Josiah neatly shot a nail through the ball of his finger and into the birdhouse he was building for Grandma. It’s a good thing finishing nails have no heads. “That was stupid,” he grimaced, sucking his finger and waiting for Lydia to return with a band-aid. “I knew I should be more careful with the nail gun.” I hardly thought a band-aid sufficient. The birdhouse turned out adorably.
If I had anything worth reporting, I wouldn’t need to be so brief.
Lord, the year is almost past,
It seems I lose momentum fast,
My emotions never last
Beyond the first commotion.
Oh, teach me what is faith to Thee
That I would learn devotedly
To follow Thee in purity,
Endurance and devotion.
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Christmas Eve, Wednesday, December 24, 2008
“Someone you care about seeks reconciliation.” Behold the introspective depth of the Chinese fortune cookie. I don’t believe I ever keep any sort of ongoing quarrels with anyone I care about. I don’t believe. Do I? Perhaps I’m silly, but my thoughts did turn to the passage in Matthew—if you are offering your gift to God and there remember that your brother has anything against you, leave your gift. First be reconciled to your brother and then worship. I spent the rest of the afternoon lost in a desperate attempt to recall anything I might have done to offend anyone. My mind seemed a blank slate, though I know I am often unkind, judgmental and disrespectful. Even more often in thought than word.
I was busily working in the kitchen when Grandma made some comment about my love of cooking. I paused with the salt shaker half tipped before I dropped a bomb that would rattle her timbers. “I don’t like cooking.” Her eyebrows shot up with the speed of bottle rockets. “What do you mean you don’t like cooking?” she demanded. I fumbled for words. “I don’t really like to cook.” Obviously I didn’t really come up with any. “Well,” her voice came out in a huff, “for someone who doesn’t like to cook, you certainly do a lot of it.” I shrugged. “Well, yeah. I have to. I mean, cooking has to be done, so I do it. But I don’t particularly like it. That’s why I never use recipes. I just go for simple and quick.” She shook her head. “All this time I thought you really enjoyed cooking. What do you like to do?” “Actually,” I grinned from ear to ear, feeling foolish. “I really like to clean.” Again her eyebrows nearly bounced off her hairline. “You like to clean? I never heard of such a thing! I just do it because it has to be done.” How is it that I so successfully get everything almost entirely backwards?
After supper we worked a puzzle, drank fizzing apple cider, ate chocolates and opened gifts. Mine from Grandma was a suspiciously hard, flat shape—with a defined binding. With a couple of quick rips came my Christmas revelation: she’d given me a cookbook. Perhaps I should seek reconciliation with Grandma? She just chuckled as I held it up to thank her. “Well,” she said. “You may not like cooking, but at least I had something to wrap up. If I gave you only a check, you’d never spend it and I wouldn’t have the fun of watching you open something.” I’m sure it must have been entertaining watching my face as I unwrapped a cookbook, knowing the whole time that I’d just made the declaration that, contrary to popular opinion, I don’t like cooking.
Sometimes I say really stupid things.
We read the familiar “Christmas Story” and rattled off to our own rooms.
I wish I could enjoy cooking. It just seems like an exorbitantly necessary waste of time, for the most part, and as quickly as it’s done it’s gone with nothing to show for it. I know that was contradictory. So are my feelings toward cooking. I know that the Lord has called me to cook, as a service to my family, and I struggle to keep my mind on the task at hand. Cooking’s not so bad as long as I don’t have to think about it. The thought of making menus makes me break out in goosebumps. Talking about recipes bores me. I take no pride in meal preparation. I should. I should embrace every aspect of making a home as something of eternal value. Jesus never considered Himself beyond the call of feeding multitudes. Is a servant greater than her Master?
Lord, revive my heart, renew my mind
To trust in Thee, and trusting find
That joy in doing what is right—
A sacrifice for Thy delight.
Teach my hand my faith to prove
By taking captive to Thy love
The scornful thoughts that, bitter, lurk
And hate to do Thy daily work.
