“Sow with a view to righteousness, reap in accordance with kindness; break up your fallow ground, for it is time to seek Yahweh, until He comes to rain righteousness on you.” ~Hosea 10:12
“Come look at this,” the Papa of my dream said. The we of my dream crowded around him as he showed us a facebook profile picture of Dathan…and a blue-eyed blond girl. It was definitely not Freckles. Every morning I wake up remembering very normal-seeming dreams. Very convincing normal-seeming dreams. What is this new phenomenon?
My dream wouldn’t be entirely ridiculous, considering what I see every time I do sign into facebook. As Jacinda put it, “Spring is in the air. Early.” It’s not just the young crop, but now I think all the signature singles are finally tying the knot, leaving room for the next generation of signature singles. That would be me and Jacinda, since our friends are rapidly forsaking us. Tsk, tsk.
In other news, Lydia handed me down a pair of shoes and we traded jeans.
My mind is still on vacation. I struggled to recapture it and get in gear as I sat down with Rosa for our ESL lesson. We’re working through the first book, which really is below her. Mostly. She always knows far more vocabulary than we have, but we’re working on pronunciation and learning grammar as we go. I try to get her warmed up with some easy words and exercises, then let her read a bit and work into some conversation last. I’ll ask her questions to step her through a conversation with me and then I write down what she has told me and let her copy it. It’s a fun way to get to know her while working her toward being able to converse with others. I had no idea that she lived on a little farm of sorts. With a cow and a calf. They are going to eat him, she told me. Poor boy. Her sense of humor is charming. She named her sheep dogs Kirby and Kirbina. Next week, she tells me, she wants to work on prepositions. I think I swallowed more air than I could hold before answering, “Okay.” Prepositions?! How will I ever explain and teach prepositions?
Lydia helped me wrestle the furniture back into the clinic counseling rooms Emily and I painted over the break. Big ideas are undoubtedly my specialty, and I have a million of them in mind for “modernizing” the look of the clinic. If only I existed in three persons.
“I have a baby bump,” my regular client beamed, standing up as I entered the waiting room. “Look at you!” Sure enough, she’d bubbled out while I was gone. I learn all the interesting maternity tricks from my clients. Like using a rubber band to allow for more waist room or sucking mint candies first thing in the morning to help with morning sickness.
Our new year regrouping meeting stretched on as we caught up and refocused on a new year and new goals. Sherry bounced ideas and thoughts off of us, encouraging us to think of ways to restructure the Earn While You Learn curriculum to really get single moms on their feet and refocused and to change lives. We’d like to figure out a better way to disciple girls who say they want to follow the Lord. And we’d like to be getting girls off of welfare and preparing them to have healthy families someday. My mind felt like scrambled spaghetti as I listened. I’m there, one hundred percent, on the “we need to” end. But how? How do you help someone change their life if they aren’t interested in changing? And, obviously, only God can truly change lives.
The year has just begun and already I feel numb. Overwhelmed. “How?” echoes down the hallway of my intellect. I see the goal and I see the present. In between lies a yawning chasm of human weakness.
And. Well. God spanned the infinite chasm between God and man. And that is how. He can do whatever He pleases. He will be great and greatly magnified.
Praise Him.
What seems to man a senseless plan
Is wisdom vast and deep
For man must rest his weary head
In God, who does not sleep.
What seems to man a worthless lamb
Is that the Shepherd seeks
Because the cross is for the lost
God’s strength is for the weak.
What seems to man a senseless plan
Is mercy vast and deep
When that same man can understand
That he is Christ’s lost sheep.
Showing posts with label praise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label praise. Show all posts
Saturday, June 20, 2009
“Is this a swimming day?” Papa asked me as I finished up a slew of outside chores. Vigorously I nodded. We’ve not been to Slant Rock once this summer. As it turned out the Schriebers accompanied us and we splashed in the shallows of a more distant beach until Josiah and I headed over to the rope swing. Somehow it wasn’t as fun as sometimes. We both felt weak and tired, but we climbed the nailed-on boards to swing into the water anyway.
Often my ears will ache a bit after swimming, likely due to the less-than-clean water, but today proved a bit more frightening. As I hit the water the third time, I heard a loud pop and my ear began to burn intensely. “Pressure,” I thought to myself. “I got water in my ear. It’ll go away.”
It didn’t.
By the time we got home and I had showered, I could barely hold my head upright. The pain spread through my left ear and down into my jaw and neck leaving me with an intense headache. Miserably I stared at my supper, my head tilted to the side.
And my family began to make suggestions. Josiah offered ear drops that he’d used to stave off ear-infections. Mom suggested alcohol. Papa offered an anti-inflammatory pill he had. I tried all of them, with no success. In fact, the rubbing alcohol felt like molten lead seething inside my brain. “You know,” Mom said. “Once Uncle Wayne burst his ear-drum and he tried putting alcohol down it and the pain drove him up the wall.” Great. Just what I needed to hear. Burst ear-drums? Do they ever heal?
I began paging through our medical books for info about earaches. And I discovered that using Q-tips and wearing earplugs can force earwax down into the inner ear and cause buildup of pressure and, guess what? Burst ear drums. And guess what I’d been doing that morning before I went swimming? Weeding. With ear plugs in. Oh yes.
