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 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.

My 22nd birthday, Friday, June 5, 2009

All week long Mom had been asking, “So, what do you want to do for your birthday?” All week long I’d been answering, “I don’t know.” In the back of my head I was thinking, “I’d like to do nothing for my birthday.” Not nothing as in I don’t want to do anything, but nothing like Winnie-the-Pooh means it. The kind of nothing that can be done while relaxing.

At breakfast, Papa assigned me a weedeating task and I sighed inwardly. I should have asked to do nothing. Instead a shouldered the weedeater and marched out to the tick-infested woods. And returned tick-infested. I thank the Lord that chiggers don’t bite me. And I’m immune to poison ivy. And mosquito bites vanish in a matter of hours from my skin. In the realm of ichiness, ticks are my only enemies. Usually they are easily vanquished, no matter how numerous. What followed was a shower during which I got a brilliant idea.
With Emily coming in the afternoon, wouldn’t it be lovely if she and I could go knock around town, maybe do some thrift-store shopping and just generally do nothing for the afternoon? With soggy hair and a crooked smile, I suggested my plan to Mom as she fried hamburger. I expected her to declare “What a lovely idea!” Instead she half-shook her head. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea or not.”

I swallowed my tongue. In fact, I think it slid all the way down the back of my throat and down through my nervous system into my left foot where it sat feeling like a heavy lead-weight. Hadn’t she been asking all week what I wanted to do? And we were doing absolutely nothing. The kind of nothing that simply means not a thing. I rounded up my scattered thoughts before I asked, “Were you planning something?” She kind of shrugged. “Not exactly. I just had a little thing I thought we might do. We’ll see about it.”

Emily was due to arrive any time when I finally ventured again to ask Mom what she was thinking. “Well,” she said, “It’s probably okay. See what Emily wants to do when she gets here.”

I bobbed my head. Emily’s pretty easy to get along with. Usually.

In came Emily. I was in the rapping mood and started talking a hundred miles an hour. “Hey! How are you? I was thinking…I know you just came from town, but would you be up for a little goofing off? We could look for some business shirts to go with those jackets you’ve got.” “Well,” said Emily, “that might be okay.” In an instant I was off again, “Oh! But before we go, look at this bag of clothes from Amber C and see if you like any.” Emily agreed and began digging through clothes while I sat by watching.

A red pick-up pulled up into our nifty little parking lot. I glanced out the window and did a double take. “That’s funny,” I knew it wasn’t Tim and Lindsey, though I was expecting them later. “It looks like…it can’t be…it…really looks like…who in the…? It is!” And that was all I said. Then I split a grin almost big enough to swallow myself. And I just stood by my bedroom door grinning as the girl scrunched in the middle seat of the pick-up stretched her long arms and climbed out.

Just a little something Mom had planned. Just a little something called Tabitha and Cliff.

“Now you can go into town if you want,” Mom flashed me a smile as she came out the door. “Were you surprised?”

I had no clue. Absolutely none. Even though a few almost hints had been dropped. Why in the world would I suspect that Tabby and Cliff were coming all the way down just for my birthday?

With Cliff’s permission to steal his wife, we piled into Emily’s car and headed into town where we pretty much did nothing. I couldn’t have had a better birthday if I’d have planned it.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

My mind has definitely switched back “on.” I think I’ve thought a million thoughts this week, but can’t remember a single thread of them.

A quick life update:

The Schriebers moved here from Illinois at the first of the month. Glenn and Papa met online several years ago and Glenn has steadily pursued a friendship with Papa, even traveling to visit and encourage us when we lived in Kansas. For several years now they have desired to move and be near us, but this was the first time they were able to sell their house and order things to allow for the move. They've always lived in the same vicinity--the adjustment for them will be huge! On our part, we are delighted to finally have church fellowship. As in any fellowship, we'll have to get used to each other and learn to prefer each other in honor.

“Of all things,” Josiah said sadly one day, bearing a dustpan into the kitchen, “I stepped on a bat.” The poor fluttermousse lay panting, his wings bent and his webbed tail spread out. He must have already lay expiring on the cold garage floor before Josiah’s bare foot discovered him. Perhaps it’s a hopeful sign that more of his kind linger in the nearby woods, ready to annihilate the army of gnats that has encompassed us. This valiant departed assailant had to be laid to rest in the woods shortly after supper, his last breath gone on the wings of time. This was shortly after our visit to the Mystic Caverns where we expressed our desire to have bats move in around our house to help with the insect overpopulation.

I finally sat down and sorted through a million things I'd stacked in my "think about when I get a chance" file. I worked through some of my fleshly cravings for fulfillment to be reminded of the truth that Jesus is all and does all good. I waded through some of the circumstances and issues that confused me a year ago and caught my breath at the perspective I saw--from just a year away. Circumstances are just circumstances. Sure, God allows them. But they bear little weight when measured against truth. And sometimes truth demands time to become more clear. For the first time in my life I am not confused. I think I am finally beginning to grasp the balance between true patience and my own supposed patience, true love and my supposed forebearance. True love is so hard--takes so much time and effort, seeking someone else's best interest through scripture, wisdom and kindness and seeking to base my actions on that--not simply saying what they desire to hear or giving what they want or doing what they want. It's painful--but nothing like the cross, the nails and God's rejection which Jesus suffered for me.

I was listening carefully to Papa’s voice one day as he read the expanded version of First John when the dive-bombing occurred. A mosquito-eater tumbled out of the sky and bounced onto the table, just inches from my Bible, then clumsily bobbled across the table and off the edge. His mission must have remained unfinished since he repeated the performance twice more before disappearing from the scene of conquest.

I finally got a tetanus booster, a week later for five dollars at the Health Department. My foot was entirely healed.

Lauryn got fish. I wish I could even retell the history of her tank of five finned friends and the dramatic disappearance of Pinky Tuscadero and Fred. Falsely accused, Hot Lips was detained in solitary confinement for further questioning until Fred reappeared. Thus began operation "rescue Pinky Tuscadero" which ended happily with Hot Lips being cleared and the whole family being reunited with joy and laughter.

We watched Miss Lauryn direct the Dtown Highschool Choirs--complete with choreography that screamed her name. She did a fabulous job. Is anyone surprised? She graduated with honors a few days later, along with Emily, Shoko, Donnie and Stacy. We spent the day either in bleachers or at parties--parties according the the believers here consist of prayer, encouragement, good food, praise and lots of love--well and sometimes some volleyball.

Originally I told Angela I'd help her photograph her friend's wedding. Then she agreed to become the wedding coordinator, which loaded her down with responsibilities. But it freed up her camera. In fact, I enjoyed our teamwork--I did all the photography, she did all the bossing.

It was about ten o'clock when Nathaniel called a very pregnant Lauren to ask for a ride. See, a group was playing "Fugitive" and Nathaniel, Donnie, Tommy and Dathan had worked out a perfect strategy for eluding the cops. Lauren and I hopped in the car. Well, actually, I hopped, she plumped. Being pregnant slows down activity and Lauren is VERY pregnant. As the four boys crowded into the back of my car I had one thing to say, "you guys smell amazing." Tommy's voice piped up, "What do you mean by amazing?" Folks, those guys normally have great hygiene--Tommy even reputedly smells "dewicious"--but that night they smell amazingly BAD. Their strategy paid off with a winning game!