I was busily working in the kitchen when Grandma made some comment about my love of cooking. I paused with the salt shaker half tipped before I dropped a bomb that would rattle her timbers. “I don’t like cooking.” Her eyebrows shot up with the speed of bottle rockets. “What do you mean you don’t like cooking?” she demanded. I fumbled for words. “I don’t really like to cook.” Obviously I didn’t really come up with any. “Well,” her voice came out in a huff, “for someone who doesn’t like to cook, you certainly do a lot of it.” I shrugged. “Well, yeah. I have to. I mean, cooking has to be done, so I do it. But I don’t particularly like it. That’s why I never use recipes. I just go for simple and quick.” She shook her head. “All this time I thought you really enjoyed cooking. What do you like to do?” “Actually,” I grinned from ear to ear, feeling foolish. “I really like to clean.” Again her eyebrows nearly bounced off her hairline. “You like to clean? I never heard of such a thing! I just do it because it has to be done.” How is it that I so successfully get everything almost entirely backwards?
After supper we worked a puzzle, drank fizzing apple cider, ate chocolates and opened gifts. Mine from Grandma was a suspiciously hard, flat shape—with a defined binding. With a couple of quick rips came my Christmas revelation: she’d given me a cookbook. Perhaps I should seek reconciliation with Grandma? She just chuckled as I held it up to thank her. “Well,” she said. “You may not like cooking, but at least I had something to wrap up. If I gave you only a check, you’d never spend it and I wouldn’t have the fun of watching you open something.” I’m sure it must have been entertaining watching my face as I unwrapped a cookbook, knowing the whole time that I’d just made the declaration that, contrary to popular opinion, I don’t like cooking.
Sometimes I say really stupid things.
We read the familiar “Christmas Story” and rattled off to our own rooms.
I wish I could enjoy cooking. It just seems like an exorbitantly necessary waste of time, for the most part, and as quickly as it’s done it’s gone with nothing to show for it. I know that was contradictory. So are my feelings toward cooking. I know that the Lord has called me to cook, as a service to my family, and I struggle to keep my mind on the task at hand. Cooking’s not so bad as long as I don’t have to think about it. The thought of making menus makes me break out in goosebumps. Talking about recipes bores me. I take no pride in meal preparation. I should. I should embrace every aspect of making a home as something of eternal value. Jesus never considered Himself beyond the call of feeding multitudes. Is a servant greater than her Master?
Lord, revive my heart, renew my mind
To trust in Thee, and trusting find
That joy in doing what is right—
A sacrifice for Thy delight.
Teach my hand my faith to prove
By taking captive to Thy love
The scornful thoughts that, bitter, lurk
And hate to do Thy daily work.
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.
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.
Valentine’s Day, Thursday, February 14, 2008
I never know what sort of opportunities will be offered me. Holly, our contact with the BibleLeague just called me to see if I’d be interested in an internship with their Africa department. Nobody has to tell me anymore that Papa can’t bear to part with me—especially not to vanish across the world, even in a cause as good as this one, but I suggested she e-mail me the information and I’d pass it on.
My very special Valentine date showed up in time to help me finish the cheesecakes for supper. She wore a pink shirt, her amazing curls were gelled to perfection and over her shoulder was slung a teacher’s bag with concept cards and children’s books. Miss Emily and I have an interesting habit of reading children’s books together. What can you expect? One is a teacher. The other is a children’s writer.
Emily for supper is the best thing about Valentine’s Day. My feelings regarding this hoax of a holiday typically run something along the lines of cynical amusement. Shall we profess our love with cheap paper hearts, melting chocolate and sugared candy? "My little children, stop just saying you love one another. Prove it!" God demonstrated His love toward us by pouring out the blood of His only begotten Son. “Be mine?” we ask, offering flowers that will fade and die. “Be mine?” He offers us the unfading crown of glory, eternal life with Him. Our version of love at this time of year has faded to a worthless charade. When will we wake up and recognize that God is love? That love is sacrifice--of ourselves.