There is was. I must have burst my ear drum.
The hopeful news? They grow back.
But in how long? I was beginning to feel like curling up in a fetal position and crying. Supposedly I have a high pain tolerance. My family began making more suggestions, but only one thing sounded good to me: heat. Wouldn’t heat relieve the ache?
So I snuggled the left side of my head against the heating pad on my bed and sat there. And sought to control my thoughts. I could tell I hadn’t lost any hearing. And it couldn’t be an infection—it had happened too fast. And burst ear-drums heal. Eventually, at least. “Please Lord,” I begged. “Heal it quickly. Because I’m not very patient with these things.” After that all I could do was read and I’ve been trying to limit my reading to the most important book, so I flipped open my Bible and began reading Psalms. My comfort book. I sat there reading the rest of the evening. At least three hours. Moving hurt. Turning the heat off hurt.
I don’t know when it quit hurting, but Josiah came in to chat with me and I sat up and waited for the shock of pain. It never came. My face still felt mildly boiled from the heat pad and there was a tingling in my ear. A good tingling.
Maybe it was just swimmer’s ear, but I’ve never had swimmer’s ear that incapacitated me like that. Never. At any rate, I rolled up the heating pad, put it away and closed my Bible.
And that’s just the end.
Often my ears will ache a bit after swimming, likely due to the less-than-clean water, but today proved a bit more frightening. As I hit the water the third time, I heard a loud pop and my ear began to burn intensely. “Pressure,” I thought to myself. “I got water in my ear. It’ll go away.”
It didn’t.
By the time we got home and I had showered, I could barely hold my head upright. The pain spread through my left ear and down into my jaw and neck leaving me with an intense headache. Miserably I stared at my supper, my head tilted to the side.
And my family began to make suggestions. Josiah offered ear drops that he’d used to stave off ear-infections. Mom suggested alcohol. Papa offered an anti-inflammatory pill he had. I tried all of them, with no success. In fact, the rubbing alcohol felt like molten lead seething inside my brain. “You know,” Mom said. “Once Uncle Wayne burst his ear-drum and he tried putting alcohol down it and the pain drove him up the wall.” Great. Just what I needed to hear. Burst ear-drums? Do they ever heal?
I began paging through our medical books for info about earaches. And I discovered that using Q-tips and wearing earplugs can force earwax down into the inner ear and cause buildup of pressure and, guess what? Burst ear drums. And guess what I’d been doing that morning before I went swimming? Weeding. With ear plugs in. Oh yes.
There is was. I must have burst my ear drum.
The hopeful news? They grow back.
But in how long? I was beginning to feel like curling up in a fetal position and crying. Supposedly I have a high pain tolerance. My family began making more suggestions, but only one thing sounded good to me: heat. Wouldn’t heat relieve the ache?
So I snuggled the left side of my head against the heating pad on my bed and sat there. And sought to control my thoughts. I could tell I hadn’t lost any hearing. And it couldn’t be an infection—it had happened too fast. And burst ear-drums heal. Eventually, at least. “Please Lord,” I begged. “Heal it quickly. Because I’m not very patient with these things.” After that all I could do was read and I’ve been trying to limit my reading to the most important book, so I flipped open my Bible and began reading Psalms. My comfort book. I sat there reading the rest of the evening. At least three hours. Moving hurt. Turning the heat off hurt.
I don’t know when it quit hurting, but Josiah came in to chat with me and I sat up and waited for the shock of pain. It never came. My face still felt mildly boiled from the heat pad and there was a tingling in my ear. A good tingling.
Maybe it was just swimmer’s ear, but I’ve never had swimmer’s ear that incapacitated me like that. Never. At any rate, I rolled up the heating pad, put it away and closed my Bible.
And that’s just the end.
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.
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.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Try cooking for an army of guests over the weekend while pretending nothing unusual is happening. It’s not terribly unusual for us to have a few extras, but we don’t really plan for them. “What’s with all the baking?” Josiah demanded. “I’m just in a baking mood,” Mom answered, shrugging. I smirked, unable to recall her ever being in a baking mood that left the whole kitchen covered in layers of flour, sugar and eggs and included monster casseroles. When the white minivan finally pulled up outside Thursday afternoon and the Willises spilled out, only Lydia was flabbergasted.
Four sleeping bags sprawling out across my bedroom floor, various and sundry pillows scattered abroad, soggy towels and wash cloths hanging limply in the bathroom, piles of clothing, books, Bibles and what-not spilling out of backpacks and shoes lying neglected at every doorway sent my pulse sky-rocketing. Messes don’t bother me terribly, as long as I’m busy, but the laundry room was torn apart, preventing me from fulfilling my Friday duty, supper was already thawing on the kitchen counter and I’d already vacuumed the house—what of it wasn’t occupied. I hardly felt like I deserved a “break” when Josiah proposed a rollicking game of military tactics. Besides, how am I supposed to enjoy playing when there are messes tripping me up every time I sneak in or out a house door? I completely missed the fact that the worst mess of the day was my attitude.
