I forget just how spoiled I am. Until we have thunderous storms like today and find ourselves devoid of electricity. And then we have nothing to do. By the end of the day when Travis offered a generator even the luxury of lamplight seemed a privilege of rare proportions.
It's good to be reminded of all the "extra" things I enjoy without a second thought.
It's good to be reminded where I was without Christ, as I read Romans again today. I read Romans a lot and, in spite of having memorized it a couple of years ago (thanks to Tabitha's encouragement), I always discover how little I actually know. For the last couple of weeks I've been answering in my own mind the questions that others put to me and I hope to have written thoughts to share soon--for feedback. You know, it's not really fair to read my thoughts and not share your own. (Ahem, Jacinda...Hannah...Sarah...and others.) ;)
I need a shower. The generator, unfortunately, didn't suffice to get our well-pump running.
If you read this, tell me something amazing about the Lord.
Showing posts with label weather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weather. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
I was scouring the walls of my shower this morning when I straightened up, bumped my head against the water knob and gave myself a surprise shower. As I walked into the kitchen to start lunch, Mom passed me in the hallway and asked, “Why are you all wet?”
Papa valiantly loaded himself into the Camry to go to work this afternoon. Around six o’clock he came rolling back up the driveway. The nurse had sent him home on limited disability for at least a month. My head was spinning as I heard the verdict. At least a month! What an odd shape for a blessing to come in. Having Papa home for a month is both exciting and daunting—a totally new thought. What in the world are we going to do for a month? And then I laugh. All kinds of thoughts begin to fill our minds—we can finally invite some of the families over that we’ve been hoping to see. And I have some confusion and questions that have been nagging me for months—things I couldn’t seem to resolve on my own but tried to cheerfully ignore. I’m not sure if I can even put words to them, but Papa has been just so busy and tired that I didn’t want to exhaust him. Perhaps he’ll have time to dissipate the fog that surrounds most of my brain and clouds my convictions. So much for recuperation for him--perhaps I'd better hold off a while yet.
I'd scoffed at the official ground hog who, reportedly, turned tail and climbed back into his hole back in February. "He saw his shadow!" they announced. "Six more weeks of winter!" I've never given much credence to weathermen, hairy or otherwise, and we've been enjoying days of warmth and sunshine. "It wasn't his shadow he saw," I declared to Josiah, "It was the new presidential administration that sent him back into hibernation." Today the weather grew nasty again. Cold. Drizzly. Uninviting. The political climate is at least as nasty. I think we're on a collision course with socialism, thanks to nodding, smiling politicians who swear to uphold the constitution and then go at it with a grappling hook. Even Hillary Clinton as Secretary of state didn't turn my stomach like seeing our own Kansas Governor, Kathleen Sibelius, appointed to the cabinet. Bleak is the political horizon, which reminds me once again that the battle is not against flesh and blood but against the principalities of darkness--and I should be spreading light to individual hearts and pleading that Christ will soon return.
Papa valiantly loaded himself into the Camry to go to work this afternoon. Around six o’clock he came rolling back up the driveway. The nurse had sent him home on limited disability for at least a month. My head was spinning as I heard the verdict. At least a month! What an odd shape for a blessing to come in. Having Papa home for a month is both exciting and daunting—a totally new thought. What in the world are we going to do for a month? And then I laugh. All kinds of thoughts begin to fill our minds—we can finally invite some of the families over that we’ve been hoping to see. And I have some confusion and questions that have been nagging me for months—things I couldn’t seem to resolve on my own but tried to cheerfully ignore. I’m not sure if I can even put words to them, but Papa has been just so busy and tired that I didn’t want to exhaust him. Perhaps he’ll have time to dissipate the fog that surrounds most of my brain and clouds my convictions. So much for recuperation for him--perhaps I'd better hold off a while yet.