Lately I've been blessed by April's company. In fact, we discovered that we wear the same size of clothes--she's just six inches taller. Sadly, she looks much cuter in my clothes than I do.

I've been following up on Christy's clients at the clinic. Sometimes as I open a file to decide what course of action to take next I am overwhelmed by the stark sadness in the notes she left--abuse, taking advantage, broken hearts, substance abuse, abortions, devastation. I closed files that were years old. For years Christy has faithfully waded through sad situation after sad situation. The Lord has been at work in my mind and heart--finally I am able to weep as I read a file, pray for that poor girl, close the file and walk away knowing that the Lord is the only One who can save--any of us.

Jess graduated highschool. Dathan had never met her, but he cheered the loudest. Even did a special cheer for her. Of course, he was cheering and shouting names for almost all the rest of the graduates. And clapping so widely he nearly smashed my face in. Without the least embarrassment. I was almost embarrassed, sitting next to him as he thoroughly enjoyed himself at a highschool graduation where he knew no one.

Papa is back at work, but has had weekends off so far! A huge blessing!

And just when the grass is growing more quickly than a child, all our lawnmowers decide to go on emergency medical leave. One is leaking oil. A blown gasket? One destroyed its own blade belt. Too much stress? And one has been in pieces in the barn all year. If we could find all the hardware for it underneath the Schriebers extra stuff that's being stored in it, we might put it back together and sell it.

It's a strange thing. I'd been exhausted for months, dragging myself out of bed each day, struggling to stay awake during Bible reading or prayer, going to sleep any time I sat down and sleeping hard. Lately I've rediscovered quiet time--alone time with Jesus. Perhaps it's just been emotional exhaustion that leaves me zapped. At any rate, I am at rest--with energy again. And thoroughly enjoying the Lord's lovingkindnesses.

Monday, May 4, 2009

It shouldn’t be too complicated getting a tetanus booster. Maybe I just complicate everything. It shouldn’t have been too complicated to pull nails from the old decking boards in our barn.

But I managed to step on the edge of a board and felt the sharp point of a rusty nail slide right through my inch-thick boot soles and through the padded sole of my foot. “Ah…” I took a deep breath. “I just put a nail through my foot.” Tommy looked up quickly from the board he was wrestling with on the dusty floor and said cheerfully, “Well, I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shots.” Josiah shook his head and sighed. “Um, actually,” I answered, slowly removing my boot and staring at the quickly spreading bloody spot on my striped socks, “I haven’t had one since I was eleven. That’s when I ripped my leg open on a rusty nail in the pond dock.”

So I limped inside and, while the boys finished pulling nails from the pile of lumber, I washed my wound and poured in peroxide. Mom just went about fixing lunch and Papa continued Bible studying. My parents are clearly given to panic. Will having a nail-pierced foot make me more like Christ?

After a year and a half in Arkansas, I still don’t have a doctor. I haven’t needed one. Really, the wound looked pretty good, so all I was concerned about was the tetanus shot. Tetanus is not something to fool with. I lost a baby goat to tetanus—actually, I spent days treating her, getting up with her at night and trying to get her through before Josiah and I finally put her out of her misery. Misery it was, too, stiff-legged and resembling a rocking-horse with spasms shaking her until she bleated in pain. Not something I want to risk getting.

The health department said they’d give me a booster—Thursday. Another doctor we called needed to see me—to the tune of a hundred twenty dollars. The ER, well, that would be expensive. Backi suggested telling the Health Department what had happened, which prompted them to say that I need to see a doctor. Finally the Millard-Henry clinic said I could walk in and get a shot from the shots nurse.

It sounded too good to be true.

It was.

Dathan and Josiah dropped me off before heading over to see Donnie. And then I discovered that I had to be an established patient. The doctor on call couldn’t even see me that day and it would cost several hundred dollars for an appointment.

See, I’m an adult daughter, not a full-time student, so I have no medical coverage. Which makes getting a tetanus shot difficult. Just a shot, that’s all I needed.

I arrived at Choices a little late. The only client on the schedule was an abortion-minded girl who hadn’t shown up the week before. I was limping by the time I showed Becki my foot. “Do you think I can wait for a shot?” She cringed. “I hate to mess around with tetanus.” But she was impressed with how clean the hole was. “It’s deep,” she told me. “I can see into it. It’s at least an inch deep. That must hurt a lot.” I shrugged. Actually, it wasn’t too bad.

And in walked a frightened little couple. “Can I help you?” I asked and they exchanged glances. “I sure hope so,” the young man told me, chewing on a lip ring. “We think she’s pregnant.” I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: never judge a book by it’s cover. Ponytails and piercings often cover the kinder hearts—beware the people who look like they have it all together. Those are often the most hard-hearted of all.

I’m forced to draw a curtain before much of my visit with them. I spent two hours with this couple and when the girl on the schedule came in, Sherry had to see her instead. At the beginning they wanted an abortion—it seemed like the quick fix. But never did they truly want that abortion. They had some true concerns and some real fears, but as we talked the Lord worked to show them truth, to relieve their fears and also to open the way to show Himself to them—as a very real Creator and sustainer of life. They left clutching an ultrasound picture—the best ultrasound picture I’d seen, though it was only seven weeks—and planning to come back to discuss adoption. In their eyes and words I could see and hear sincere conviction—that child would live!

As Josiah and I crowded into Dathan’s pick-up, I praised the Lord, entirely forgetting the possibility that I might die a miserable death of tetanus since I’d never gotten that all-important shot. The Lord can heal. The Lord is in control. He can move hearts. He is the Creator and sustainer of life and my life is in His hands.

Father, Thou art life and ever living
Thou gives life and in Thy giving
Thou gives all that I might need
To be conformed to Thee indeed.

Every moment death might claim,
But I am claimed by Thy own name
Which is a confidence I have
That I will live beyond the grave.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

I had a dream. In my dream, white and black walked side by side.

Not racial equality. A bride and groom.

Actually, the dream began with me asking Lin N if she’d mind a little matchmaking. I knew a guy I thought would be perfect for her. Could I give him her number? She assented. And I did. And they got married. And I sang at their wedding. Then I awoke and, behold, it was a dream.

A couple of days later, Emily sat patiently by, chatting with me as I labored on a jacket-dress. “How’s Lindsey?” I asked. Because I hadn’t talked to her in some time. In fact, the last time I’d talked to Lin N she’d been sharing how the Lord was working in her heart to desire to become a homemaking wife and mother and how she was loving cooking and how she had her school debt almost paid off and how she was content in the Lord. A very good time to keep track of a girl, if you ask me. “Fine,” Emily answered, which is what she always said.

And then the funniest thing happened. I never intended to tell anyone about that dream, but I opened my mouth to say something and it toppled right out. “I had the weirdest dream about Lindsey.” When I finished, Emily gave me a funny smile. “That is funny,” she said. “Did you know who the guy was?”

Ah. Yes. Who the guy was.

Indeed I did.

“It was Tim.”

Then her face became a study in comedy. “Was that just out of the blue?” A million thoughts raced through my mind before I answered, “Maybe not entirely. I might have thought of it before.” Because I had. Lin N and Tim were in the same general vicinity. But they didn’t really know each other. But they should. They really should get to know each other well.