I finally found my purpose in life, after lunch, playing the mole for Miss Master Electrician Tabitha as she wired in a two-forty breaker for the convection oven/electric stove we brought from Kansas. “It’s actually pretty roomy underneath your house,” she informed me through the crackling walkie-talkies as I crawled through the entrance to the brief world underneath the house. As long as I kept my head between the floor joists, I could actually sit upright to push the thick wire through the hole she’d drilled. I heard her crinkling along the shreds of plastic as she came to check my work and switched off my flashlight, scrambling to lie across her pathway. “Abigail?” she called out through the darkness, her voice hesitant. “I need some light.” She continued at a slower pace. Hoping she’d crawl across me and scream, I held my breath and kept my head low. She must have lost her bearings and gone off crooked. “Abigail, where are you?” she demanded and bumped right into a cinderblock house support. Were I given to exaggeration, I’d insist the whole house shook. From the other side of the blocks, I started giggling and apologizing and flicked on my flashlight to see her rubbing her head and snickering. “I’ll thrash you later.” Willowy as she is, I’ve no doubt she can.
Shuttling a dozen people through showers left the poor well tired and confused and in need of rejuvenation several times. At last we all gathered, with the Tech students who’d come, for some singing and fellowship. At least, we tried to sing through our itchy-with-insulation or sawdust or catacomb grime voices. Inspired by one of the scripture songs, the guys dug out doxologies from scripture—praise for Yahweh and His glory.
In every moment, in every tiny piece of creation, Yahweh reveals Himself and part of His character. As I sat alone in the dark, listening to Tabitha drilling holes above my head, the beam from my LED illuminated dozens of dust particles and set them glowing like tiny stars. Fascinated, I watched them dance and flicker, moving through the darkness as beacons—not so different from the stars Yahweh flung abroad in the expanse above the earth, made of dust, yet glowing with His light. And not so different from me and the believers around me, from dust we came and to dust we will return. Yet Yahweh has shown His light abroad, illuminating us, making us beautiful through His glory, to reflect the light of His Son.
Lord, Thou art the light that shines,
Illuminating hearts and minds,
Teaches us to sing the praise
Of God, the Ancient One of days,
That gives to flesh a heart of trust,
Lends light and beauty e’en to dust
And calls a fallen man Thy friend.
To Thee alone be praise. Amen!
Four sleeping bags sprawling out across my bedroom floor, various and sundry pillows scattered abroad, soggy towels and wash cloths hanging limply in the bathroom, piles of clothing, books, Bibles and what-not spilling out of backpacks and shoes lying neglected at every doorway sent my pulse sky-rocketing. Messes don’t bother me terribly, as long as I’m busy, but the laundry room was torn apart, preventing me from fulfilling my Friday duty, supper was already thawing on the kitchen counter and I’d already vacuumed the house—what of it wasn’t occupied. I hardly felt like I deserved a “break” when Josiah proposed a rollicking game of military tactics. Besides, how am I supposed to enjoy playing when there are messes tripping me up every time I sneak in or out a house door? I completely missed the fact that the worst mess of the day was my attitude.
I finally found my purpose in life, after lunch, playing the mole for Miss Master Electrician Tabitha as she wired in a two-forty breaker for the convection oven/electric stove we brought from Kansas. “It’s actually pretty roomy underneath your house,” she informed me through the crackling walkie-talkies as I crawled through the entrance to the brief world underneath the house. As long as I kept my head between the floor joists, I could actually sit upright to push the thick wire through the hole she’d drilled. I heard her crinkling along the shreds of plastic as she came to check my work and switched off my flashlight, scrambling to lie across her pathway. “Abigail?” she called out through the darkness, her voice hesitant. “I need some light.” She continued at a slower pace. Hoping she’d crawl across me and scream, I held my breath and kept my head low. She must have lost her bearings and gone off crooked. “Abigail, where are you?” she demanded and bumped right into a cinderblock house support. Were I given to exaggeration, I’d insist the whole house shook. From the other side of the blocks, I started giggling and apologizing and flicked on my flashlight to see her rubbing her head and snickering. “I’ll thrash you later.” Willowy as she is, I’ve no doubt she can.
Shuttling a dozen people through showers left the poor well tired and confused and in need of rejuvenation several times. At last we all gathered, with the Tech students who’d come, for some singing and fellowship. At least, we tried to sing through our itchy-with-insulation or sawdust or catacomb grime voices. Inspired by one of the scripture songs, the guys dug out doxologies from scripture—praise for Yahweh and His glory.
In every moment, in every tiny piece of creation, Yahweh reveals Himself and part of His character. As I sat alone in the dark, listening to Tabitha drilling holes above my head, the beam from my LED illuminated dozens of dust particles and set them glowing like tiny stars. Fascinated, I watched them dance and flicker, moving through the darkness as beacons—not so different from the stars Yahweh flung abroad in the expanse above the earth, made of dust, yet glowing with His light. And not so different from me and the believers around me, from dust we came and to dust we will return. Yet Yahweh has shown His light abroad, illuminating us, making us beautiful through His glory, to reflect the light of His Son.
Lord, Thou art the light that shines,
Illuminating hearts and minds,
Teaches us to sing the praise
Of God, the Ancient One of days,
That gives to flesh a heart of trust,
Lends light and beauty e’en to dust
And calls a fallen man Thy friend.