I'd scoffed at the official ground hog who, reportedly, turned tail and climbed back into his hole back in February. "He saw his shadow!" they announced. "Six more weeks of winter!" I've never given much credence to weathermen, hairy or otherwise, and we've been enjoying days of warmth and sunshine. "It wasn't his shadow he saw," I declared to Josiah, "It was the new presidential administration that sent him back into hibernation." Today the weather grew nasty again. Cold. Drizzly. Uninviting. The political climate is at least as nasty. I think we're on a collision course with socialism, thanks to nodding, smiling politicians who swear to uphold the constitution and then go at it with a grappling hook. Even Hillary Clinton as Secretary of state didn't turn my stomach like seeing our own Kansas Governor, Kathleen Sibelius, appointed to the cabinet. Bleak is the political horizon, which reminds me once again that the battle is not against flesh and blood but against the principalities of darkness--and I should be spreading light to individual hearts and pleading that Christ will soon return.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
It’s a glorious, quiet Sunday afternoon and my French door is standing wide open. Freckles just galloped by on the rickety porch, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, in pursuit of an insect. In the other room, I can hear Mom and Papa talking about insurance and local doctors and ER costs and nausea.
Sometimes you just know what’s going to happen, but it almost seems as if the knowledge is removed—somewhere outside yourself. When Mom told me she and Papa were going for a motorcycle ride, we started talking about the dangers. In fact, it’s the statistics and dangers of motorcycles that led Papa to decide he’d rather I didn’t have a motorcycle license. As they aired up the tire I had an odd, eerie sensation. Mom tells me she did, too. The whole ride she kept praying for the Lord’s protection, but even more that He would just help her to be calm and to trust Him. As soon as Mom’s ring-tone started, I knew something was wrong—I knew they’d wrecked. Mom’s voice was calm and deliberate, explaining where they were and what had happened and asking me to bring the truck and have Josiah and Tommy drive separately. My mind flashed back to the time, several years ago, when Papa had cut his knee open with the chainsaw. Now, I could hear the same tone in her voice as she said, measured, “I’m fine. The motorcycle is fine. Papa’s injured, but we can take him in ourselves. He’s up at some folks’ house.”
That’s why Mom and Papa are discussing medical procedures. From the way he hunches and winces, Papa must have his broken collar-bone and perhaps even have a broken or bruised rib or two. Mom has a banged up knee.
It could have been so much worse. What Mom and I had actually discussed before they left is how many motorcycle wrecks are fatal. Even little spills can do big damage. With their helmets and layers of protection, Mom and Papa had no scratches. They spilled into the ditch on a hairpin curve right in front of a house where people were out in the yard. And they had cell-phone reception—barely. All near-miracles for those of us living out here in the boonies.
Papa just now hobbled through the open glass door in my room, his arm in a sling, a smile on his face. “It’s a pretty day, isn’t it?”
Sometimes you just know what’s going to happen, but it almost seems as if the knowledge is removed—somewhere outside yourself. When Mom told me she and Papa were going for a motorcycle ride, we started talking about the dangers. In fact, it’s the statistics and dangers of motorcycles that led Papa to decide he’d rather I didn’t have a motorcycle license. As they aired up the tire I had an odd, eerie sensation. Mom tells me she did, too. The whole ride she kept praying for the Lord’s protection, but even more that He would just help her to be calm and to trust Him. As soon as Mom’s ring-tone started, I knew something was wrong—I knew they’d wrecked. Mom’s voice was calm and deliberate, explaining where they were and what had happened and asking me to bring the truck and have Josiah and Tommy drive separately. My mind flashed back to the time, several years ago, when Papa had cut his knee open with the chainsaw. Now, I could hear the same tone in her voice as she said, measured, “I’m fine. The motorcycle is fine. Papa’s injured, but we can take him in ourselves. He’s up at some folks’ house.”
That’s why Mom and Papa are discussing medical procedures. From the way he hunches and winces, Papa must have his broken collar-bone and perhaps even have a broken or bruised rib or two. Mom has a banged up knee.
It could have been so much worse. What Mom and I had actually discussed before they left is how many motorcycle wrecks are fatal. Even little spills can do big damage. With their helmets and layers of protection, Mom and Papa had no scratches. They spilled into the ditch on a hairpin curve right in front of a house where people were out in the yard. And they had cell-phone reception—barely. All near-miracles for those of us living out here in the boonies.
Papa just now hobbled through the open glass door in my room, his arm in a sling, a smile on his face. “It’s a pretty day, isn’t it?”
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I can’t seem to catch up and I hate to move on, leaving behind all the unimportant little things that happen. I’m silly, but dates just stick out in my mind and today makes exactly a year and a half in Arkansas. I realized I’m beginning to conform to the culture. Sunday night, Grandma Sandy offered me a Coke and I asked her “What kind?” She looked at me blankly before answering, “Well…Cherry.”