“Can I tell Lindsey?” Emily asked me, and my mouth must have hit the floor. That seemed like a stupid thing to do. Tell Lin N? Like she needed any distractions. “If you think she’d find it funny.” Emily snickered, “Yeah. I think she’d find it really funny.”

That night my conscience hurt worse than a stomach with too much wedding cake. How indiscreet. I shouldn’t ever have told Emily. And I shouldn’t have let her tell Lindsey. Embarrassed, I called Emily to apologize. “It’s fine,” she assured me. “Really, it’s fine.”

Then my mind went clackety-clacking. So did several others. For real, it was fine?
Today a letter arrived in the mail. A letter signed by both Tim and Lin N. A letter informing their friends that they'd decided to share their lives. With each other. Emily and Bruce were the sole confidants. Everyone else was awash in amazement. Well, I wasn’t exactly awash in amazement. Surprised, yes, that it had happened so fast and so secretly. But delighted. I don’t think I’ve been this excited since…well, maybe since Tabby and Cliff became engaged. I called Lin N. only to discover that I didn’t have anything to say. Mostly we giggled.

Lin N. has always inspired me with her passion for truth, her hungry heart for obedience and her unflinching standards of modesty and purity. God demonstrates Himself strong in her life and testimony, turning her into a woman who fears Him and is worthy of praise. And Tim is a gentleman, a man of integrity and a sincere seeker of the Lord.

I suppose we could all say this is a dream come true?

Thursday, March 12, 2009

All day long, everyone kept asking why I was so goofy. On the level, I didn’t think I was being silly at all. I was just enjoying life. I woke up this morning knowing without a doubt that Yahweh is in control, that He has blessed me with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ, that I am His daughter and that He will conform me to the image of His beloved Son. Gurus advocate meditation for a sense of well-being. I can’t imagine what they could meditate on that would boost them like knowing the Author of the Universe—and calling Him “Abba.”

Josiah and I made the trek to our namesake town, looking at a property for Glenn’s family. I’m afraid to say anything after the last attempt. I didn’t like the last property at all, but I’ve never seen where they live or what they’ve worked with in the past and I’m a poor hand at construction. Please limit me to screwing screws or destroying sheetrock. Or sanding. There’s nothing to be destroyed sanding. This house seemed much more inviting and certainly better cared for. Dutifully, we took pictures and notes and will offer our observations to those wiser than we. The most delightful event of the trip was a quaint bridge we crossed on our way. Josiah is a perfect companion for me, since he is always more than willing to stop and take pictures. Except, he likes to take pictures, which means he wants to use my camera and force me to be the model.

The ever increasing disorder in the back rooms at the clinic is going to finally drive me over the edge. After spending several hours working on tangled paperwork, a client finally showed up for her appointment. “She’s here to see you,” Linda handed me her file. “Uh, yeah,” I answered, “Can I talk to you for a minute?” We scurried to a back room before I blurted out, “She’s here for a follow-up and ultrasound, there weren’t any issues—what am I supposed to talk to her about?” We had excellent, thorough training on dealing with tough issues, but I found myself panicking as I realized I didn’t know what to do when everything was smooth sailing. Thankfully, that simply meant a short visit, the ultrasound and then passing her down to a mentor. Which left me plenty of time to begin to feel trapped in a kitchen littered with random items. “Look, Josiah!” I exclaimed, opening the refrigerator door. “At least we could keep all the soda cans in one place, don’t you think?” He was sanding the ceiling tile he and Donnie had patched and looked at least forty years older, covered in sheetrock dust as he laughingly answered, “You sound like Papa.” As they rounded up purses and coats at seven-thirty, the ladies found me sitting on the kitchen counter, cleaning out cabinets and consolidating. Becki sat down in a chair laughing at me, which I found rather uncharitable. “Girl, you’re crazy!” Of course, she can vanish into her tidy, little office any time the piles of the undone grow too daunting. Bonnie just giggled, “Have you been eating goofy pills?” Actually, I did have two hamburgers for lunch. Perhaps that was the problem. But someday I’m going to get that place spit-shined clean. It just may be someday a very long time in the future.

Emily had a “surprise” for me, on our way home. Thank you notes from her classroom of second-graders. It wasn’t hard to tell which story was the favorite, thanks to the pictures at the top of each page. “The Little Red Hen” hands down. Emily was embarrassed as she pointed to a letter at the bottom of the pile. “He asked me for a third sheet, and I told him to write on the back. He said he already had. It’s…well, he’s a little odd.” She proceeded to read me a lengthy, rambling letter in which this young man professed over and over that I was the nicest teacher ever and he hoped I would never die. Emily found it embarrassing, but I think it sure beats being told I’m silly.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Miss Lydia and I signed in to the Sequoyah grade school at about one forty-five and navigated the hallway to find the second grade room of Mrs. Underwood. Our mission? Visiting Emily’s classroom and telling stories! We started off with the version of Little Red Riding Hood I’d pulled out for the homeschool talent show so many years ago—the year I called up the parents and made them perform for the rest of us. Which they did admirably. This time the kids were so delighted they asked to keep their masks. Then we followed it up with the Three Billy Goats Gruff, Puss in Boots and Little Red Riding Hood. Lydia played a delightful Little Red Riding Hood, carrying her basket of goodies around the room to distribute marigold seeds. So there went last night’s hasty preparation. The kids begged us not to leave. Perhaps I’m ridiculous, but the whole time I was reading Puss in Boots, my mind kept nagging me miserably—Puss was a blatant liar. No matter what kind of a hero we’ve made of him and how funny his antics are, he’s a liar—something God’s word speaks very strongly against. How inconsistent I am to decry lying in life only to glorify it before a classroom of second graders because it is performed in a fairy tale by a clever kitty sporting boots. I’m at a loss what to do…apologize to Emily for endorsing such a story? My mind wants to argue that it is so trivial, but my conscience insists that if lying lips are an abomination to God and the liar has his place in the lake of fire, how could even a joking lie be trivial to the Lord?

Which turns my stomach with guilt and dread because, even though others often say I “speak truth”, I know the truth and it is far from their opinion of me. I know how deceitful I am, how willing to skew truth in my favor, how at ease in telling partial truths, how comfortable withholding information or pretending ignorance. Tonight on the phone I was nearly brought to tears as Lauryn prayed for me and coupled my name with truth. I only wish it were true, but my heart is wicked and deceitful above all things, who can know it? Sometimes I'm not even sure in my own mind what is true--how can I tell it?

Always I am brought back to the Way, the Truth, the Life and humbled in His presence--no deceit was found in Him.

Father, lead me in the truth. Thy word is truth.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

The Little Rock Zoo was a zoo today. Redundancy is not something of which I make a common habit but in this case I’ll make an unusual exception. Tommy didn’t know when he invited us to come see the zoo, that the zoo had invited everyone the same day—for a free day at the zoo. They expected at most 8,000. By the time we escaped the massive gates in mid-afternoon, at least 20, 000 had been through the front gates. I found myself studying people with as much curiosity as ever I studied primates or reptiles or pachyderms. Hairdos resembling the plumage of exotic birds, outfits that rivaled peacocks and all kinds of faces with all kinds of expressions that might frighten even the apes. Among the hordes of people that crowded so thickly as to make me feel like I was inside a pressure cooker, I lost myself in watching and forgot that others might find me of interest: until a group of Indian men caught my attention, clearly discussing me inside the tropical rain forest exhibit. Not checking me out, but discussing my clothing—a blue Punjabi and flip flops. Likely they were noting that I had the scarf around my neck incorrectly or that the pattern was severely out of style, or even that the make was certainly from farther East into the Orient than Asia—from Thailand to be exact.