To Thee alone be praise. Amen!
Thursday, April 3, 2008
“I tiped here! Oijtn; egldkjg ljgrgg lkgjeit lkrjtle eoitlekg lekrjyo kg”
Behold the mystic words I discovered in my journal after a quick bathroom break. So far, I’ve been unable to find an online translator that could interpret the meaning. I’m going to guess it’s Lydia language for “you should be more careful leaving your journal open.”
Six months ago today we unloaded the U-haul through the back patio doors. Why I make note of that, I’m not sure. Dates and times stand out starkly in my memory. Actually, most things stand out starkly in my memory. It’s part of my chemical make-up, I suppose. A quick check of my lovely electronic journal, began when we moved, revealed a word count of 125,000. In six months I’ve written my life up longer than most novels.
When Amber called tonight, she was bubbling over with excitement—good news on every count. She thanked me profusely for the notes on prayer from John 17, as well as the website for tracts and started pouring out a million other thanksgivings. A few minutes later Jacinderella called. “Did she tell you about Bible study last night?” she quizzed. “Uh…” I answered, unsure. Soon Jacinderella was spilling how encouraging Amber had been, offering valuable insights into others’ questions and even accidentally stealing Wes’ thunder. As those two had talked earlier, Jacinderella had reminded Amber, “You don’t have to live in defeat. The Lord is our redeemer and our Savior!”
Her words harkened back to the story of Deborah and Barak. A woman judge of Israel, as God had said, “When you forsake me, women and children will lead you.” In the dearth of real men, Deborah stepped forward. Even Barak, for whom she had a special message from Yahweh to save His people, shivered and begged her to accompany him. But Yahweh would not allow His people to live in defeat. In an epic battle, Yahweh routed Sisera and his huge army before Barak and won the victory. In the book of Judges I see God’s war on humanism. In the midst of a crumbling society, God raised up weak, frightened person after person to bring about His victories. I find myself raising Ebenezers along the pathway of my life. Tonight I’m looking back on six months of life in Arkansas, wondering what I’ve really accomplished, feeling like I spent the day spinning my wheels, running in circles, dragging my feet. Am I weak and frightened? Well, good. So much the more usable to bring about God’s glory. The story is not about what I’ve accomplished in six months. The story is about what Yahweh has done.
And He has done great things.
Lord, Thou leads not in retreat,
Thy trumpet never sounds defeat,
For Thou hast every battle won.
The serpent might, once, bruise Thy Son,
But Thou hast turned His steps instead
To tread upon the serpent’s head.
When Jesus Christ was crucified,
Satan’s power bled and died.
Behold the mystic words I discovered in my journal after a quick bathroom break. So far, I’ve been unable to find an online translator that could interpret the meaning. I’m going to guess it’s Lydia language for “you should be more careful leaving your journal open.”
Six months ago today we unloaded the U-haul through the back patio doors. Why I make note of that, I’m not sure. Dates and times stand out starkly in my memory. Actually, most things stand out starkly in my memory. It’s part of my chemical make-up, I suppose. A quick check of my lovely electronic journal, began when we moved, revealed a word count of 125,000. In six months I’ve written my life up longer than most novels.
When Amber called tonight, she was bubbling over with excitement—good news on every count. She thanked me profusely for the notes on prayer from John 17, as well as the website for tracts and started pouring out a million other thanksgivings. A few minutes later Jacinderella called. “Did she tell you about Bible study last night?” she quizzed. “Uh…” I answered, unsure. Soon Jacinderella was spilling how encouraging Amber had been, offering valuable insights into others’ questions and even accidentally stealing Wes’ thunder. As those two had talked earlier, Jacinderella had reminded Amber, “You don’t have to live in defeat. The Lord is our redeemer and our Savior!”
Her words harkened back to the story of Deborah and Barak. A woman judge of Israel, as God had said, “When you forsake me, women and children will lead you.” In the dearth of real men, Deborah stepped forward. Even Barak, for whom she had a special message from Yahweh to save His people, shivered and begged her to accompany him. But Yahweh would not allow His people to live in defeat. In an epic battle, Yahweh routed Sisera and his huge army before Barak and won the victory. In the book of Judges I see God’s war on humanism. In the midst of a crumbling society, God raised up weak, frightened person after person to bring about His victories. I find myself raising Ebenezers along the pathway of my life. Tonight I’m looking back on six months of life in Arkansas, wondering what I’ve really accomplished, feeling like I spent the day spinning my wheels, running in circles, dragging my feet. Am I weak and frightened? Well, good. So much the more usable to bring about God’s glory. The story is not about what I’ve accomplished in six months. The story is about what Yahweh has done.
And He has done great things.
Lord, Thou leads not in retreat,
Thy trumpet never sounds defeat,
For Thou hast every battle won.
The serpent might, once, bruise Thy Son,
But Thou hast turned His steps instead
To tread upon the serpent’s head.
When Jesus Christ was crucified,
Satan’s power bled and died.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Back in the day, speech judges suggested I consider a career in TV or Radio broadcasting. Humorous, since I rarely pay attention to either. Nick had a brilliant idea for a new voice mail message for his cell phone—an important news flash about an escaped maniacal penguin which interrupted his usual greeting. Most entertaining were the friends who thought my voice was an actual automated recording.