Just a few things of possible interest before I move on:
Freckles got herself caught in a trap. We rescued her, certain she’d be feeling pretty mellow for the next few days. No such happening. Apparently it was a pretty pathetic trap.
Jacindarella boarded a plane and moved to Peru, with a long-term goal of winding up in Bolivia.
Dathan moved back to Arkansas, one semester short of graduating with his master’s degree, under rather interesting circumstances—involving false accusations and an unjust campus judiciary system. That didn’t stop him from filming several new Homely Hobo videos.
We spent the month of January milking the neighbor’s cow while Olga was in Russia trying to straighten out citizenship issues. Josh Potts was right: milk comes from Wal-mart. The stuff I squeezed from the lumpy udder of Maxine was pure and undiluted labor: unfiltered, unpasturized, unhomoginized. It’s been sometime since my milking days.
President Obama was sworn into office and lied through his teeth when he swore to uphold and defend the constitution. Every action since has been in total opposition of his oath. Hillary Clinton was appointed Secretary of State and Kansas’ own witch of a governor, Kathleen Sibelius has been appointed to his cabinet. I shudder, I quake, I groan. One thing it certainly accomplishes is turning my mind away from politics and back to the nitty gritty of seeking hearts for Christ.
Mom and Papa celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary. In honor of the special occasion, dinner and entertainment were provided by Wynkyn, Blinkyn and Nod aka Stop, Drop and Roll aka Larry, Curly and Mo aka Sin, Cosin and Tangent aka Knife, Fork and Spoon aka Uno, Dos and Tres aka A, B and C etc, etc, etc.
We’re now a family of night owls. Well, sort of. Papa was put on second shift at ConAgra, meaning he works from right after lunch until eleven at night. That’s a little different schedule from heading out for work at 5 AM. But we’re enjoying having the mornings together.
Tommy got himself fired for overstaying at our house. Over speaker phone. We almost felt sorry for him before he confessed that it was a set-up he and his boss had hatched to prank us.
Lydia turned twelve and in honor of her birthday she hosted a tea party. Unfortunately, she has no young lady friends her own age, so her special event was attended by a group of terribly excited young men—between the ages of 20 and 30.
Josiah finished the front deck for our house. Finished with finesse, I must add. It’s simply beautiful, even devoid of his original plan for a grand staircase. We hauled in a load of gravel and added a parking lot out front.
Nathaniel turned twenty-five. Twenty-five sounds so old. At least for my brother.
I set a new personal running record: five miles in fifty-four minutes.
Josiah’s been writing rap for some time now and it’s been steadily growing better. He brings pieces to me, pleading for help and the concept finally rubbed off. I never intended to show my first attempt in that genre to anyone but him, but he enjoyed rapping it so much he wanted to show it to Zach and then the cat was out of the bag. I’ve never labored over a piece of poetry, but that style certainly requires effort, so I take off my hat to those who make a regular habit of it.
Judy was admitted to the hospital for a blockage in her stomach and gave all of us something of a scare. I’ll confess I had no clue whether or not she’d ever come home again, but the Lord cleared up the blockage and brought her home safely. Of course, their car gave up the ghost not long ago, so life is a tight circle of daily happenings for them.
This week I navigated the streets of the Kansas City metropolis in snowy weather all by myself. Well, Josiah was with me, but he’s no help when it comes to navigation. It’d been nearly a year since I’d seen my grandma—my Mom’s mom, so we decided to make the trip. “This is so much fun,” said my eighty-two-year-old grandma who runs a hundred miles an hour (as long as her pacemaker battery is charged), “I’m so glad we get to spend time together without any adults present.” Because at twenty-one, eighteen and eighty-two, we’re all still kids.