Lord, Thou art the perfect love
Who casts out worry, doubt and fear
And tears the temple curtain down
And beckons helpless souls draw near.
Love, as Thou hast shown this world
Is rarely pretty, never cheap.
The law of love is carved in blood:
The shepherd dies for wandering sheep.
My very special Valentine date showed up in time to help me finish the cheesecakes for supper. She wore a pink shirt, her amazing curls were gelled to perfection and over her shoulder was slung a teacher’s bag with concept cards and children’s books. Miss Emily and I have an interesting habit of reading children’s books together. What can you expect? One is a teacher. The other is a children’s writer.
Emily for supper is the best thing about Valentine’s Day. My feelings regarding this hoax of a holiday typically run something along the lines of cynical amusement. Shall we profess our love with cheap paper hearts, melting chocolate and sugared candy? "My little children, stop just saying you love one another. Prove it!" God demonstrated His love toward us by pouring out the blood of His only begotten Son. “Be mine?” we ask, offering flowers that will fade and die. “Be mine?” He offers us the unfading crown of glory, eternal life with Him. Our version of love at this time of year has faded to a worthless charade. When will we wake up and recognize that God is love? That love is sacrifice--of ourselves.
Lord, Thou art the perfect love
Who casts out worry, doubt and fear
And tears the temple curtain down
And beckons helpless souls draw near.
Love, as Thou hast shown this world
Is rarely pretty, never cheap.
The law of love is carved in blood:
The shepherd dies for wandering sheep.
Christmas Day, Tuesday, December 25, 2007
My Christmas Day revelation began this morning when I climbed into the shower, and was completed as I packed my bags for the trip home. I am a nerd. Only a nerd would forget to pack enough extra underwear while managing a meticulous book bag—complete with multiple books, Bibles, highlighters, pens, notebooks, laptop and every cord needed for enjoying the same. And the definition of the word “meticulous” leaves the comparative weights of the two bags to the reader’s imagination.
It seems I always write my thorns in the flesh, my struggles, the hard things. It’s true, because I write them to get them out of my system. The good things, the happy things I want to savor, to keep, but not to evaluate, pick apart, weigh out and measure. But I do want to remember them, and for the sake of memorial, I should record them with equal determination.
The trip home was shortened by sleep, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” and lighthearted teasing. Said Mom after switching drivers, “Ooh! I left my keys in the back.” Papa looked up from his book and waited for the punchline. “Do you want to go somewhere right away or should I crawl back there and get them?” Fishing his keys out of his back pocket, Papa wondered, “If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just ask?” Mom shrugged. “I just wanted you to say, ‘Oh here, sweetheart. You can use mine.” The corners of Papa’s mouth twitched as he handed the keys over. “I see,” he said, then added “Sweatheart.”
A few minutes later I heard him clear his voice as he studied the GPS. “I bet you didn’t realize what happens when the sun goes down.” We all perked up, waiting for some nifty, new information his toy would provide. “It gets dark.” Bewildered, Josiah and I looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “Stick around me,” Papa advised, “And you’re likely to learn a lot.”
The heavy cooler banged against my legs as I stopped short on the porch, my mouth dropping open. The first one to the house, I knew the French door standing wide open could mean only one thing: it had been standing open for the past five days. My stomach flip-flopped as I walked into the dark house, but the only obvious intruders were a couple of crinkly leaves.
Before leaving Grandma’s house this morning, we watched “The Nativity Story”, courtesy of Nathaniel and Lauren. I was struck by the picture it painted of Joseph “a righteous man” who also exhibited impressive mercy and instant obedience. Inspired, I searched out everything the Bible had to say about this surrogate father of Christ and found very little. Not a single word. Not one. In spite of having a non-speaking part in the drama of the incarnation, this man’s actions spoke with profound eloquence. As a righteous man, he could not marry Mary and smear his own reputation by acknowledging her child his own. And yet, he would not accuse her, see her stone and free himself to marry another. Instead, sacrificing his own happiness, since he would not be able to marry later, he intended to divorce her quietly and spare her life and that of her child. Joseph was a man of God—unable to live with sin, unwilling to destroy the sinner. In the footsteps of his namesake, Joseph receives three dreams from the Lord, and immediately rises from his bed and obeys—even at risk to himself, his reputation and his business. May I be just, abhorring the presence of sin in my own life, yet merciful to those caught in its snare, and always, instantly, unquestioningly obedient to the Word of the Lord.