I’d been attempting to play some rag-time when Sleeper arrived, guitar in tow, hoping for a jam session. It’s been too long since I’d played with a guitar. Leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the piano bench, he dragged inspiration out of me with misinformed statements like: “You know what you’re doing. Just play!” Just when Sleeper’d be getting the hang of my chord progression, I’d change it up or throw in some off chord, just to see what he’d do. “If I ever record a CD,” he said, shaking his head at one point, “You’re playing piano.” To hear some real piano, he should play with Bruce. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve never played like that before in my life and likely never will again. Perhaps that maniacal penguin has rubbed off on me.
My brother is a good man. His e-mail reply this morning tied up one issue in a neat little package to put away in my china cabinet for later. Lauren finished the task with a phone call in the afternoon. I know I over evaluate, and wind up only wrestling myself—a losing situation, it seems. Conversely, God’s grace can turn it on end for a win-win. Lauren even tossed out the possibility of co-authoring a book, or even a blog, devoted to exploring issues for godly women from both sides of the fence: singleness and marriage.
“They” say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. “They” have never learned the secret of contentment—I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Today I am the Lord’s single woman, living under my father’s protection, headship and guidance. Today I re-evaluated my life in light of honoring him and discovered it severely lacking as wish after wish, goal after goal of his came to mind that I had left incomplete or marked unimportant. If I want to embrace the Lord’s will, I must embrace my father’s ministry and do what I can to further it by serving him. The temptation to simply “try to do better” was strong, but the conviction that I should confess my negligence to him won out. To mentally decide to surrender is not to lay down one’s sword. Embarrassing it is that my dad and I communicate best through e-mails—but we are both visual. Write it out for us and we’ll get it. I wrote out for him how the Lord had used his teaching Sunday to convict me and then listed the things I could think of that I’d not finished, asking for his direction in them. His reply was a gracious and kind acknowledgement. Details will follow shortly.
The rest of the day I tried to bring closure to several dragging tasks he’d asked me to do. Every step of the way I ran headlong into brick walls. Someone needed me for this. Could I do that? Phone calls wouldn’t go through, customer service certainly didn’t seem interested in helping the customer. How am I supposed to fulfill my great aspirations of serving my dad if the rest of the universe doesn’t share them? Sit still and the day is calm, but start running and you’ll feel the wind tugging against you. But at the end of the day, it’s the one who ran into the wind who sleeps the soundest.
Yahweh, Thou art great and kind,
Thou will not leave my soul behind
When Thou dost gather those Thou loves
To carry us to Thee, above.
Yahweh, teach me to rejoice
And lift an ever thankful voice
To Thee, for Thou hast heard my prayers
And hushed and stilled all of my cares.
I’d been attempting to play some rag-time when Sleeper arrived, guitar in tow, hoping for a jam session. It’s been too long since I’d played with a guitar. Leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the piano bench, he dragged inspiration out of me with misinformed statements like: “You know what you’re doing. Just play!” Just when Sleeper’d be getting the hang of my chord progression, I’d change it up or throw in some off chord, just to see what he’d do. “If I ever record a CD,” he said, shaking his head at one point, “You’re playing piano.” To hear some real piano, he should play with Bruce. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve never played like that before in my life and likely never will again. Perhaps that maniacal penguin has rubbed off on me.
My brother is a good man. His e-mail reply this morning tied up one issue in a neat little package to put away in my china cabinet for later. Lauren finished the task with a phone call in the afternoon. I know I over evaluate, and wind up only wrestling myself—a losing situation, it seems. Conversely, God’s grace can turn it on end for a win-win. Lauren even tossed out the possibility of co-authoring a book, or even a blog, devoted to exploring issues for godly women from both sides of the fence: singleness and marriage.
“They” say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. “They” have never learned the secret of contentment—I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Today I am the Lord’s single woman, living under my father’s protection, headship and guidance. Today I re-evaluated my life in light of honoring him and discovered it severely lacking as wish after wish, goal after goal of his came to mind that I had left incomplete or marked unimportant. If I want to embrace the Lord’s will, I must embrace my father’s ministry and do what I can to further it by serving him. The temptation to simply “try to do better” was strong, but the conviction that I should confess my negligence to him won out. To mentally decide to surrender is not to lay down one’s sword. Embarrassing it is that my dad and I communicate best through e-mails—but we are both visual. Write it out for us and we’ll get it. I wrote out for him how the Lord had used his teaching Sunday to convict me and then listed the things I could think of that I’d not finished, asking for his direction in them. His reply was a gracious and kind acknowledgement. Details will follow shortly.
The rest of the day I tried to bring closure to several dragging tasks he’d asked me to do. Every step of the way I ran headlong into brick walls. Someone needed me for this. Could I do that? Phone calls wouldn’t go through, customer service certainly didn’t seem interested in helping the customer. How am I supposed to fulfill my great aspirations of serving my dad if the rest of the universe doesn’t share them? Sit still and the day is calm, but start running and you’ll feel the wind tugging against you. But at the end of the day, it’s the one who ran into the wind who sleeps the soundest.