That’s all the measurable changes. My mind has been busy running a million different directions. I started over again in the Old Testament in January and I just wrapped up Second Chronicles. I’m always in awe of the concept that I am God’s temple—and He has chosen to indwell me. I find myself lying awake at night trying to fathom God—His size, His majesty, His eternity, His beauty, His power, His glory, His love. It’s when people try to accuse me of being smart that I feel most stupid, knowing I lack wisdom and understanding and feeling foolish in my vain efforts to understand God or to plan His ways. But always, always His ways are good. Dissatisfaction and restlessness have been pervading my attitude for the past several months—some for my spiritual good, some reflective of my selfish tendencies. I can’t bear the thought of mediocrity, or status quo Christianity, so different from the life of Christ. I rage against the expectations of the world, and also of conservative Christendom that seems so content with so much safety, tranquility and comfort and would counsel me to be as well. Yet, how am I set apart and holy? In my raging, I forget that idealism can be a lovely thing when applied to oneself, but a devastating poison when prescribed for others. And I neglect to remember that God was no fool when He placed me exactly where He placed me and that my part is to joyfully submit to my authorities and to sing His praise with every tone in my body and trust Him to orchestrate the majestic symphony of time. I always come back to the same lessons, like a dog chasing her tail, alternately confused and enthusiastic. Obviously, I didn’t earn God’s favor.
Just a few things of possible interest before I move on:
Freckles got herself caught in a trap. We rescued her, certain she’d be feeling pretty mellow for the next few days. No such happening. Apparently it was a pretty pathetic trap.
Jacindarella boarded a plane and moved to Peru, with a long-term goal of winding up in Bolivia.
Dathan moved back to Arkansas, one semester short of graduating with his master’s degree, under rather interesting circumstances—involving false accusations and an unjust campus judiciary system. That didn’t stop him from filming several new Homely Hobo videos.
We spent the month of January milking the neighbor’s cow while Olga was in Russia trying to straighten out citizenship issues. Josh Potts was right: milk comes from Wal-mart. The stuff I squeezed from the lumpy udder of Maxine was pure and undiluted labor: unfiltered, unpasturized, unhomoginized. It’s been sometime since my milking days.
President Obama was sworn into office and lied through his teeth when he swore to uphold and defend the constitution. Every action since has been in total opposition of his oath. Hillary Clinton was appointed Secretary of State and Kansas’ own witch of a governor, Kathleen Sibelius has been appointed to his cabinet. I shudder, I quake, I groan. One thing it certainly accomplishes is turning my mind away from politics and back to the nitty gritty of seeking hearts for Christ.
Mom and Papa celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary. In honor of the special occasion, dinner and entertainment were provided by Wynkyn, Blinkyn and Nod aka Stop, Drop and Roll aka Larry, Curly and Mo aka Sin, Cosin and Tangent aka Knife, Fork and Spoon aka Uno, Dos and Tres aka A, B and C etc, etc, etc.
We’re now a family of night owls. Well, sort of. Papa was put on second shift at ConAgra, meaning he works from right after lunch until eleven at night. That’s a little different schedule from heading out for work at 5 AM. But we’re enjoying having the mornings together.
Tommy got himself fired for overstaying at our house. Over speaker phone. We almost felt sorry for him before he confessed that it was a set-up he and his boss had hatched to prank us.
Lydia turned twelve and in honor of her birthday she hosted a tea party. Unfortunately, she has no young lady friends her own age, so her special event was attended by a group of terribly excited young men—between the ages of 20 and 30.
Josiah finished the front deck for our house. Finished with finesse, I must add. It’s simply beautiful, even devoid of his original plan for a grand staircase. We hauled in a load of gravel and added a parking lot out front.
Nathaniel turned twenty-five. Twenty-five sounds so old. At least for my brother.
I set a new personal running record: five miles in fifty-four minutes.
Josiah’s been writing rap for some time now and it’s been steadily growing better. He brings pieces to me, pleading for help and the concept finally rubbed off. I never intended to show my first attempt in that genre to anyone but him, but he enjoyed rapping it so much he wanted to show it to Zach and then the cat was out of the bag. I’ve never labored over a piece of poetry, but that style certainly requires effort, so I take off my hat to those who make a regular habit of it.
Judy was admitted to the hospital for a blockage in her stomach and gave all of us something of a scare. I’ll confess I had no clue whether or not she’d ever come home again, but the Lord cleared up the blockage and brought her home safely. Of course, their car gave up the ghost not long ago, so life is a tight circle of daily happenings for them.