Lord, Thy mercy overlooked
The sins Thou’d written in Thy book
Until the time that Thou could send
Thy Son to seek and save all men.
May I, too, be quick to see
The need of all humanity
For the mercy Thou would give
That those who judge themselves might live.
It seems I always write my thorns in the flesh, my struggles, the hard things. It’s true, because I write them to get them out of my system. The good things, the happy things I want to savor, to keep, but not to evaluate, pick apart, weigh out and measure. But I do want to remember them, and for the sake of memorial, I should record them with equal determination.
The trip home was shortened by sleep, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” and lighthearted teasing. Said Mom after switching drivers, “Ooh! I left my keys in the back.” Papa looked up from his book and waited for the punchline. “Do you want to go somewhere right away or should I crawl back there and get them?” Fishing his keys out of his back pocket, Papa wondered, “If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just ask?” Mom shrugged. “I just wanted you to say, ‘Oh here, sweetheart. You can use mine.” The corners of Papa’s mouth twitched as he handed the keys over. “I see,” he said, then added “Sweatheart.”
A few minutes later I heard him clear his voice as he studied the GPS. “I bet you didn’t realize what happens when the sun goes down.” We all perked up, waiting for some nifty, new information his toy would provide. “It gets dark.” Bewildered, Josiah and I looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “Stick around me,” Papa advised, “And you’re likely to learn a lot.”
The heavy cooler banged against my legs as I stopped short on the porch, my mouth dropping open. The first one to the house, I knew the French door standing wide open could mean only one thing: it had been standing open for the past five days. My stomach flip-flopped as I walked into the dark house, but the only obvious intruders were a couple of crinkly leaves.
Before leaving Grandma’s house this morning, we watched “The Nativity Story”, courtesy of Nathaniel and Lauren. I was struck by the picture it painted of Joseph “a righteous man” who also exhibited impressive mercy and instant obedience. Inspired, I searched out everything the Bible had to say about this surrogate father of Christ and found very little. Not a single word. Not one. In spite of having a non-speaking part in the drama of the incarnation, this man’s actions spoke with profound eloquence. As a righteous man, he could not marry Mary and smear his own reputation by acknowledging her child his own. And yet, he would not accuse her, see her stone and free himself to marry another. Instead, sacrificing his own happiness, since he would not be able to marry later, he intended to divorce her quietly and spare her life and that of her child. Joseph was a man of God—unable to live with sin, unwilling to destroy the sinner. In the footsteps of his namesake, Joseph receives three dreams from the Lord, and immediately rises from his bed and obeys—even at risk to himself, his reputation and his business. May I be just, abhorring the presence of sin in my own life, yet merciful to those caught in its snare, and always, instantly, unquestioningly obedient to the Word of the Lord.
Lord, Thy mercy overlooked
The sins Thou’d written in Thy book
Until the time that Thou could send
Thy Son to seek and save all men.
May I, too, be quick to see
The need of all humanity
For the mercy Thou would give
That those who judge themselves might live.
Christmas Eve, Monday, December 24, 2007
If I have an addiction, it is embodied in the form of an inconspicuous stick of gum. Gum is the solace I seek before diving into any grueling task: running several miles, sewing a dress, shopping, drumming or peeling potatoes—huge pots full, like today. When I wheedlingly asked Grandma if she had a hidden stash of the needed item, she responded, “Sure. And get me a piece, too. We might as well live dangerously.”
The snow drifted up several inches high under the edge of Grandma’s roof. As I stood at the window, looking longingly out into the brilliant sunshine, I remembered the year, not so long ago, when the drifts mounted up to better than five feet. Josiah and I scrambled up the TV antenna and jumped off the roof, to land safely in the piles of snow beneath. I don’t believe we’ll have enough padding this year for a repeat performance.