Yahweh, Thou art great and kind,
Thou will not leave my soul behind
When Thou dost gather those Thou loves
To carry us to Thee, above.
Yahweh, teach me to rejoice
And lift an ever thankful voice
To Thee, for Thou hast heard my prayers
And hushed and stilled all of my cares.
Daylight Savings! Sunday, March 9, 2008
Nobody told us to Spring forward. My ever-intelligent computer was my first source for the news. Nine o’clock, it boldly announced. Unless my memory fails me (which is completely possible), I’ve never slept ‘till nine in my life! The fact was soon confirmed by Nick’s arrival. “You’re an hour early,” I heard Mom greet him. “Actually,” Nick said in his matter-of-fact tone, “I’m right on time, it’s just that the clocks are all an hour early now.”
“The college guys are nice,” Lydia confided this morning, “but I sure would like to see another, you know, little girl.” Her wish was granted, to her delighted surprise, by the evening arrival of Renee’ and Lydia on a visit from Kansas. I did say Lydia. Two Lydias in the house make for mild confusion and many giggles.
Aside from Josiah’s high-hat cymbal giving out and my distinct inability to clearly strum even simple chords, the day proved very encouraging. Zach has bounced back, and Josh has simply bounced. He ought to be too old to have as much energy as he’s been displaying of late. When he joined us for basketball, late in the afternoon, he decided to bully Taylor, hounding him, fouling him and throwing all kinds of ridiculous belittling comments in his general direction. “You ain’t all this, Big Son!” (swipe, swipe, grab, bear-hug, etc.) Without a word, Taylor dribbled around, underneath, over, upon, beside, between and whatever other prepositions apply, with whatever hands or feet were available to ultimately “lose” the game. Because the first rule in any game is that Josh always wins. By nine o’clock he’d calmed down to nearly adult behavior and he and Josiah and I sat on the floor of Josiah’s room and talked—about what the Lord is doing in each of our lives, how each of us have our defenses up in certain areas, how we can see each other growing. I look at Josh and think, “Wow! Look what God’s doing in him!” Can it be possible that he looks at me and sees growth in me, too? Am I really growing? I see it in others. How encouraging to hear it of myself.
I overheard Papa questioning the guys whether they thought in words or pictures. Following the assumption that thinking takes place, I might as well be a camera. As Papa led us through the first chapter of Paul’s first letter to Timothy, the imagery of shipwrecked faith caught my imagination. He reminded us that Paul had been through shipwrecks, barely surviving with the skin on his back. Josiah chimed in with correlations of how important parts of our faith in the Lord could be “thrown overboard” as we battle the storms of life or are tossed on every wind of doctrine. Do we try to “lighten our load” by tossing out God’s Word, fellowship, prayer, praise, accountability and most importantly, our confident expectation through Jesus Christ—our anchor? I know there are plenty of things in my life that I could cast off and sail more smoothly, but Paul encouraged those on board with him to eat!
Lord, the winds and waves are Thine,
I needn’t match the wind and whine.
Thy hand can calm the raging sea.
‘Tis Thou who made the waves—and me.
The storms, Thou sends, that with each gust
I’d prove Thee faithful and entrust
My soul to Thee, Who holds all time.
Firm Thou remains, and keeps what’s Thine.
“The college guys are nice,” Lydia confided this morning, “but I sure would like to see another, you know, little girl.” Her wish was granted, to her delighted surprise, by the evening arrival of Renee’ and Lydia on a visit from Kansas. I did say Lydia. Two Lydias in the house make for mild confusion and many giggles.
Aside from Josiah’s high-hat cymbal giving out and my distinct inability to clearly strum even simple chords, the day proved very encouraging. Zach has bounced back, and Josh has simply bounced. He ought to be too old to have as much energy as he’s been displaying of late. When he joined us for basketball, late in the afternoon, he decided to bully Taylor, hounding him, fouling him and throwing all kinds of ridiculous belittling comments in his general direction. “You ain’t all this, Big Son!” (swipe, swipe, grab, bear-hug, etc.) Without a word, Taylor dribbled around, underneath, over, upon, beside, between and whatever other prepositions apply, with whatever hands or feet were available to ultimately “lose” the game. Because the first rule in any game is that Josh always wins. By nine o’clock he’d calmed down to nearly adult behavior and he and Josiah and I sat on the floor of Josiah’s room and talked—about what the Lord is doing in each of our lives, how each of us have our defenses up in certain areas, how we can see each other growing. I look at Josh and think, “Wow! Look what God’s doing in him!” Can it be possible that he looks at me and sees growth in me, too? Am I really growing? I see it in others. How encouraging to hear it of myself.
I overheard Papa questioning the guys whether they thought in words or pictures. Following the assumption that thinking takes place, I might as well be a camera. As Papa led us through the first chapter of Paul’s first letter to Timothy, the imagery of shipwrecked faith caught my imagination. He reminded us that Paul had been through shipwrecks, barely surviving with the skin on his back. Josiah chimed in with correlations of how important parts of our faith in the Lord could be “thrown overboard” as we battle the storms of life or are tossed on every wind of doctrine. Do we try to “lighten our load” by tossing out God’s Word, fellowship, prayer, praise, accountability and most importantly, our confident expectation through Jesus Christ—our anchor? I know there are plenty of things in my life that I could cast off and sail more smoothly, but Paul encouraged those on board with him to eat!