This week I navigated the streets of the Kansas City metropolis in snowy weather all by myself. Well, Josiah was with me, but he’s no help when it comes to navigation. It’d been nearly a year since I’d seen my grandma—my Mom’s mom, so we decided to make the trip. “This is so much fun,” said my eighty-two-year-old grandma who runs a hundred miles an hour (as long as her pacemaker battery is charged), “I’m so glad we get to spend time together without any adults present.” Because at twenty-one, eighteen and eighty-two, we’re all still kids.
That’s all the measurable changes. My mind has been busy running a million different directions. I started over again in the Old Testament in January and I just wrapped up Second Chronicles. I’m always in awe of the concept that I am God’s temple—and He has chosen to indwell me. I find myself lying awake at night trying to fathom God—His size, His majesty, His eternity, His beauty, His power, His glory, His love. It’s when people try to accuse me of being smart that I feel most stupid, knowing I lack wisdom and understanding and feeling foolish in my vain efforts to understand God or to plan His ways. But always, always His ways are good. Dissatisfaction and restlessness have been pervading my attitude for the past several months—some for my spiritual good, some reflective of my selfish tendencies. I can’t bear the thought of mediocrity, or status quo Christianity, so different from the life of Christ. I rage against the expectations of the world, and also of conservative Christendom that seems so content with so much safety, tranquility and comfort and would counsel me to be as well. Yet, how am I set apart and holy? In my raging, I forget that idealism can be a lovely thing when applied to oneself, but a devastating poison when prescribed for others. And I neglect to remember that God was no fool when He placed me exactly where He placed me and that my part is to joyfully submit to my authorities and to sing His praise with every tone in my body and trust Him to orchestrate the majestic symphony of time. I always come back to the same lessons, like a dog chasing her tail, alternately confused and enthusiastic. Obviously, I didn’t earn God’s favor.
Surviving S with Style
Standing—Because we arrived late to graduation—both times—and had to crowd along the back wall while Dr. Brown droned on and on and hordes of cap and gown clad graduates filed across the platform to receive an empty diploma folder. After which we Struggled through the crowds to get outside where we Stood in the drooling rain and offered c-c-congratulations.
Sitting—Because the whole family, Zach included, Stuffed our bodies into my parent’s walk-in closet after receiving myriads of phone calls from those who love us and Lydia's Sensitive ears detected Sirens.
Storms—Because the reason for the cozy closet gathering was brewing overhead in a mass of dark “tornadic” activity, following the hail. It was almost a disappointment when we never even lost our electricity and Lydia drifted off to Sleep. Not everyone was So blessed, though, as the news the next morning Showed.
Splattering--Because I wondered about Mom adding water to thin down the moss green paint for her bathroom walls but didn't Say anything. Moss green Speckles do not greatly improve my appearance. However, the color was a huge improvement over Pepto Bismol pink.
Spelling—Because after giving Josiah a mile long list of “oo” words, I began making up my own to see how S”oo”n he’d protest.
Solitude—Because life Seems to have Slowed down a little, and certainly grown more quiet with most of the Tech Students vanished from campus. Some of them never to return. Jacinderella, Lin N, Taylor and Nathan have all moved on, Sadly for us. Even Nick Snagged a job in Kansas (my old Stomping grounds) and Zach is headed home.
Scissors--Because I finally Snip-Snipped my hairs--every Single one. Nothing Serious--Should be a full recovery.
Samuel—Because I’m Still lost in his life Story and musing over a few details—coming Soon, I hope.
Summer—Because it’s almost here and I have a project list a mile long.
Surprises—Because I’ve got my Summer planned out, I’m Sure to be in for Some.
Suggestions—Because I need good ones for Summer Study. Any good biographies or godly living or Set-me-on-fire Sermons?
Sitting—Because the whole family, Zach included, Stuffed our bodies into my parent’s walk-in closet after receiving myriads of phone calls from those who love us and Lydia's Sensitive ears detected Sirens.
Storms—Because the reason for the cozy closet gathering was brewing overhead in a mass of dark “tornadic” activity, following the hail. It was almost a disappointment when we never even lost our electricity and Lydia drifted off to Sleep. Not everyone was So blessed, though, as the news the next morning Showed.
Splattering--Because I wondered about Mom adding water to thin down the moss green paint for her bathroom walls but didn't Say anything. Moss green Speckles do not greatly improve my appearance. However, the color was a huge improvement over Pepto Bismol pink.