About half of the Knox family dropped by, in shifts, to say “hello” and “Merry Christmas”. Kansas still holds some of the most precious people God has made.
By about five o’clock Nathaniel and Lauren had arrived, and the rest of the family followed shortly after. You know how Christmas goes: talk, laugh, reminisce, eat a huge meal, eat tons of dessert, read the Christmas story, open gifts. Grandma threw in a fun twist by adding a game that soon had us all laughing. The house was mostly quiet again by eight-thirty or so.
I drummed for a little while, until Grandma protested. As I sat quietly, listening to Papa and Grandma discuss people, places and events, my drumsticks clicked and Grandma exclaimed, “Well, Abigail!” Instantly Papa commanded, “Abigail, shut your eyes.” I always feel so humiliated when he treats me like a five-year-old. He didn’t even know what Grandma had exclaimed about, and she was only teasing. Perhaps he only wants to keep me a little child, and so treats me like one—sometimes. Later, after an explanation of the affair, he said, simply, “Well, it never hurts you to close your eyes.” If he only knew. My imagination is powerful, and, if I concentrate hard enough I can remember the tiniest glimmer of repentance. Grandma made amends, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
It’s past eleven now, and Nathaniel and Papa show no promise of quitting the living room, where I am to bed down after being booted out of the guest room by my brother and sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall bid them Merry Christmas at the same time I wish them a good night.
I wish I could claim some beautiful spiritual revelation for Christmas Eve. Quite frankly, I hardly had a thought to myself, and my Bible reading was barely long-enough to support a spiritual midget. How could Christmas have become so distorted that the day I should celebrate my Lord and Savior the most is so wrapped up in “other things” that I give little more than a nod in His general direction?
Lord, I claim to celebrate,
But tell Thee Thou wilt have to wait
For many things of many hues
Are claiming what, to Thee, is due.
God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,
When finally we cease this din,
I pray before we seek our rest
We’d thank Thee for Thy gift—the best.
The snow drifted up several inches high under the edge of Grandma’s roof. As I stood at the window, looking longingly out into the brilliant sunshine, I remembered the year, not so long ago, when the drifts mounted up to better than five feet. Josiah and I scrambled up the TV antenna and jumped off the roof, to land safely in the piles of snow beneath. I don’t believe we’ll have enough padding this year for a repeat performance.
About half of the Knox family dropped by, in shifts, to say “hello” and “Merry Christmas”. Kansas still holds some of the most precious people God has made.
By about five o’clock Nathaniel and Lauren had arrived, and the rest of the family followed shortly after. You know how Christmas goes: talk, laugh, reminisce, eat a huge meal, eat tons of dessert, read the Christmas story, open gifts. Grandma threw in a fun twist by adding a game that soon had us all laughing. The house was mostly quiet again by eight-thirty or so.
I drummed for a little while, until Grandma protested. As I sat quietly, listening to Papa and Grandma discuss people, places and events, my drumsticks clicked and Grandma exclaimed, “Well, Abigail!” Instantly Papa commanded, “Abigail, shut your eyes.” I always feel so humiliated when he treats me like a five-year-old. He didn’t even know what Grandma had exclaimed about, and she was only teasing. Perhaps he only wants to keep me a little child, and so treats me like one—sometimes. Later, after an explanation of the affair, he said, simply, “Well, it never hurts you to close your eyes.” If he only knew. My imagination is powerful, and, if I concentrate hard enough I can remember the tiniest glimmer of repentance. Grandma made amends, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
It’s past eleven now, and Nathaniel and Papa show no promise of quitting the living room, where I am to bed down after being booted out of the guest room by my brother and sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall bid them Merry Christmas at the same time I wish them a good night.
I wish I could claim some beautiful spiritual revelation for Christmas Eve. Quite frankly, I hardly had a thought to myself, and my Bible reading was barely long-enough to support a spiritual midget. How could Christmas have become so distorted that the day I should celebrate my Lord and Savior the most is so wrapped up in “other things” that I give little more than a nod in His general direction?
