

To glorify Thy majesty.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Eleven o’clock. I’m sitting in the shower detangling my too long hair, and the threads of my too active emotions. This constant up-down-up-down is beginning to make me feel seasick. I would determine to become steadied and dependable, if I thought it would be worthwhile.

I feel like Papa just gave me a hundred dollar gift. Actually, his bumper was delivered today, and when I reported to him the price he said he’d pay half. “After all,” he added, “I am at least half responsible.” I’d already budgeted the loss, and been thankful that I would still have some left over.

I feel like a grateful, groveling criminal, the way I was judging him and his actions, feeling frustrated, beaten and bruised over that and several other things, and I said so. In two words: “Thank you.”

Someday I will master this tricky art of communication. I don’t have a problem prattling on and on and on about unimportant things, but when my heart is full of the beautiful and thankfulness, I’m overwhelmed and speechless.

And that’s not all.

After Satan’s brutal attack yesterday, the Lord has reaffirmed, rebuilt and strengthened.

“You’re a failure,” he whispered. “Folks are already beginning to forget about you. Your father doesn’t understand you and doesn’t care. You can’t finish anything he gives you to do, or even the tasks you’ve laid out for yourself! You can’t keep your heart pure, either! You’re too afraid to obey and share your faith. And look! You can’t control your emotions. Now you’re blubbering like a baby.”

Up at five, this morning, with some good Bible study again, at last, and the day dawned beautifully. It continued to be productive with exercise following clean-up, finally finishing painting my bathroom and getting it back in order, putting the last coat of urethane on my bed. A hard outside job finished nicely. A delicious supper on promptly. Not only did Papa surprise me by sharing the bumper cost, but he also seemed super patient when we went over the tasks we’d done.

All of this on the heels of my whining, my self-centeredness and foolish succumbing to Satan’s “me” lies.

The Lord is too kind.

Lord, I often overlook

The promises within Thy book,

And often fail to see Thy grace

When straining just to see Thy face.

Thy face I’ll see one day and live

But every day that Thou dost give

I see Thy promises hold true

In Thy compassions, ever new.