The exhibits Tommy showed off with the most pride were the ones he’d built—tall posts wrapped with rope and covered with a thatched roof. Papa walked along almost in a daze. By the time we left the zoo, his exhaustion was dripping down his face like perspiration. Poor guy. He dislikes crowds as much as I dislike chocolate cake.

We followed Tommy and his sister Shazelle…er…Jennifer….home for supper. His poor mom has been begging to come with him to visit us for weeks. She’s quite certain he’s keeping her away on purpose. I can’t imagine why Tommy would do that? (end sarcasm) His family is certainly unique with a capital “Q” (which translates to slightly odd), but splendidly hospitable and splendid cooks. “Tommy said to be sure there was ice cream in the house,” his mom announced, proud that she was quite prepared, not only with ice cream, but also with an enormous, gooey chocolate cake. How does one politely refuse chocolate cake? That’s an honest question, since I wasn’t successful.

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 23, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, December 21, 2008

It’s cold and dark and rapidly approaching midnight, back in my empty bedroom in Arkansas. Lydia’s already sound asleep. I should be as well, but I’m sitting down like a good girl in a desperate attempt to make a whirlwind retelling of the weekend in Kansas. The very cold weekend in Kansas.

Our trip was punctuated by a couple of half-stops at the Day and Willis residence. Deliveries, you know. I brought Tabby several pairs of shoes and several pieces of jewelry I’d been given, which might prove suitable for her wedding day attire. We pored over wedding dress pictures from an online site she’d discovered and I took her measurements for her, so she could have a dress made to perfection. How could I ever explain exactly what went through my mind as I stood in the bathroom, wrapping a cloth tape-measure around Tabby’s waist and scribbling down numbers on a print-out of a wedding dress. It couldn’t have been that long ago that we impishly told the church kids we’d made a pact to be old maids together. They were so upset they begged Jon Day to give us a thorough lecture. Another time we insisted we were already married to twin princes of Rugalia and only came home for the weekends on flying carpets. They’d run distraught to Jon Day that time, too. Each time, he confronted us with laughing eyes and twitching lips. Those kiddos pestered us so incessantly about marriage that I never felt the least remorse for my rather imaginative retaliation. But the night I sat on the dryer and listened as Tabby tried to defend herself for being scared of Cliff and for trying to avoid talking to him, I knew what would happen next. And as I quietly told her, “If he’s worth being friends with, just be his friend and see what happens next,” she knew it, too. Now Cliff plans a house and Tabby plans a wedding and they’ve already bumped the date up and up and up to sometime in March. The formal announcement came after church on Sunday and the resounding answer was “It’s about time!” Miss Bethany whispered to Damaris, “Why are Tabby and Cliff sitting together?” Damaris responded, “Because they’re in love,” to which Bethany exclaimed aghast, “What? They’re in love and they’re not even married?!” We had to cancel the picture shoot for the happy couple. With a wind chill far below freezing, Tabby and I were sure we couldn’t manage any good shots. Instead, we snapped a few indoors, just to have. I’ll admit to tormenting the two of them. “Okay, look at each other…no…don’t giggle!” There they sat, struggling to maintain eye contact without giggling while I pretended to be adjusting and framing pictures. Finally Tabby groaned, “Abigail! What’s taking so long!” Ah, the perfect ending for the secret video I’d been shooting.

Then on to Grandma’s, where we ate tons, as usual, and refused to eat more than tons.

We made a quick visit to the Knox household Saturday morning. Rachel arrived a short time after we did, Hannah was home for the holidays and Abigail and Shane were present with little Sofia. So much has changed since the days when we were little kids, crawling through Forrest’s engineered hay mazes or swinging on the ragged rope in the barn or swimming in the Baker’s pond. Sometimes I am grieved to see the distance between us growing. My “shadow”, Rachel seems little more than a distant acquaintance. Our paths are so divergent these days. We talked about her long-time desire to become a missionary nurse. “I’m hoping to go to India this summer,” she confided in a hushed voice. “I can’t stand the thought of being stuck here all summer. I’m ready to go somewhere.” It’s something I’ve heard each of the girls say frequently—and Whitney, too. Wanderlust. Dissatisfaction. The desire to go places—far away and exciting. But sudden confusion overwhelmed me. She wants to go be a missionary nurse…why? She didn’t even say a word about the Lord. Every once in a while she mentions God, but rarely Jesus and never much depth about the Word or what the Lord is teaching her or a strong desire just to serve Him—wherever. I tried to push the uneasiness from my heart, but it lingered. I want my buddy, my “shadow” to be all that the Lord has for her. I want her to learn from Him and grow in Him and become conformed to His image. I believe she desires the same, but still, how does it look and sound so different from what the Lord has been teaching me? Hannah was also eager to share the events of her life. Now she’s in an official relationship with Seth (shall I mention I predicted this?), with her parents blessing, still drifting a bit and unsure of the next step, but her spirit is so different—so much gentler and more humble. I loved hearing her share from her heart, but one phrase set my heart racing. “I know this is a God-thing,” she said several times. Every time I hear that confident assertion falling from someone's lips, my chest tightens and I don’t know what to say. I can’t keep nodding and smiling. But do I have any real reason to protest? What is God? How does He lead? Is it possible that He leads in ways so different from how I have learned to seek His will? I know the Lord works with individuals in individual ways. I know He works in situations that are less than perfect. What situation isn’t? But when is God the driving force and when are we forcing God? How do we know what God wants from us? I’ve been over the topic of God’s will so many times—seeking my father’s counsel on so many issues, yet still I second-guess. Who am I to think I know what is a God-thing and what is a Me-thing? Is the Lord in every circumstance that surprises me? Delights me? Wows me? He sent the lightening and the thunder and the violent wind to the mountain where Elijah sat waiting, but He wasn’t in the theatrics. He wasn’t giving guidance through the fascinating displays. It was after the theatrics that the Lord appeared in the quiet, steady voice of truth telling Elijah to just do the next thing. God’s will is revealed one tiny step of obedience at a time.

Good ol’ steady Mandy joined us in the evening and taught us to Speed—with a deck of cards. Josiah’s mind must have been elsewhere since it failed to grasp the concept. Each round left him with a negative score. Then we discovered he’d been inadvertently cheating. His score dropped further. As we were just about to pack up the cards for the night, he suddenly asked, “Wait. You mean I was supposed to be subtracting these points, too?” Mandy and I stared at each other before collapsing in laughter. It seems to me it must take a special flair to be able to play a game and lose so badly in spite of accidentally only recording half your true loss!

