Monday, June 15, 2009

See, it's like this: it doesn't happen often, but when it does, beware. Today I was riding an emotional rollercoaster--and it looked like a suburban. It's been building up for a couple of weeks. No, actually, it's been building up for a year. A year's worth of build-up can be pretty nasty. And to top it off, several things this weekend resulted in a complete drop-out in the careful nest of my emotions--mostly due to relief, partly due to confusion and a lot of bewilderment. Why did I have to go through all that misery, confusion and pain, trying desperately to do the right thing--and there's no point to it?

Then along comes the reminder that I still haven't sold the suburban. That suburban that I've had for a year to sell. That one goes like this: Papa gave me the suburban (sort of) to sell with a caveat. See, the money I get from the suburban is supposed to pay for my wedding. Whenever. That's the missing link for all those people who keep pestering me to find out when I'm going to get married. I can't until I sell this suburban. (That's a joke...I think.) The problem is that I never wanted the suburban. In fact, it was kind of embarrassing, so I never explained to anyone why my parents gave me a suburban. In olden days girls had countries or lands or cows for dowries. I have a suburban. It's not very useful to drive in the meanwhile and if I never sell it, it's not exactly the kind of vehicle I care to start out with. In fact, on the surface it feels like the kind of gift where the giver says, "You know, I've got this thing I don't want anymore. And someday soon, I'm going to have to pay for her wedding. So, why don't I just give her this thing I don't want anyway and tell her to sell it and pay for her own wedding." And I feel just that valuable. Which isn't very.

Is that the truth? Tell me, dear Searcher of Hearts, since when were emotions dependent on reason or truth? My wish-wash emotions aren't terribly interested in the truth. So this gift I have has been weighing on my will, mind and emotions for a year now. And I've tried everything that doesn't cost money out of my pocket in order to sell it. Oh people are interested until it comes down to a price and then they aren't. At least not in a reasonable price. Or they're super interested, but wait? You live in D-town? That's too far to drive. Nevermind. More trouble than it's worth.

And today Papa expressed his frustration that we still have a suburban. You must understand, this suburban and I are both still at home for one simple reason: the right person just hasn't come along yet. The right person who needs just this special vehicle (which is really not so much special as not in demand) and is willing to pay the price. Yet here we are, still paying tags and taxes, trying to keep clean and spiffy and advertised something that no one wants. And here I am, trying to sell a suburban to pay for a wedding when no one even wants to marry me.

How pointless is all of that?

I fought tears and crashing emotions all the way to work where I dropped Papa off and wished him a good day and noticed that the gas was on empty. I hadn't even been the last person to drive it, but I would get to fill it up--and I was already late for Choices. I drove away feeling frustrated, lost and unloved.

Remember, emotions are not always reasonable. Or based on truth.

Trying to talk truth into my weeping soul, I began reminding myself, "Nobody promises results, Abigail. You're just supposed to do your best and seek to do what's right anyway."

"Yeah," I argued with myself, "But that's just not fair. I've tried so hard! I've been honest and forthright! I've researched, I've posted ads, I've tried to please my parents. I don't get why hard things always happen to me. Why I'm always frustrated and hurt and confused. What am I doing wrong?"

That was a rhetorical question, you know. When I ask, "What am I doing wrong?" I don't expect an answer, or I expect to hear "nothing." Because, clearly, no fault lies with me.

Instead a verse in Philippians drifted over the current of my complaints. "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks. This is God's will for you."

Great. The good ol' rejoice always passage. Smiling is God's will for me.

But the truth began to sink in deeper than my level of self-pity. In everything give thanks...in all honesty, I had always resented that suburban. I had viewed it as a burden, something I hadn't asked for, which would be sold to pay for a designated purpose I never sought. Gee thanks. Some gift. In all my recalling, I could never recall being thankful for that suburban. In all my recalling, I could recall being irritated about trying to park it, or having to park it at the library for advertising and walking to Choices, or having to wash and vacuum it or having to get gas. I certainly was not grateful for that gift. A generous gift from my loving parents.

Then began the sermon. I'm very eloquent when I preach at myself. "Abigail, be grateful! You be grateful! Be grateful!" I signaled and shifted into the turn lane on Main street. "You be grateful for this suburban!"

And the suburban died. Right there in the middle of the busiest intersection in town at two o'clock in the afternoon, this suburban that I was going to be grateful for died. And it wouldn't restart.