Lord, the winds and waves are Thine,
I needn’t match the wind and whine.
Thy hand can calm the raging sea.
‘Tis Thou who made the waves—and me.
The storms, Thou sends, that with each gust
I’d prove Thee faithful and entrust
My soul to Thee, Who holds all time.
Firm Thou remains, and keeps what’s Thine.
Monday, February 18, 2008
(Morning)
Today was supposed to be wonderful—beautiful. Lauryn’s recital is tonight. The sun is shining. Everything is beautiful. I am at peace, in love with the Lord, seeing His working, enjoying His power. Until the most horrible thing I can imagine happened. Precious Savior, what kind of tricks are you playing on me? I’m clinging to what I know, trying to convince myself of the truth: You don’t play tricks. If this is what You need to do to break me, to make me perfect in Your image, I must accept it. You’ll have to handle the gladly part of that, because it’s not coming for me.
Lord, could there be an agony
Greater than what faces me?
My heart and soul have turned to stone,
Yet I am still Thy precious own
Bought through an agony so great
Thou spilled Thy drops of blood as sweat.
Beside Thy grief, my own is weak.
I am Thy own. That’s all I seek.
(Noon)
They left me home alone. I sobbed all morning, curled up tight, sheltering my head with my arms. Then I dashed out of the house and down the trail, running like the wind. Finally, worn out and determined to stop crying, to forget it, to let it go, since I can’t change it, I showered, washed my face and made up a to-do list for the day. But just when I think I can get busy and distract myself with a project, my distraction meets a dead-end. I’ve prayed through my prayer chain, I’ve played through several hymns on trusting and sung praises at the top of my lungs. Anything to keep me focused on something else. Anything to drive my assailants away. I’m left clinging to my only hope: Jesus. He loves me. He cares for me. He purchased me with His blood. He is refining me. This is a part of His vast, eternal plan for my perfection, for my sanctification. All things work for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose. He’ll buy back even the most horrible day and make it beautiful in His time and His way.
Lord, my heart can only cling
To Thee, it seems that everything
Will yield against the storms like this;
Betray my soul with one small kiss.
So stand and raise Thine arms on high,
Wake my Savior, lest I die!
Calm the winds and calm the waves.
Thou art God who makes and saves.
(Afternoon)
I’ve been through the gamut of emotions now and have at last settled into a deadly calm. I just came in from a walk (yes, another). It’s a startlingly beautiful day, so I stood in the meadow, praying first, then absorbing, meditating and finally praising. Warm wind caressing my face and toying with my hair sent little shivers of peace down my spine. This is just an awkward bump in the road to becoming a gracious woman, and will teach me so much more patience and humility with others. No? Fifty years from now I’ll look back and laugh. In eternity, it won’t even matter. Learn from it, I must. Be knocked down by it? Never.
Not while Jesus holds my hand.
Already He has been by my side. I’ve spent the entire day humbled before Him, in communion with Him, singing to Him and praying to Him. Isn’t this the result I beg for? Who am I to question the route? If it takes days like this to drive me close to Him, I must learn to welcome them joyfully, to embrace them whole-heartedly and to live in them knowing He is at work in me both to will and to work for His good pleasure.
Lord, I stand before Thee now.
I humbly and contritely bow
Since that is what Thou seeks of me,
I come to Thee on bended knee.
I worship and adore my Lord--
Thou deserves to be adored--
Forgetting worry, fear and shame
In wonder at Thy matchless name.
(Bedtime)
Lauryn’s recital was fun, beautiful and brilliant—just like her. Watching her on stage, I felt so small, childish and second-rate. She’s a beautiful, mature woman. I’m just a little girl, but right now it’s okay to be small and childish if I can climb up in my heavenly Father’s lap and lay my head against His chest. Which I’m doing, and I’m gaining strength, gaining momentum, gaining confidence in Him and His work. Nothing He does is less than perfect—once finished. I am no exception.
Lord, I’ve built my life on Thee
And need not fear the raging sea.
Those around me scorn and talk
But I am safe upon Thy rock.
Solid through the storms of time,
For Thou art greater, more sublime
Than ageless time, much less this breath
I call my life—until my death.
Today was supposed to be wonderful—beautiful. Lauryn’s recital is tonight. The sun is shining. Everything is beautiful. I am at peace, in love with the Lord, seeing His working, enjoying His power. Until the most horrible thing I can imagine happened. Precious Savior, what kind of tricks are you playing on me? I’m clinging to what I know, trying to convince myself of the truth: You don’t play tricks. If this is what You need to do to break me, to make me perfect in Your image, I must accept it. You’ll have to handle the gladly part of that, because it’s not coming for me.
Lord, could there be an agony
Greater than what faces me?
My heart and soul have turned to stone,
Yet I am still Thy precious own
Bought through an agony so great
Thou spilled Thy drops of blood as sweat.
Beside Thy grief, my own is weak.
I am Thy own. That’s all I seek.