Lord, I claim to celebrate,
But tell Thee Thou wilt have to wait
For many things of many hues
Are claiming what, to Thee, is due.
God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,
When finally we cease this din,
I pray before we seek our rest
We’d thank Thee for Thy gift—the best.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Telephone. Telegraph. Tell a girl. The three ways of modern communication, they say. (Of course, that nifty tongue-twister was written during a modern date that is rather a long time ago.) Which, I suppose, is simply of another proof of my lack of femininity. I can keep a secret. Just try me. For six months I talked to Lauren every day, counseling her to focus on the Lord and forget about Nathaniel, knowing the whole time that he planned to ask her to marry him. Folks who wondered about their honeymoon would say, “I bet Abigail knows,” and I’d just shrug my shoulders. Secrets don’t make friends, they say. But “they” are wrong. The person who can keep a secret will have many friends, because they have proven their trustworthiness.
So, when we pulled up to the Day’s house this morning and noticed a Toyota car with Texas tags and the words “Mac and Cheese” chalked across the back window, Mom exclaimed “It’s Lauren and Nathaniel!” and Papa remarked, “I bet Abigail was in on this one.” And he was not mistaken. It was good to be among the Southeast Kansas saints again, although the meeting was a small one.
Back at Grandma’s, after supper, Papa expressed his displeasure with the growth attempts of his two sons. “I was hoping to have two big sons hanging around me for bodyguards,” he complained, a twinkled in his blue eye. “Well,” Josiah shot back, “why’d you marry her?” We all looked at my mom, who had proudly announced only that morning that she had gained weight—and now weighed ninety-seven pounds. Always the peacemaker, I volunteered to grow and become the coveted bodyguard, to the amusement of everyone present. At twenty years and five foot even, I’m afraid the only parts of my body still growing are my toenails and hair. A straightening the other day revealed that my hair is now long enough to converse comfortably with my waistline, a revelation I haven’t quite digested and classified as good or bad yet.
I spent several hours, huddled over my laptop alongside Papa, downloading version and commentaries for my E-sword program and discussing things that have been haunting me for days. After evenings like tonight, I think back to the impetuous moments when I whine and wail about not understanding him and him not understanding me and communication and the lack thereof and all things of which the daughter of a godly man can complain, and wonder how Satan can be so clever to so deceive me.
Ravi Zacharias joined us for the drive to church this morning, with a message from one of the minor prophets on worship—in Spirit and in truth. I listened, wrapped up in his quaint accent and the power of his message, as he shared how worship must be according to God’s truth: intimate, but still reverent. “You call me Father, but where is my honor?” He spoke of the Indian word for father, and pointed out how they never use it without adding a term of respect—like saying, “Papa, sir.” Our relationship with God is the same: He is our loving Father, but we must never forget that He is almighty Creator. Then he began to share a vignette from the life of Eric Liddell. “God has made me for a purpose, but He has also made me fast. When I run, I feel His pleasure.” We worship God by doing everything for His glory, whether it is running—or writing. He doesn’t seek to strip us of our identity and be worshiped by robots. He wants us to use the talents and gifts He has given to each of us to worship Him privately, and to proclaim His excellence to all creation.
Lord, Thou made me for a purpose
To be overwhelmed by worship.
And I see Thy perfect plan
Manifest in who I am.
Prayer and praise are just a start
For the worship of the heart.
Talents that Thou gives are holy
When my life is yielded wholly.
So, when we pulled up to the Day’s house this morning and noticed a Toyota car with Texas tags and the words “Mac and Cheese” chalked across the back window, Mom exclaimed “It’s Lauren and Nathaniel!” and Papa remarked, “I bet Abigail was in on this one.” And he was not mistaken. It was good to be among the Southeast Kansas saints again, although the meeting was a small one.