Two possibilities--absolutely no gas, not even fumes. Or the battery, which we'd just replaced and had worked on, since the battery light was on. Becky called to tell me there was no power at the clinic and we were closed and I sniffled into the phone as I explained where I was anyway. Kindly she offered whatever help she could. Then I called Mom to see if Josiah could tell me anything about what my next course of action should be. I didn't relish braving oncoming traffic while checking on the battery if I just needed more gas. I tried starting it again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even on empty, surely I could have made it that last block to the gas station.

Then I heard sirens and saw the flashing blue lights. By now I had tears streaming down my face. So much for being grateful, I was ready to call a wrecker and have this stupid car towed. And plan a fifty dollar wedding. Fifty years from now. I feel terribly sorry for the police man who approached my door. He probably has enough to do dealing with one emotional woman at home. When I opened my door I was both laughing and crying. And I know I must have looked like a tiny teen who didn't know squat about cars. He quickly noted the for sale signs and asked, "Are you just test-driving?" Ludicrous. I don't WANT this car. Can't you tell that just from looking? (I'm sure my parents never guessed. I still need to be sure I've thanked them.) I tried to explain my situation as best I could and he nodded in sympathy. "Can you start it for me?" Which I did and nothing happened. Then he said, "Do you have it in park?" Well, no. I'd been driving when it died. And I was already emotionally nuts by then. Of course I didn't think to put it in park. I shifted into park and turned the key. And it started. "I feel stupid," I said and laughed and snorted and choked on tears. "You're okay," he smiled. "See if you can make it to 2nd and Arkansas and I'll follow you."

I made it. And filled up. And went home. And washed the suburban. Vacuumed it. And sprayed that silly foam on the tires to make them shiny. Because everyone is looking for a car with shiny tires, you know. Then I posted up some new ads. And I whispered, "Thank you for this suburban. I don't understand. I don't get it. It doesn't seem fair. It hurts. It's annoying. I don't see the point. But thank you."

Because I don't have to understand. Things don't have to go right. Things don't have to make sense or have a point. But I have to be thankful. That's God's will.

Now, the temptation is to say, "Look, Abigail! You learned your lesson! You're thankful now! God can bless you now!"

But the Lord is not a genii in a bottle. Rubbing Him right doesn't earn me three wishes. Doing the right thing doesn't equal getting what I want. I assure you, I want to sell this suburban. Trust means doing the right thing and believing that He sees it, is pleased and will reward it--sometime. Someway. His way. I can't make anyone buy that suburban. I can't make things happen by believing--that's humanism, paganism--not Christianity. But by believing, sometimes I can see things that are happening in a new light--I can believe God's promises that He will withhold no good thing from those who walk uprightly, that He works all things for the good of those who love Him, that trials produce proven character and that His will for me is my sanctification--that I would be made holy like Him. With those promises in mind, I can look squarely at anything thrown my way and say "Okay. Thanks."

Thank you, Lord, for an excellent reminder.

And...when You get around to it...please sell my suburban.

Monday, March 31, 2008

“I have something for you,” Papa dug in his pocket and produced a handful of limp dandelions. “From Sarah and John Paul.” For the umpteenth time, I miss those little ones.

“Will you blow this up for me?” Lydia handed me a foot long, narrow, blue balloon. “I’ll try,” I joked, “But it will probably make me faint.” There’s nothing like being your own prophet of doom. I huffed and I puffed and I tumbled right down. Next thing Lydia was helping me up from my bedroom floor. “Well,” she said, “you sure pass out easy.”

Papa returned Nick to campus this morning on his way to work, signaling the official end of spring break. The house seemed empty until Josh called while I was fixing supper, asking if he could join us for the evening with questions about church membership. “It don’t seem right,” he complained over a plateful of deer curry and rice. “Membership is Biblical,” Papa quietly said, hiding a smile as he watched Josh’s jaw drop. Not a sign on the dotted line sort of membership, of course, but a Romans twelve and First Corinthians twelve sort: with God placing each member into the body, just as He desired. The goal being that we should be attached to a body in order to be alive in Christ. After Lydia and I worked over a piece she’s writing, Josh showed up with a song he and Josiah had written, “The Happy Song”, which he wanted me to put to music. My favorite line, “Praise Him on the mountain top, Praise Him ‘till your eardrums pop!...And stuff.” I must admit, it made me happy. And seeing Josh try to work through hand motions for it made me laugh even harder. Apparently he missed us.