The quiet hours at Grandma’s house left me with plenty of time for the character study of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Why did the Lord choose Mary? I used to wonder. What about her caught the eye of Almighty God? My question reveals my ignorance. Mary was chosen because she was available. It is true that her heart was resigned to service to Yahweh, as evidenced by her words, “Behold, I am the Lord’s slave. Do to me whatever.” Her life proved that the Lord had accepted her declaration. She hardly had a happily ever after, but the Lord used her, teaching her true submission to His will and plan through trying circumstances and even reminders from her own Divine Son. In the end, she had to learn what each of us must learn—to trust Jesus. For her it must have been especially difficult. Once upon a time He had depended on her, but His destiny and the will of the Father called Him to be the suffering servant, and in service to Him, she too was called to suffer. Available. She was there when the Lord needed her to carry His Son. She was there when He gave up His last breath on the cross. Ready. Willing. This is true service to the Master—availability to His needs, willingness to obey. “Do to me whatever.”

Lord, make Thy bond-maid ready, willing
To receive Thy Spirit’s filling
Be it done to me whatever
Thou hast planned ere time began.

Teach me to accept as from Thee
Guidance from those placed above me
Trusting Thou to do whatever
Seemest good in Thy great plan.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

“Hello, I’m hangin’ on your every word, you know…” My cell-phone sang and I wriggled into a more convenient corner of the dressing room. Rustling yards of shimmering, white material out of the way, I found my phone and answered. “Are you busy?” April asked me and a spark of mischief ignited within. “I’m just…well…trying on wedding dresses.” Silence. Then, “I’m not sure I heard you right…did you say you’re trying on wedding dresses?” “Uh,” I answered, doing my best to sound hesitant. “Yeah.” Silence again. Then, “Am I allowed to ask questions?” I laughed. “Sure,” I answered. “I’m trying on wedding dresses for a friend who’s getting married.” Then came her long, relieved, “Oh.”

I arrived at Choices just as Becky and April were preparing to pray. Hardly late at all. Apparently April had related my prank. Becky was disappointed I didn’t come dolled up. And then began the task of training April. Nobody told me that everyone else would be gone, so I found myself solely responsible for her behavior. April can be very difficult to control, but today she proved to be so nervous about getting everything right that she behaved beautifully. It was an odd mix of my two worlds—campus meets crisis. “When the phone rings,” I began and was promptly cut off by the obliging phone. “Here, you answer it.” Her big, brown eyes grew even bigger as she stared at me. “Are you serious?” I grinned. “Yes, you’ll be fine.” I didn’t point out that we have caller ID and I could see that it was a familiar person—in fact, one who knew April. Reluctantly she reached out and lifted the received. “Choices, this is April.” “Hello,” the voice came over the other end. “Can I talk to Abigail?” She practically shoved the phone down my throat in her eagerness to be rid of it. And I thought I hated phones. April will make an excellent mentor or receptionist as soon as she realizes how capable and perfect she is for the job.

Three o’clock rolled around and we waved good-bye to the little, tan house. This is the last time I’ll work the front desk or run copies or answer the phone in two-thousand and eight. Who knows what I’ll be doing when I come back next year?

It’s the end of the year and I’m not sure what to read these days. In thinking of the upcoming celebration of Jesus’ Advent (“It means coming,” Papa says. “Why don’t they just call it His coming?”) I turned to Isaiah for some of the most sadly beautiful prophecies of the Savior. Chapter fifty-three is always one of my favorites, because I am not so unlike the rest of those who hope in Jesus—and this chapter is so full of hope—through pain. “Surely our griefs He bore and our sorrows He carried.” But we didn’t get it. We thought God was punishing Him—and He was, but for our sin! Like a whipping boy of ancient times, “the chastening for our well-being fell on Him and by His stripes we are healed. All of us have gone astray like sheep, but Yahweh has caused our iniquity to fall on Him.” Then the contrast between us, who went astray like stupid sheep and Jesus, who was the perfect sacrifice lamb, silent before His accusers. Because, had He answered them and purchased His own life, ours would have been forfeit. Instead, He is allotted a portion with the great because he poured our Himself to death, He bore the sins of many and interceded for sinners. In the gospel—Jesus—we see the culmination of God’s eternal plot and the story He plays out again and again through history, past, present and future: first the cross and then the crown. Even Jesus had to learn obedience through the things He suffered. Yahweh was pleased to crush Him as an offering, but as a result, Yahweh will see it and be satisfied. Often it seems we are called to suffer as well. When I cry out for answers why, I am brought to my knees at the foot of the cross. For God’s glory, is the answer, and for my good. I will learn obedience through the things I suffer. Because of Jesus suffering, I was justified. My own suffering works for my sanctification. And always, always, Jesus stands by me, having born more pain and anguish than any human ever could. He is my perfect Comforter.

Lord, I always seek relief
When I should seek renewed belief
That Thou art good and doest good
Whatever I misunderstood.

Thy Son, who bore our grief and shame
Learned to rejoice in through hellish pain
By fixing His own eyes on Thee
And pressing toward eternity.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

I described Freckles to Lauryn as “short, muscular, super cute and hyper.” “Hmm,” she said. “Sounds like the perfect Scott dog.” She’s absolutely insane and irresistibly charming. Impish. Adventuresome. Runs like the Energizer Bunny. I never thought I was a dog person. When I was much younger I loved cats—well, actually kittens. In fact, I so badly wanted one that, in spite of the knowledge that my parents would never approve, I circumvented their authority and had a chat with my Father about it. Lo and behold, a stray cat with a lame leg showed up on our doorstep. Dumped, no doubt. She was a charmer as well. In all honesty, she didn’t behave like a cat with a haughty “I own you, so there” attitude. She lived happily ever after with us until shortly after we moved into the country and she was killed by a neighbor dog. Popcorn was the only pet we’ve had in my entire life. Excluding the beta fish, that is. Fish hardly count. Now we’ve got a wired terrier and all I can say is, “we should have gotten a dog a long time ago.” Funny, though, how the ones that show up turn out to be the best pets. I attempted to teach Freckles to sit, but she seems to have associated the desired action with the pressure on her rump instead of the word. Now whenever I pet her she cheerfully plops her little bottom down and cocks her head to peer up at me with huge puppy-dog eyes.

In lieu of any real snow, Lydia and I sat on Mom’s bedroom floor tonight cutting out snowflakes. Mine turned out to have a rather African flair. If there’s such a thing as African snowflakes. Lydia’s, on the other hand, looked decidedly springish. Somehow it seems that we’re both missing the point. Or perhaps we’re just thinking longingly of warmer days. Our bedroom keeps a constant heat index of perhaps forty-five degrees. When we come out to breakfast in the mornings we can slide our hands up near someone else’s backside and they’ll holler about the cold radiating out. Patrolling the energy usage has been next to impossible. We run the electric fan in our bathroom for dressing and showering, but I still keep shaving off goose bumps. And we sleep under electric blankets with only our noses sticking out the top. In the morning our noses are red. Hale and hearty we both must be, for we’ve still not contracted a cold.