(Noon)
They left me home alone. I sobbed all morning, curled up tight, sheltering my head with my arms. Then I dashed out of the house and down the trail, running like the wind. Finally, worn out and determined to stop crying, to forget it, to let it go, since I can’t change it, I showered, washed my face and made up a to-do list for the day. But just when I think I can get busy and distract myself with a project, my distraction meets a dead-end. I’ve prayed through my prayer chain, I’ve played through several hymns on trusting and sung praises at the top of my lungs. Anything to keep me focused on something else. Anything to drive my assailants away. I’m left clinging to my only hope: Jesus. He loves me. He cares for me. He purchased me with His blood. He is refining me. This is a part of His vast, eternal plan for my perfection, for my sanctification. All things work for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose. He’ll buy back even the most horrible day and make it beautiful in His time and His way.
Lord, my heart can only cling
To Thee, it seems that everything
Will yield against the storms like this;
Betray my soul with one small kiss.
So stand and raise Thine arms on high,
Wake my Savior, lest I die!
Calm the winds and calm the waves.
Thou art God who makes and saves.
(Afternoon)
I’ve been through the gamut of emotions now and have at last settled into a deadly calm. I just came in from a walk (yes, another). It’s a startlingly beautiful day, so I stood in the meadow, praying first, then absorbing, meditating and finally praising. Warm wind caressing my face and toying with my hair sent little shivers of peace down my spine. This is just an awkward bump in the road to becoming a gracious woman, and will teach me so much more patience and humility with others. No? Fifty years from now I’ll look back and laugh. In eternity, it won’t even matter. Learn from it, I must. Be knocked down by it? Never.
Not while Jesus holds my hand.
Already He has been by my side. I’ve spent the entire day humbled before Him, in communion with Him, singing to Him and praying to Him. Isn’t this the result I beg for? Who am I to question the route? If it takes days like this to drive me close to Him, I must learn to welcome them joyfully, to embrace them whole-heartedly and to live in them knowing He is at work in me both to will and to work for His good pleasure.
Lord, I stand before Thee now.
I humbly and contritely bow
Since that is what Thou seeks of me,
I come to Thee on bended knee.
I worship and adore my Lord--
Thou deserves to be adored--
Forgetting worry, fear and shame
In wonder at Thy matchless name.
(Bedtime)
Lauryn’s recital was fun, beautiful and brilliant—just like her. Watching her on stage, I felt so small, childish and second-rate. She’s a beautiful, mature woman. I’m just a little girl, but right now it’s okay to be small and childish if I can climb up in my heavenly Father’s lap and lay my head against His chest. Which I’m doing, and I’m gaining strength, gaining momentum, gaining confidence in Him and His work. Nothing He does is less than perfect—once finished. I am no exception.
Lord, I’ve built my life on Thee
And need not fear the raging sea.
Those around me scorn and talk
But I am safe upon Thy rock.
Solid through the storms of time,
For Thou art greater, more sublime
Than ageless time, much less this breath
I call my life—until my death.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Tabitha shared an interesting tidbit with me tonight, as we quoted from Revelation twenty-one. In the New Jerusalem, if only twenty-five percent of the Holy City were used for dwellings, there would be adequate room for twenty billion people. What a completely new aspect to “in My Father’s house are many mansions.”
I want to see those mansions full.
I want the world to see Yahweh working, changing lives, breaking hearts, healing souls, every day like He did tonight. I found a friend weeping on his face before the Lord, praising God for the breaking, for the answer to his prayers. “Praise God with me,” he whispered. “I knew God answered prayer, but not mine. I’d prayed and prayed for this. Tonight it came. God answers prayers. God answers my prayers.” In a moment crystalline with God’s powerful grace, what have I to say or do? Simply this: witness. Witness and write.
Lord! My spirit’s overwhelmed
With Thee.
I have not words to praise
Thy majesty.
To compare Thy attributes
To things I see or touch
Would fall so short.
Thou art too much.
I want to see those mansions full.
I want the world to see Yahweh working, changing lives, breaking hearts, healing souls, every day like He did tonight. I found a friend weeping on his face before the Lord, praising God for the breaking, for the answer to his prayers. “Praise God with me,” he whispered. “I knew God answered prayer, but not mine. I’d prayed and prayed for this. Tonight it came. God answers prayers. God answers my prayers.” In a moment crystalline with God’s powerful grace, what have I to say or do? Simply this: witness. Witness and write.
Lord! My spirit’s overwhelmed
With Thee.
I have not words to praise
Thy majesty.
To compare Thy attributes
To things I see or touch
Would fall so short.
Thou art too much.
I Seek A Liturgy
Ah, my Father, this you seek:
Worshippers in truth and heart,
But I find throughout the week
This to be a trying part.
What within Your word commands
When to kneel or where to look?
Shall I sing and raise my hands
Or peruse Your holy book?
My flesh would seek a liturgy
Worshippers in truth and heart,
But I find throughout the week
This to be a trying part.
What within Your word commands
When to kneel or where to look?
Shall I sing and raise my hands
Or peruse Your holy book?
My flesh would seek a liturgy
Instead of choosing simple praise.
You wish I'd set Your Spirit free
To worship you in many ways.
For when Your Spirit acts upon
The truth I've hidden in my mind,
My life's a living liturgy,
I find.