We missed a pretty powerful electric storm Saturday night. Last night we discovered that our gas was off. This morning we realized it was due to blown breakers. A blown switch in the well-house left us without water until this afternoon. All our fancy telephones received a shock that left them inoperable. We now have one old faithful corded phone plugged into the living room. Josiah reported broken light bulbs in the garage and well house. Even the local cell phone tower must’ve been taken out, since no one’s cell phones have any reception out here. The internet hook-up still hasn’t arrived, so if anyone wants to know how we’re doing, they’d better wade through the current toad-strangler and find out face to face. A monstrous tree standing sentinel between Travis’ yard and ours was lightening-stripped of his bark and left exposed for all to see—until just a few minutes ago, when he shivered, shook and splintered into several pieces. Travis had wisely moved all his equipment from underneath.

I clambered onto the dryer to pray about a whole host of things. Several reasons for my choice: First, it’s warm. Second, it’s private. Third, it has a loud buzzer to wake me up when I fall asleep. Times I am alert and passionate while praying seem few and far between—only when I’m so distressed I can’t even imagine being able to sleep. “Watch and pray,” Jesus told His disciples, “that you may not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Once upon a time, sleep was a commodity of which I needed very little. Now it seems I could sleep anywhere any time. Closing my eyes and sitting still is simply encouraging the urge. But if I go outside and run, concentration eludes me like flitting butterflies—almost within grasp, but scattering everywhere when I can almost claim them. Even when I pray aloud my words trail off into halting silence. Perhaps I need to revisit the days when I filled countless journals by simply scribbling my prayers, hoping to at least confine my wandering heart to the page. There are so many needing prayer besides myself—even in my immediate family—and I lack the discipline to kneel before my Redeemer and beg His favor on them.

Lord, I kneel upon the floor
With much to ask, more to implore.
Distractions calling out to me
Tempt my heart to turn from Thee.

Once Thou knelt and bled and wept,
Thy heart was breaking while I slept.
This flesh I bear has made mine weak.
Break it tonight. Be all I seek.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

“Look,” Josiah pointed to two new holes in the leg of his pants. “I almost got myself.”

I glanced down at the chainsaw in his hands, then back again at the greedy rips near his thigh. “That’s too bad,” I answered, “those were good-looking jeans.”

We both laughed, thankful for the Lord’s protection, remembering the day Papa sliced his leg open with a chainsaw, as well as countless other chainsaw horror stories. Popping our earplugs back in we bent back to work cutting firewood for our every hungry stove.

It never ceases to amaze me how the Israelites can be grateful to God one moment, worshiping Him and singing praises with dancing and timbrels, and testing Him with complaints and demands the next. “God has brought us out to starve in the wilderness!” On the heals of His miraculous parting of the Red Sea. Still, God proved patient and answered the plea of Moses with bread from heaven. Gathered every morning. Jesus taught us that man does not live by bread alone but on every word which proceeds from the mouth of God. Does it seem likely that the concept should hold true: we should spend time gathering the precious nutrients from God’s word every morning? And when the water was bitter, God freshened it. When there was no water, He provided water from a solid stone. If ever the hand of God was clearly demonstrated, it was to the Israelites fleeing Egypt. Yet they ate the manna in the wilderness and perished. They passed on to eternity without ever trusting the great Jehovah. It doesn’t seem possible, but I see the same story repeated today in godly families where the children are inundated with God’s word, yet fail to trust Him. We are not saved by witnesses the work of God. We are not saved by eating the food He provides. We are not saved by following godly leaders. We are saved through seeking refuge in Jesus, the Passover Lamb, slain for the purification of our sins.

Lord, I praise Thee that I am
Purified through Thy own Lamb,
Thou demands a sacrifice—
In response, Thy own Son dies.

Thou art merciful and just
Teach my faltering heart to trust
Thou Who gave Thy Son to bleed
Will fulfill all other needs.

Monday, November 5, 2007

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

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

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

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

And that’s not all.

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

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

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

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

The Lord is too kind.

Lord, I often overlook

The promises within Thy book,

And often fail to see Thy grace

When straining just to see Thy face.

Thy face I’ll see one day and live

But every day that Thou dost give

I see Thy promises hold true

In Thy compassions, ever new.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Today promised to be a productive day. An idle promise it seems to have been.

On my list were a few big projects—paint my bathroom, varnish my bed and weed the back of the house.