“Who did you want to talk to?” Tabby asked when she answered the phone and apparently couldn’t believe her good fortune when I insisted she was the woman and prepared to drop my explosive. “What do you think? Would you like me to take some engagement pictures for you this weekend?” A gasp. A strangle. An excited yelp. An explosion. “HHHHOW would you do that?” she finally demanded. “Oh,” I answered casually, “I have a super powerful telescoping lens.” It’s still hard to believe she’s really getting married. We’d become so close—always going through the same things, it seemed. Suddenly, no more. Nick wouldn’t even believe me when I tried to share the good news with him. “Cliff?” he asked, incredulously. “I was there all summer. I know Cliff. There was nothing happening there.” “I realized I have no clue what I’m doing or where to start planning a wedding,” Tabby confided. “Can I—well, will you help me?” I embrace my part as wedding planner extraordinaire. It sounds as though I’m supposed to be experienced, or something. I’m delighted. Tabitha Faye has been the best friend and deserves the best guy and the best wedding and the best happily ever after. I only wish I could actually be there to help her out.

I don’t know how Lauren could have ever kept her big secret from me. She’s bursting with new little tidbits all the time. “I figured out today that sleeping in is my worst enemy!” she announced. I could have told her that. Instead I dug out a pleasant assent from my storehouse of appropriate phone conversation pieces. Sadly, my storehouse is very limited. But it’s growing. Surely and steadily. Working at a pregnancy clinic has completely altered my thinking. Who’d have thought I’d somehow or other know so much about pregnancy? This little niece or nephew is another hard-to-believe. Lauren reminded me of the birthday card I'd sent her: “I heard you’re expecting…another birthday! Scared you, didn’t I?” Humorously, that would have been just about exactly in time for the little person’s creation. I should have sent it much sooner.

Fanatical is the perfect word to describe the woman I read about today—from Iran. She began as a fanatical Muslim. Praying until her body was swollen and sore, memorizing the entire Koran, pleading and begging to know Allah personally. Until the day she came face to face with a picture of Jesus and fell to her knees in broken repentance. After that it was one little thing after another, as she was able to learn about Jesus, be changed by Jesus and become fanatical about Jesus. She started sharing Jesus everywhere she went, with everyone she met and the Lord started turning lives upside down. She holds Bible studies in Muslim beauty parlors, disciples prostitutes, distributes tracts and hope in nearby cities, hosts a home church and reads and memorizes the Word every chance she gets. Oh, and she’s twenty. Twenty years old. Tears came to my eyes as I realized her devotion—to the truth. Her search had always been for the Truth. And when she found it, she poured her alabaster jar at the feet of the Master and lives a life of radical worship. I was humbled to be caught up in her simple story and realize how boring she would find mine. I want to be like her. I want to be carried away with the joy of the Lord, the power of His grace and the impact of His truth.

We’re in relatively little danger now, facing relatively little opposition. And still I’m a coward. But tribulation stands veiled on the threshold. Now I have a little time to practice before I may be called to perform this dance of life and death. Lord, strengthen me, empower me, discipline me, overwhelm me to share Your precious truth wherever I go.

Lord, we place a greater value
On that which costs us greater pain.
Yet that which costs us greater pain
Often yields a greater gain.

And so, it seems, I place the value
Of Thy secret now revealed
Much lower than my precious sister
Who, daily praises Thy blood spilled.

Teach me, too, to love so greatly
Recognizing that Thy grace
Is poured as richly on my shoulders
By the Lamb who took my place.

December 1, 2008

Monday, December 1, 2008

Josiah and I walked through the entrance to Wal-mart laden with return items—a couple of crock-pots, a coffee grinder and a pair of jeans—from the family’s shopping spree on Black Friday. “We have half a million returns,” I smiled apologetically at the lady stickering returns. “I only count four,” Josiah commented dryly. The lady tossed us a sympathetic smile. “That’s all right,” she said, taking the first box from my arms. “When I got married…”

Of course, getting us to Wal-mart required effort. People are like the clocks of old—some run more quickly than others. I’d warned Josiah we were leaving at eight. Right after breakfast and chores. Eight o’clock rolled around and I walked out the door, purse slung over my arm, keys in hand. I opened the garage door myself. I loaded all the returns into the back of the pick-up. Then I backed the vehicle out of the garage and sat waiting. And waiting. And waiting. It’s a funny thing, this waiting business. Seems like my whole life has been spent waiting. Papa used to be the timely one. The first one in the car waiting on the rest of us. Soon I learned to be out the door as soon as he hollered “Let’s go!” Now I’m the one who waits in the car for everyone else. Even Papa gave up on being out early. I get supper on early, call everyone and wait. While the food grows cold. We make plans to start projects at a specified time and I emerge from my den and wait. While everyone else leisurely finishes up whatever they were doing when the deadline rolled around. I wait for others to finish their tasks so I can do mine. Sometimes I just do both because I get tired of waiting. This morning as I sat in the truck, waiting, I could feel the tendons in my neck growing tighter and tighter. I have a schedule, you know, Josiah. It’s planned out perfectly so we can get everything done perfectly. You know we have a lot to get done, Josiah. And we’ve got to get started on time, you know, Josiah. Josiah, I did tell you what time we needed to leave? How long ago did I holler “Let’s go”? How long have I been waiting? Why is my whole life filled with people who keep me waiting?!

Then, as if they sun had burst through the foggy clouds, came my moment of truth. Uh, duh, Abigail. You’re life is filled with waiting because you still haven’t become good at it. And Yahweh knows that practice makes perfect.

I managed to make it to the Doctor's on time. And then we appeared at the home of Miss Judy and Amber to finish much of the work which we had begun, making their apartment a home. The pictures hanging on the walls and the curtains in the windows add so much warmth and coziness to that little abode. Josiah and I were on a mission today to hang a couple of shelves in Amber’s room—and string up some curtains—lime green, tied back with purple ribbons and a sheer overlay of silver stars. Makes me think of pickle and jelly sandwiches smothered in fairy dust. It matched the rest of her room perfectly. But we didn’t finish on schedule. Quite. “Are you almost done?” I demanded as Emily called, wondering if we were going to make it for lunch. We finished our work in a flurry and made a mad dash for the pick-up and on to campus. And we made it. Barely.

Then, as predictably as the tide, we were back out and on the road home. I still had to clean the Ware’s. I try to make a racket coming in and holler “knock, knock” in case Travis is still home. As soon as I stepped in, I noticed the dark form of a head and shoulder slumped over the couch. Great. He was sleeping. I hate trying to figure out how to wake sleeping people without scaring them. For me, the slightest noise sends me bounding from bed, but I've developed a reputation for sneaking up on people--accidentally. Travis had slept through my vacuuming before. I cleaned the back bathroom and came back out into the living room. There he still reposed. But just then Josiah called. “Hey,” I whispered. “Come over here. Travis is asleep on the couch and I don’t want to scare him.” After all he was an Air Force courier in active combat. No telling what he’d do if threatened. Plus, he just had heart surgery. Josiah arrived post-haste and walked straight up to the snoozing form, scooped it up and displayed his find. “Here’s Travis,” he announced, holding up a black hooded sweatshirt.