Spelling—Because after giving Josiah a mile long list of “oo” words, I began making up my own to see how S”oo”n he’d protest.
Solitude—Because life Seems to have Slowed down a little, and certainly grown more quiet with most of the Tech Students vanished from campus. Some of them never to return. Jacinderella, Lin N, Taylor and Nathan have all moved on, Sadly for us. Even Nick Snagged a job in Kansas (my old Stomping grounds) and Zach is headed home.
Scissors--Because I finally Snip-Snipped my hairs--every Single one. Nothing Serious--Should be a full recovery.
Samuel—Because I’m Still lost in his life Story and musing over a few details—coming Soon, I hope.
Summer—Because it’s almost here and I have a project list a mile long.
Surprises—Because I’ve got my Summer planned out, I’m Sure to be in for Some.
Suggestions—Because I need good ones for Summer Study. Any good biographies or godly living or Set-me-on-fire Sermons?
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.
“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.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
I was sure the weatherman was mistaken for predicting sunshine by noon. The rain pelted me from every side and I huddled under my umbrella, sloshing through puddles and spitting windblown hair out of my mouth. Around me, campus bloomed with colorful mushrooms, milling toward classrooms and dormrooms, sporting neon rainboots or soggy tennis shoes. At the library entrance, the mushrooms were suddenly transformed into students, collapsing umbrellas and shaking off boots before entering.
Tip for the day: a smile can buy you almost any assistance. Perhaps it helps a bit to be a girl. In the past I’ve tested out the possibilities on a whole host of personalities—smile, innocent eyes, ask dumb questions with an apologetic laugh. Whether out of pity, kindness or simple inability to be cruel to a smiling face, folks will almost always cheerfully answer every stupid question. Alternately, you can pretend you know what you’re doing and ask intelligent questions—only if you run into a snag—always with a smile. I settled on the second tactic for the library. My task: check out a DVD Papa’s been wanting for months. Step one: renew my library card. After an excruciating few minutes digging up the information needed for an application, I was handed back my library card and stated my business. “The Internet said pick it up in the music lab?” I questioned. The dear librarian nodded. “You’ll only be able to check it out for four hours though, so you’ll probably just want to watch it in one of the rooms upstairs.” My satisfaction melted into discouragement and puddled up around my toes. Time for an intelligent question. “Can I get a Tech friend to check it out for me?” Affirmative. Behold my reasons for calling Nick and begging to borrow both his person and his ID. Then I dashed up the stairs to the music lab, stated my business and was received with a host of questions. “Is it for a class?” Smile. “No sir.” “I need your ID.” Oh! We check it out here, do we? Smile. “Um…actually, a friend is checking it out for me.” Interject another intelligent question. “Can you hold it for me until he gets here?” Soon Nick arrived, hunkering under his parka like a soggy leprechaun, and I presented both his person and his ID and received a green slip, a white slip and a DVD in return. “Thank you,” with another smile before we made our way downstairs and out the door. That’s when the alarm went off. Somewhere I forgot to ask the intelligent question, “Is that all we have to do?” The answer would have been negative. The green slip was meant for the folks at the front desk. Somehow I muddled my way through the intricate system of checking out a DVD at the college library and survived with movie in tow. I should feel accomplished. At least I smiled.
My parking escapade proved better results. Walk into the campus police office. Smile. Pretend I know what I’m talking about. “Can I get a temporary parking permit?” The officer and the lady at the desk exchanged glances. “Honey,” said the robust lady, “It’s raining today. I can’t give you a permit. Don’t tell anyone, but the computers don’t work when it rains.” My eyebrows conferred together in confusion. “So…um?” We won’t try to pass that off as an intelligent question. The officer chimed in. “Just park wherever you want, darlin’. Ain’t nobody gonna do anything about it today.” That’s a statement even I could understand and I left the office grinning from ear to ear and found a spot by the cafeteria, in the center of campus. Perhaps it will rain more often.
I’ve nearly decided to petition the BCM to install gender signs on the bathroom doors. Emily’s directions of “all the way back to the left” sent me walking into the men’s bathroom. And back out with as much speed as I could muster. By the time I dropped Zach and Emily back off at campus after lunch at the BCM, the weatherman had convinced the sun to peek out from behind his hidey-hole of clouds.