I leapt into the sanding of my bathroom walls with eagerness, vitality and innocence. Soon I discovered what a heavy duty I had assigned myself. It was after my right hand was sore, and my index finger was oozing that Josiah pointed out the wisdom of using a power sander. Even then, my walls were far from smooth when I gave up, wiped them down and began painting. A very brilliant green. Think lime sherbet. Sadly, the walls took on a “texture” of their own, thanks to the old layer of peeling paint that I had worked so hard to sand smooth. After two coats I gave up and decided I’d hold out for a good mudding job. Guess what. That means more sanding.

Between sanding, coats of lime sherbet and drinks of water I managed to get three layers of varnish on the front side of the bed. It looks beautiful, but the back is still unfinished.

By mid-afternoon, Josiah was kind enough to do my weeding for me.

So, by the end of the day, I had finished not a one of my three tasks. Not a one.

Either I am overambitious, or overabundant in snags.

I hurriedly painted the last coat of varnish and washed my lime paint roller and brushes in the early evening and bundled up so we could rush down the road to the “Williams Family Jamboree”. A hootinannie (however that wonderful Ozarkan word is spelled) of sorts, complete with a stage full of jamming bluegrass musicians. Not too shabby, in retrospect, and a very good glimpse of the culture.

A fading culture.

Up on stage, side by side, were the bear-greased, suspender sportin’, ya’ll yellin’ grandpa’s and grannies, pickin’ and grinnin’ with their shag sportin’, letterman jacket wearin’ grandsons. It was like the Beverly Hillbillies meet Highschool Musical.

Nathaniel and Lauren pulled in late, received a tour of the house, admired and were admired and went to bed. I am very thankful tomorrow is Fall Back Daylight Savings.

Lord, when others crowd my mind

Teach me how to seek and find

Thee amid the business

That I may, Thy bounty, bless.

Indwell my heart with thoughts of Thee

Captivate entirely

My will, emotions and my dreams

With all that thrills Thee, Savior, King.

Monday, October 29, 2007

I’ve learned at least one sure way to turn heads in D-town. Wear something other than blue denim overalls or camoflauge. I dared to go to town today, alone, and dressed—as in, a cute outfit with a hat. I kept my tongue inside my mouth to keep from further exposing my very essence of foreignness, and pretended I didn’t notice the large, black exclamation points floating over the country folks’ heads. As the cashiers and librarians greeted everyone else around me, I felt just a wee bit wee and lost and outside in the cold. And just a wee bit amused that correct English seems to be such a rarity. I’m thinking of breaking out a French or British accent on my next venture.

I spent hours in the library, putting alternate feet to sleep because I can’t seem to sit on my bottom instead of my ankles, researching spa care, bumper buying, Canon owning and trying to order Jonathan Lindvall’s Bold Christian Youth Seminar. We’re planning to open up our home on Friday nights for an all-new, improved listen-through of these tapes.

After I got home I refilled Papa’s printer cartridge, installed the program he couldn’t find on his computer, tested both and got supper on early. Buying back his love is a nasty phrase to tack on my very productive day, but it’s certainly the best description I can think of. Maybe not his love, since I know, somewhere inside the cavern of my subconscious mind, that he still loves me, but it’s certainly an appeal to be reinstated in his favor. I hope I found a bumper that will satisfy, for a little less money than I’d feared, though my stomach still does nervous little flip-flops when I think of the lovely little whirlpool of a drain this will make on my finances. And just when I was hoping to make some purchases.

So I catch myself blaming Papa and justifying myself and thinking all sorts of logical things. Like, when you work for an employer, and you brake something on the job, the employer expects to replace it. So this is the same concept: I had no choice. I was doing a job he assigned me, as he assigned it to be done, and I broke the bumper. I shouldn’t have to pay to replace it. Especially since I really have no money since he won’t let me work for another employer.

Basically, it boils down to an issue of trust. I’ve decided I know what’s best for me and for all concerned. For someone else to handle my problem and let me off the hook so that I can buy the camera I want.

How childish.

Why do I have a sneaking suspicion that I really haven’t learned anything about responsibility? Who is whispering in my ear that the only good outcome of this situation has been an increases sensitivity to people with migraine headaches? Where did that dreadful fear that I might do the same stupid thing again come from?

What are my priorities? I think they are the Lord, Papa, others then me. Could it be that I’m really first, and serving the others is just might sneaky way of benefiting myself?

Lord, my heart is so deceptive.

When I claim it’s grown receptive

It is only that I’m fearing

Another, harder spanking’s nearing.

When will I become mature?

No more clouded or obscure

Motives leading me to linger--

Evade Thy disciplining finger.