It was late when I talked to Jacinda. But later still when we finally hung up as I drooped in a near-slumber posture. I’ve heard others accuse her of not talking. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t talk, but the world is full of people who don’t listen. They assume that those who won’t compete with them simply can’t talk. Jacinda is a wealth of interesting thought-patterns and lovely revelations. Some find her harsh, but she’s at least as harsh on herself as she is on anyone else. She always seeks to speak truth and she proclaims her own faults with more fervor than she ever would anyone else’s. She’s quick to challenge herself and her attitudes and even quicker to seek the Lord in all things. So I let her talk. I love to hear her vent. She says she hates journaling, but when she talks to me I hear her heartbeat as she works through issues, sorts out her feelings, digs for the truth and finally triumphs. “I don’t talk to anyone else like I do you,” she told me, and I grew warm all over. Even if I needed two-by-fours to prop my eyelids open, her words permeated my mind and sent a smile shivering all over my body. Maybe she is struggling with the shallowness of the girls at training. Maybe she is struggling with developing deeper relationships and feeling like others won't open up to her. But I love hearing it all, because that’s the thread of feeling running through Jacinda’s heart. And I feel privileged to reach out and touch it. People don’t realize what they are missing when they don’t listen. The first warbled notes of a fledgling sparrow, proclaiming the Creator’s genius. The veiled tears behind the standard, “fine, thank you, how are you?” The wonder and delight of a child touching an animal. The hesitation in a voice that wishes you would ask more. The heart throb of one of God’s precious children—that only He hears with perfect clarity. In this vast world, I am privileged to hear a tiny bit of what He hears. And all of it is important to Him.

I listen to His creation, but how often do I listen to Him? In those moments between perfect scheduling and frustration, while I wait for that person who is chronically late or wonder when this important event will finally come to pass, my own thoughts clamor for my attention, ranting and raging and railing on the one who keeps me waiting. Forgetting that it’s actually One who keeps me waiting. Because nothing gets off of His schedule. And I forget to tune my heart to hear the subtle truths He would teach me through my frustrations, through my circumstances, through my surroundings. That singing bird is a work of His genius—it trusts Him entirely for every breath it takes, for every moment it flies through the glorious air. He keeps me waiting because He would have me ready—not to do a host of all-important things, but to listen. To hear His voice in the quiet moments of meditation, when He gently reminds me of the truth of His word.

Lord, aren’t Thou, who made the ear
Worth the time it takes to hear?
Thou who spoke the final word,
Must forevermore be heard.

Teach me such an attitude
To listen, with my heart renewed
To hear whatever Thou might say
And hearing, hasten to obey.

Monday, November 24, 2008

I nearly blushed as I called Sherry to let her know I wouldn’t make it in to Choices tomorrow. “I have a pretty badly sprained ankle,” I explained. “And I’m supposed to stay off of it.” “Now, Abigail, how did you do that?” she asked me. “Were you skateboarding?” She knew it would have to be active. Unusual. And unladylike. Actually, I was doing a toe-touch off the roof of the tool shed into a pile of leaves higher than my head. And I’d been doing it safely for the past several hours, along with Josiah, Tommy and Lydia. I’d even been cautious, stuck to dives and crazy jumps instead of flips like the boys were pulling. Perhaps the slow drizzle left the leaves a little slippery. At any rate, I’m holed up for the next couple of days, alternately heating and icing my right ankle and thinking of all the wonderful things I would rather be doing. “Poor Abby,” Tabby giggled over the phone when she found out my plight. “I’d hate to see how hyper you’ll be tomorrow.” Half way through the afternoon my ankle suddenly began to feel stifled. A raging rejection of inaction surged through it and it begged for freedom to stretch. I indulged it. Pain and relief flooded simultaneously. Even a bird with a broken wing still longs to fly. “You’re such an impatient patient,” Tabby chided. I felt as if the entire day had been wasted. At least I got the Pearls and Diamonds blog revamped, caught up and archived.

I’ve not scribbled faithfully since my laptop screen went out nearly three months ago. I quit writing and I started talking. Suddenly all the thoughts and feelings and emotions I’ve been charting and graphing in the pages of my journal had nowhere to go. So they started spilling out my mouth. For the past several months I’ve felt as though I am teetering on the dangerous precipice of revealing my heart. My family has heard more of my frightening mind than in the rest of my life! And my mind is undoubtedly more frightening these days. Confusion reigns supreme. I’ve given up on making plans. Or even goals. Or even dreams. Right now I could fling my possessions to the wind and leap onto a plane headed for Alaska—if it weren’t for my ankle.

Who knows? Tomorrow I might do just that. Things change that quickly, you know.

Like Tabitha. When Cliff appeared on the scene over the summer she worried and fretted and avoided. “Just be his friend,” I encouraged her. “Just be his friend,” her dad encouraged her. Then suddenly she knew for sure he was interested. And just as suddenly her fear melted like the morning mist and was gone, replaced by wonder. Then curiosity. Then friendship. And now courtship. He can hardly concentrate on anything. While she was gone for two weeks he pined away and lost weight. He pours cereal in his cup and milk in the cereal box. He calls her every night he can’t see her and sees her every night her parents will allow him in the house. And he knows all about me, since I’m her best friend. Things just happen that fast.

Our family has grown. She might be Jack Russell Terrier or she might just be a mutt that happens to look and behave like a Jack Russell, but she’s captured our hearts from the first day she came slinking up to the back window, pleading for acceptance. Another stray and we’ve taken her in and are trying to train her. Isn’t that just how we always do? “What are we going to call that dog?” Papa asked the day after she arrived and we all knew we’d be keeping her. Later, he dubbed her Freckles. “Chase me,” she begs with every fiber of her body as soon as we step out the door. “Come play with me!” Mom was hanging laundry on the line when Freckles swiped a stocking cap from the basket and led Mom on a wild chase through the meadow. But when it comes to a trek through the woods, she’s all business—alert, silent and as stealthy as a Comanche. We walk outside in the morning and whistle, eager to see her wriggling form come dancing from under the porch—well, half of the porch. She’s already established. Things just happen that quickly.

Glenn’s been down twice in the past few months—the first time with just his boys to work on the house. Just a couple of weeks ago he brought his whole family for a week-long stay. Little Hannah kept me laughing constantly and Rachel was a closed book that slowly opened to let me peek inside. I’ve never seen anything like her piano playing. She plays so hard the piano weeps with exhaustion. I wept when I thought of wearing skirts the entire week—in the cold, in the rain, all day, every day. Skirts just aren’t my thing. But I made it. Joyfully, even, I do believe. And only half cold most of the time. The poor Schriebers all left sniveling, coughing and snorting. And they left the deck half torn off.

Poor Josiah was left in charge of building it back and it has proven to be nothing short of toil and tears, frustration and frenzy. In short, it will build in him godly character or drive him insane.

Amber and her mom have switched places entirely. Judy has come face to face with the saving grace of the Lord and has dived in head-first. She’s listened through the entire New Testament and spends time in prayer. The highlight of her day is her daily phone call with Mom, reviewing her over her memory verses. Amber on the other hand is struggling between the forces of good and evil. Of course, in some way or another, aren't we all? And I blame myself for her spiritual dryness. It seems I have an uncanny way of assuming anything that is not perfect, easy or beautiful is a fault of mine. I forget that Yahweh is in perfect control.

Exciting news rolls in from Tulsa with Nathaniel and Lauren and their church family. The Lord is casting His shadow across their little church and stirring them up to obedience. The men are taking serious steps to make Him the center, the church is reaching out to the surrounding neighborhoods, spreading the gospel and seeking to disciple. Several families have decided to headcover and more are interested in studying First Corinthians. “If this is how the church should be,” one man said during small group, “how do we do it?”