Back at Grandma’s, after supper, Papa expressed his displeasure with the growth attempts of his two sons. “I was hoping to have two big sons hanging around me for bodyguards,” he complained, a twinkled in his blue eye. “Well,” Josiah shot back, “why’d you marry her?” We all looked at my mom, who had proudly announced only that morning that she had gained weight—and now weighed ninety-seven pounds. Always the peacemaker, I volunteered to grow and become the coveted bodyguard, to the amusement of everyone present. At twenty years and five foot even, I’m afraid the only parts of my body still growing are my toenails and hair. A straightening the other day revealed that my hair is now long enough to converse comfortably with my waistline, a revelation I haven’t quite digested and classified as good or bad yet.
I spent several hours, huddled over my laptop alongside Papa, downloading version and commentaries for my E-sword program and discussing things that have been haunting me for days. After evenings like tonight, I think back to the impetuous moments when I whine and wail about not understanding him and him not understanding me and communication and the lack thereof and all things of which the daughter of a godly man can complain, and wonder how Satan can be so clever to so deceive me.
Ravi Zacharias joined us for the drive to church this morning, with a message from one of the minor prophets on worship—in Spirit and in truth. I listened, wrapped up in his quaint accent and the power of his message, as he shared how worship must be according to God’s truth: intimate, but still reverent. “You call me Father, but where is my honor?” He spoke of the Indian word for father, and pointed out how they never use it without adding a term of respect—like saying, “Papa, sir.” Our relationship with God is the same: He is our loving Father, but we must never forget that He is almighty Creator. Then he began to share a vignette from the life of Eric Liddell. “God has made me for a purpose, but He has also made me fast. When I run, I feel His pleasure.” We worship God by doing everything for His glory, whether it is running—or writing. He doesn’t seek to strip us of our identity and be worshiped by robots. He wants us to use the talents and gifts He has given to each of us to worship Him privately, and to proclaim His excellence to all creation.
Lord, Thou made me for a purpose
To be overwhelmed by worship.
And I see Thy perfect plan
Manifest in who I am.
Prayer and praise are just a start
For the worship of the heart.
Talents that Thou gives are holy
When my life is yielded wholly.
Friday, December 21, 2007
One thing I don’t miss about Kansas: the wind. I woke to the world, in time to take over the wheel and navigate Highway 400. A wave of nostalgia swept over me as I scanned the horizon—something I’d not done since we moved from the land of the big sky in October. But I was soon reminded, during a walk with Damaris, that wide open spaces come with wind—in abundance. Hair that was long and curly when I headed out resembled something of a discarded bird’s nest when I returned.
Road trips have evolved enormously from the days when I was a youngster. Imagine me, pointing my cane and muttering, “When I was a youngster, we listened to cassette tapes and colored in coloring books, and kept plenty of quarters around for payphones on trips home for Christmas.” I spent most of this trip, busily catching up on e-mails connected on my laptop through an AT&T wireless device. Papa read out our speed, elevation, time, longitude and latitude from the GPS wired into our windshield—in between chatting on his Bluetooth, of course while Mom enjoyed the Christmas music I’d ripped to an mp3 player. The only improvement I could think up would be “in-flight” fueling.
Upon reaching the Willises, I had high hopes that someone would comment how much I’ve grown. No such luck. Some growth simply isn’t measured in inches.
The uprooting, far from setting me back, has caused me to turn my face toward the Son and bloom with all my might. I left such a short time ago, a sheltered Kansas girl. I return, overwhelmed by the smallness of the world and the enormity of my Lord. I left, wondering what the Lord had in store for me. I return, knowing His plan remains the same as always—to glorify Him.
But I find I sympathize with my Savior “A prophet is without honor in his hometown and among his own relatives.” Is it a circle? Because I know my own family, my own hometown will watch me critically, smiling and patting me on the head as an eternal little girl, I close myself up inside, shrink back into the stature of a child and try to hide behind memories. It is hardest to share my heart with those who share my life.
Have I grown? I dare not stand next to the measuring tape my own family would hold.