Friday, October 26, 2007

When a kite soars too high, it always comes crashing to the earth—very quickly and painfully.

I think I’m pretty much as low as I’ve been in a very long time. I’ve tried on about every emotion for size, and finally settled with discouragement. Not because it’s the most flattering, or the most comfortable, but because it simply seems to fit the best at the moment.

My priorities are about as warped as a beveled glass, and not half as attractive. It should be the Lord first, Papa second, others third, me last. Usually I have that nicely turned on end, and just when I was beginning to pat myself on the back thinking I’d gotten this little life thing figured out, I discover that I wasn’t really prioritizing Papa. Sure, I was doing plenty of things for him—whatever he asked—but I wasn’t thinking like him.

So that bumper on the pick-up that I smashed is still smashed. And I’ve caught up my facebook twice and never managed to find a new bumper (to the tune of $300. my dearly beloved pocket-book). And I heard about it today at lunch, just before I was supposed to call Jacinda and firm in details about Emily’s party, just before I was supposed to pack for a camping trip I don’t even want to go on.

Tears seem the only remedy for a heart that feels at once guilty, defensive, wounded, repentant, angry, humbled and broken into a million pieces. How is it that I always disappoint him? How can I be so childish?

Of course I should have realized his bumper was a priority.

Lord, when Thou seemed fully worthy

Of my every moment’s duty

True obedience eluded

Through my negligence excluded.

Honor Father, Thy command

I have failed to understand,

Then I claimed it “single minded”.

Thou did well, when Thou, me, chided.

Monday, October 15, 2007

Today I successfully developed a decided distaste for fluorescent lights. Our garage is lighted by ten large fixtures and six small ones, all of which are as fickle as a teenage girl. Sometimes they shone brightly, illuminating the dark interior, then on a slight whim they’d flicker and go out. A little jiggle might bring them back to brightness, or a new bulb might leave them still a useless fixture. Putting in those bulbs proved trickier than one might guess as well. Sometimes it was all I could manage to finally get one in and twisted right, and a couple of times the bulb short circuited itself and arched, blowing a breaker.

It made me think of my spiritual life, and how unstable my light is—how unsteady and undependable I am, and how frustrating and useless that would be, both to the Lord and to someone groping in the dark. Just a flicker now and then? Or a weak light? I’ve got to keep moving, seeking that connection with the Lord to stay burning brightly.

I was also struck by how important it was that both lightbulbs be good. In a fluorescent light fixture, there is often room for two bulbs, but both must be good bulbs. If only one is bad, neither will shine. I was struck with the similarity to the partnerships warned of by Paul—what partnership has light with darkness? A believer can’t be yoked with an unbeliever. The good bulb can’t burn for both, but the bad bulb will bring darkness to both.

We have finally brought some order to the chaos that was our garage. The floor is finally visible and things are beginning to be grouped into piles of “like” items.

Josiah and I were loading up the old freezer that was left here when Jacinda showed up for a brief visit. As Josiah lifted up the freezer, it tipped backward, trapping my finger between the heavyweight of the freezer and the surprising solidity of the concrete. This less than pleasant experience brought from me a series of helpless yelps which Josiah incorrectly interpreted as silliness for Jacinda’s benefit. By the fourth yelp, he realized my funny sounds were really inspired by pain, and released the freezer, to the intense relief of my finger. I’ve not yet decided if the end of it still exists.

It rained all day, and now it is very late. Through my huge glass doors I can see the yard lamp catching mist droplets in the air and on the leaves and setting them aflame. The result is a very eerie, surreal effect. It’s so beautiful, I want to wrap myself in a robe and run out across the yard. Everything is so beautiful here. The symmetry of the pine trees, the gentle slopes of the hills, the colors, polished by the rain. I love the play of light across God’s creation, revealing secret textures, colors and points of beauty.

His Spirit beautifies His children in the same way—lighting up the potential He has given us for true beauty in conformity to the image of His Son.

Lord, Thy light illuminates me

Lending me Thy perfect beauty

Causing every hidden fiber

Just to radiate Thy power.

Keep my soul transparent only

Seeking for Thy greater glory

That the world may see and ponder,

Bow before Thy throne in wonder.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Our water problems are not over. Last night we discovered that the thermo couple on the hot water heater had decided to throw in the towel. I did my best to become clean and pleasant smelling while staying as dry as possible. The result was a basket full of goosebumps and purple toenails. So far I’ve only been able to locate a “universal” couple that “might” work. Dear Jesus, hot water in October is a very lovely blessing. Please pour out your blessings on us tonight.