With Papa’s crazy work schedule, only having a holiday every other weekend, our meeting has switched over to Saturday night. The positive is that we often have more than just our family and Nick. The negative is that there is very little fellowship afterwards and no one comes out during the week or on Sunday anymore. Loneliness is curling it’s long, icy fingers around our little home.

Lord, change is just a part of living,
Part of Thy plan’s perfect giving,
Yet throughout eternity
There is no changing found in Thee.

This is such a comfort here,
Among the days of doubt and fear
To know Thou art always the same.
And knowing, praise Thy changeless name.

Friday, October 3, 2008

“Trust in Yahweh with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight. Do not be wise in your own eyes, fear Yahweh and turn from evil. It will be healing to your body and refreshment to your bones.” ~Proverbs 3:5-8

Has it only been a year since I drove the dusty Tempo from the S Family’s house, down Crooked Branch Road and up our driveway for the first time? Only a year is gone and yet gone is a year of death and resurrection, of old and new, of past and present. Gone far behind us is Papa’s “ideal” job at Parkway Dental. Gone also the little home fellowship we began with the S Family. Gone are the days when I babysat for four blond, energetic kiddos. Gone are the days when I hung out on campus in the Sweetest Suite or walked into the Cafeteria at the side of Lauryn or Jacinda. Gone are Friday nights with Taylor and Nathan or Sunday afternoons with the gang. Gone are Wes and Audrey and their little Wednesday night Bible study. Because life doesn’t stay the same and things move on and people change.

Before me lies a future no more certain than the past has been, yet full of hope. Resurrected are my once buried dreams to live among the people lost in darkness that I might be able to show to them the true light. In a few months, my whole life has become a perfect preparation, a surprising equipping to do exactly what I’ve always desired—serve the low-income, low-education, sin-trapped people of the urban United States as serving Christ. Recreated are my relationships with my family—my father is my trusted friend, my mother has become a sensitive confidant, Josiah is a brother I can lean on and Lydia is a sister in Christ.

And Yahweh, in His supreme wisdom has been teaching me about wasted emotion—especially anxiety. My emotions, He reminds me constantly, are given as a precious treasure, to worship and enjoy Him forever. Yet how often I squander them in fear, guilt, anger, confusion, frustration and worry. What will tomorrow bring? Once Jesus sat on a sunny slope in the land of Israel and boldly proclaimed that it doesn’t matter! Quit worrying about tomorrow, He reminds me. Tomorrow has plenty of worries of its own. Instead of being wasteful of my emotions, I am to turn them to singing and praising and offering thanks. Then I will worship and enjoy Yahweh, even as He has intended. I turn to glance behind me at the past year, thinking how much emotion I have wasted worrying about situations that seemed cloudy or unclear, how many tears I spent weeping because I didn’t have the answers to quiet my soul. That was never what Yahweh intended. He intended me to enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise, saying each day was the day He had made. I will rejoice for He has made me glad!

A year of death and resurrection. And isn’t that the meaning of life? The sting of death is only in hopelessness, but while there is life there is hope. My hope is in knowing the Lord works all things for the good of those who love Him. To this promise I confidently cling and plunge ahead through each day, wondering what He’ll do next. But not allowing that question to consume me.

What will He do next?

Lord, Thou sought to teach me trust,
Faith in Thy good word is a must,
Yet often I flung down Thy word
And turned to other sounds I heard:

The sounds of fear and worry’s call
That tempted me to slip and fall
Yet Thou were always near to save
And resurrect me from each grave.

About Community

Lydia has developed a habit, during Sunday lunch, of scrunching herself onto the very edge of her chair--the one closest to me--and scarfing her meal with as little conversation as possible. I can hardly blame her since the Sunday Bruce swallowed the last piece of delicious roll, right out of her fingers while she watched wide-eyed and flabbergasted. It wasn't because he was still hungry. There's always plenty more where hers came from, but somehow, having been on Lydia's plate increases the attractiveness.

"Why thank you, Lydia," Josh beamed as Lydia carefully set her slice of banana cake on the table. "What a great idea!" He made a quick stab with his fork, but Lydia whisked the dessert out of his reach and gave him a triumphant smile.

That's when Tommy snagged her plate from across the table.

Lydia heaved an exasperated sigh and crossed her arms over her long-suffering heart. Josh's reaction lacked her forbearance. "Lydia!" He exclaimed. "Lydia! Did you see that? He took our cake!"

Enjoying the Ease of E

Ethnic—Because the Italian restaurant Helen and Paul took us to in downtown Tulsa was terribly authentic.

Exotic—Because Calimari didn’t look terribly appetizing, but proved to be quite palatable. Especially the babies. “It tastes like fried spiders,” I encouragingly informed a dubious Lauren. She never did work up the appetite to try the babies.

Electricity—Because we were without it at Nathaniel and Lauren’s—for more than a day. Gathered in the hallway, we sang scripture by the light of a lantern and listened to storm warnings on a battery weather-radio.

Evelyn—Because she’s a light in a dark place—and she had the same birthday as I do! Turning seventy-eight, shut into a nursing home, yet cheerful and encouraging when Lauren and I visited her. She held our hands and prayed over us before we left, bringing tears to my eyes.

Exxon—Because they apparently still believe in the caste system. Two restrooms: one marked “ladies”, the other “women.”

Excited—Because Lauren and I are gung-ho for starting a joint blog for young women—married and single. Be watching for announcements in the future!

Economics—Because “Settlers of Catan” was a study in old-school economics—bartering, shipping and trading. When the guys had talked about it in the past, I’d done the whole “smile and nod” trick, since I thought it sounded boring. It wasn’t. Strategizing on the best way to get rid of excess wheat or attempting to convince the others they needed more sheep (“Tim, you’d look fabulous in wool!” or “Josiah, have you ever had mutton with mint leaves?”) proved more entertaining than I’d imagined.

Encouraging—Because having Ashley here from New Jersey was a pleasant happening. She seems so far away and yet, we can reconnect on the same level as if nothing has happened in between.

Exhausted—Because, starting with the well pump’s failure on my birthday, we’ve had incident after incident. Last week, with Papa home on vacation, we tackled enough projects to make me feel like I’d accomplished a lifetime of useful things. And yet, it doesn’t seem as though we actually came out ahead in the long-haul.

Embarrassed—Because my very first day cleaning the neighbor’s house, I broke a candle. One of those terribly valuable ones that come in a canning jar and smell like blue coconut.

Everything else—Because it will just have to go unnoted. The past several weeks have been a whirlwind—I feel like I’ve hardly been home! I keep thinking the next day will bring a breather—a chance to get quiet and just enjoy the Lord, but each day turns out crazier than the last one! How did David grow so close to the Lord while fleeing from Saul? And how did Jesus survive with multitudes clamoring after Him constantly?

End—Because this is it for now, folks.

About Habits

"I used to have a terrible habit," Tabby admitted in a conspiratorial tone. I pressed the phone closer to my ear. "Go on." She took a deep breath. "I used to be horrible about not knocking on closed doors. Just barged right in. Then Mom told me I needed to practice by always knocking on every door before I came in. Next thing I knew my habit had gone the other way. I caught myself knocking on my closet door before opening it to select an outfit. But, worst of all, I knocked on doors to rooms I was leaving." She never told me the sad ending to her tale--whether she's been able to break these new habits or whether they plague her still.