Lord, Thou plants and Thou dost prune
And though the outcome seems not soon
The perfect plan that Thou hast drawn
Becomes more clear with each new dawn.
The measuring tape that others hold
Is not the stature I uphold.
I’ll never reach these plans, save one:
The measure of Thy perfect Son.
Road trips have evolved enormously from the days when I was a youngster. Imagine me, pointing my cane and muttering, “When I was a youngster, we listened to cassette tapes and colored in coloring books, and kept plenty of quarters around for payphones on trips home for Christmas.” I spent most of this trip, busily catching up on e-mails connected on my laptop through an AT&T wireless device. Papa read out our speed, elevation, time, longitude and latitude from the GPS wired into our windshield—in between chatting on his Bluetooth, of course while Mom enjoyed the Christmas music I’d ripped to an mp3 player. The only improvement I could think up would be “in-flight” fueling.
Upon reaching the Willises, I had high hopes that someone would comment how much I’ve grown. No such luck. Some growth simply isn’t measured in inches.
The uprooting, far from setting me back, has caused me to turn my face toward the Son and bloom with all my might. I left such a short time ago, a sheltered Kansas girl. I return, overwhelmed by the smallness of the world and the enormity of my Lord. I left, wondering what the Lord had in store for me. I return, knowing His plan remains the same as always—to glorify Him.
But I find I sympathize with my Savior “A prophet is without honor in his hometown and among his own relatives.” Is it a circle? Because I know my own family, my own hometown will watch me critically, smiling and patting me on the head as an eternal little girl, I close myself up inside, shrink back into the stature of a child and try to hide behind memories. It is hardest to share my heart with those who share my life.
Have I grown? I dare not stand next to the measuring tape my own family would hold.
Lord, Thou plants and Thou dost prune
And though the outcome seems not soon
The perfect plan that Thou hast drawn
Becomes more clear with each new dawn.
The measuring tape that others hold
Is not the stature I uphold.
I’ll never reach these plans, save one:
The measure of Thy perfect Son.
Thanksgiving, Thursday, November 22, 2007
Lydia and I co-composed a song in honor of our Secret Penguin Friend, Nicholas Perry himself. All day long the bouncy tune for “The March of the Penguin” rang out, usually accompanied by our off-key rendition “It’s Thanksgiving, it’s Thanksgiving, Nick is coming here. It’s Thanksgiving, it’s Thanksgiving, rouse and give a cheer!” Trite or not, the pride Nick took in it made it truly worth the very little effort we put into it.
Actually, it was a very pleasant day. After dinner we adjourned to the living room where we fooled around on the piano, mostly rendering discordant, though creative, versions of Nick’s song, being goofy and just laughing. When Amber and her mom left near five, they thanked us profusely for inviting them. I'm hoping to spend some more time with Amber.
“Welchy” joined us in the evening, with his gun in tote. He’s planning to make use of our woods, our deer and our freezer, and my dad’s only hoping he gets more venison than he can eat, so that we’ll have a stock as well.
Jonathan Lindvall graced our home as well, by virtue of a cassette tape. Papa whisked out a new one on the topic of competitive sports and we gathered around the table to listen. It was some pretty heavy material. Is it possible to play competitive sports and still “love your enemy” or “prefer one another” or “look out for the interests of others”? Poor Zach, our coach in training, took notes until his paper smoked, and then asked question after question. Inside he wrestled with the topic, holding it in every possible light, trying to decide what his practical application should be. The Lord really seems to be tearing everything away from him and I can see in his eyes how lost he is feeling, but the Lord is faithful. If he takes it away, it’s only because He’s got better things in mind. I hate seeing my buddy Zach so beat up, and sometimes it’s painful for me not be able to write him an encouraging note or really even say as much as I’d like to. But our Comforter is more eloquent than I could ever be, and I will leave it in His capable hands.
Lord, Thou said for me to weep
For those who find the pathway steep
And Lord, Thou said for me to pray
For all who stagger in the way.
And Lord, Thou givest me a love
For those writ in Thy book above.
I want to offer healing grace--
But then I would usurp Thy place.