He has already been blessing us hugely. Today we got about five college guys together to help us pick up a table set and buffet from Dr D and Miss J. A very elegant, undoubtedly expensive table set and buffet. Enormous, mahogany, pedestal legs, cut glass windows—exquisite. And it doesn’t belong in our house. I continually find myself in awe of their generosity.

The best part of the escapade was the impromptu tour of RussVegas with a cavalcade of several cars all following my dad—who went to the wrong end of town to find the storage unit. Josiah and I enjoyed playing off the poor, bedraggled Tempo against Kevin’s shiny, new Maxima. Our mufflerless car is almost as loud as his fancy muffler.

Our leaf pile has grown to a mountain of superb dimensions, through our vigorous raking and hauling of the deciduous blanket that’s been keeping our yard insulated. Somewhere, deep down inside there are small, savory pockets where Lydia has buried the compost. My subconscious thinking tells me we should burn those leaves, and my logical mind agrees. I work in fear that a capricious North wind will come waltzing along to make all our effort in vain.

My mind has gone for a roller-coaster ride in the past few months. I’ve always prided myself on my superb control of my emotions, but lately they have been spiraling completely out of the range of sane. The move has brought many things to a head within me, and I’m left with an overriding sense of confusion. I think I know what I want, but I don’t know why. Which brings me to question if that’s really what I want. And I know that all that really matters is what the Lord wants. And I think I want what He wants.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want…”

Lord, Thou led me to this place

I fix my eyes upon Thy face,

And fix my thoughts on home above.

My soul grows fat upon Thy love.

I only wish to know Thy will—

To sit before Thee, hushed and still.

Thy spring that runs eternally

Becomes a tongue of fire in me.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Today I cried.

My room is in a semblance of order, my journals are unpacked and the yard is beginning to take on a less run-down look. These changes subtly hint at hours of hard labor. It seems we never stop. We can’t stop. Every time I sit down feeling satisfied with one finished job, I glance around me to discover several more demanding my attention. And every night this week we’ve been up late “socializing” with the many friends we have down here.

Yesterday the well ran dry. I had just finished showering and everyone else was trooping in to get cleaned up for the Bible study at Wes and Audrey’s. We’d finally gotten the conversion kit and switched the dryer over to propane so we’d been doing laundry. And then the washing machine quit filling half-way. It recovered after about half an hour, but we’ve been trying to be more conservative since: space out dishwashing, laundry and showers more evenly throughout the day.

When we got home late last night, the hot water heater had gone out and so Papa was up until midnight trying to fix it. From my room next to the laundry room I listened in a sleepy daze as he worked, wondering what in the world was going on.

I woke up this morning feeling like I’d been run over by a mountain goat, fixed breakfast and tried to take a much-needed-but-often-missed-of-late fast. Then I headed out to rake up and haul the hefty blanket of leaves and pine needles spread across our yard. I was so tired I could hardly think straight.

So Josiah’s teasing about my driving as I backed the pick-up to haul was not appreciated.

And one stately pine tree went unnoticed—until it gave my bumper a resounding kiss.

I was out the door in a moment, frustrated and worried. Josiah reached me at the same moment I burst into tears and took me in his arms, telling me it would be okay, reminding me how often he had backed into trees—or garage doors.

My first driving mishap. The tears felt refreshing.

Our very helpful neighbor came over today while we were working and stayed for lunch. As a retired airman, he’s full of stories and pleasant.

The yard is full of mountains—molehills, rather, and we had our first successful mole-hunting expedition. Papa’s sharp eyes spotted a mound of moving dirt near the back patio, which a swift stomp put a stop to. Josiah grabbed a handy rake and dug out a corpulent, silky mole, stunned in the midst of his tunneling expedition.

That mole’s single-mindedness inspired me. Even though those around him get irritated with his tunneling philosophy or his mound-making perseverance, that mole just keeps steadily doing what he was intended to do: dig tunnels. We gawk at him for being ugly, blind or having big hands, but those are all tools that God have him to better accomplish his task.

My task is to glorify God. What tools has God given me to accomplish His purpose—in spite of opposition?

Lord, I pray to know Thy will.

Thou hast bid me linger still

In the pages of Thy word:

There Thou made Thy purpose heard.

Centuries, spelled out in days--

Filled with never ceasing praise.

Eternal glory Thou dost seek

Repeated since creation’s week.