Amber and I tripped out of the apartment for a walk in the warming sunshine and snagged flowers off of a budding tree as we passed, recalling the days of “He loves me, he loves me not.” It’s nice to be reminded that I’ve grown-up at least a little. All afternoon my strength ebbed like the tide. “I’d better go,” I said, an hour earlier than usual, “I’ve got some things to do yet.” “Things” meant a bench at the head of Bona Dea, reading the Psalms for the day. How perfect they were! In spite of laughter, of fun, of joy, I’d been lost in a cloud of confusion, unable to be alone and sort out my thoughts. “Lord, Thou hast searched me and known me, Thou dost understand my thoughts from afar. Search me, O God, and know my heart, try me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there be any wicked way in me and lead me in the everlasting way.” Quiet. At last. Knowing that God understands what even I can’t fathom. Unafraid of His gentle searching, His loving scrutiny, I poured out my heart to Him and then left the empty shell in His hands, to be refilled.
Lord, Thou art my very essence--
To live is to be in Thy presence.
I lay aside all that’s confused
And sit down at Thy feet to muse.
The Lover that I seek is Thee,
Because Thou sought and first loved me.
The only truth that I possess
Is Thou, my King of Righteousness.
Tip for the day: a smile can buy you almost any assistance. Perhaps it helps a bit to be a girl. In the past I’ve tested out the possibilities on a whole host of personalities—smile, innocent eyes, ask dumb questions with an apologetic laugh. Whether out of pity, kindness or simple inability to be cruel to a smiling face, folks will almost always cheerfully answer every stupid question. Alternately, you can pretend you know what you’re doing and ask intelligent questions—only if you run into a snag—always with a smile. I settled on the second tactic for the library. My task: check out a DVD Papa’s been wanting for months. Step one: renew my library card. After an excruciating few minutes digging up the information needed for an application, I was handed back my library card and stated my business. “The Internet said pick it up in the music lab?” I questioned. The dear librarian nodded. “You’ll only be able to check it out for four hours though, so you’ll probably just want to watch it in one of the rooms upstairs.” My satisfaction melted into discouragement and puddled up around my toes. Time for an intelligent question. “Can I get a Tech friend to check it out for me?” Affirmative. Behold my reasons for calling Nick and begging to borrow both his person and his ID. Then I dashed up the stairs to the music lab, stated my business and was received with a host of questions. “Is it for a class?” Smile. “No sir.” “I need your ID.” Oh! We check it out here, do we? Smile. “Um…actually, a friend is checking it out for me.” Interject another intelligent question. “Can you hold it for me until he gets here?” Soon Nick arrived, hunkering under his parka like a soggy leprechaun, and I presented both his person and his ID and received a green slip, a white slip and a DVD in return. “Thank you,” with another smile before we made our way downstairs and out the door. That’s when the alarm went off. Somewhere I forgot to ask the intelligent question, “Is that all we have to do?” The answer would have been negative. The green slip was meant for the folks at the front desk. Somehow I muddled my way through the intricate system of checking out a DVD at the college library and survived with movie in tow. I should feel accomplished. At least I smiled.
My parking escapade proved better results. Walk into the campus police office. Smile. Pretend I know what I’m talking about. “Can I get a temporary parking permit?” The officer and the lady at the desk exchanged glances. “Honey,” said the robust lady, “It’s raining today. I can’t give you a permit. Don’t tell anyone, but the computers don’t work when it rains.” My eyebrows conferred together in confusion. “So…um?” We won’t try to pass that off as an intelligent question. The officer chimed in. “Just park wherever you want, darlin’. Ain’t nobody gonna do anything about it today.” That’s a statement even I could understand and I left the office grinning from ear to ear and found a spot by the cafeteria, in the center of campus. Perhaps it will rain more often.
I’ve nearly decided to petition the BCM to install gender signs on the bathroom doors. Emily’s directions of “all the way back to the left” sent me walking into the men’s bathroom. And back out with as much speed as I could muster. By the time I dropped Zach and Emily back off at campus after lunch at the BCM, the weatherman had convinced the sun to peek out from behind his hidey-hole of clouds.
Amber and I tripped out of the apartment for a walk in the warming sunshine and snagged flowers off of a budding tree as we passed, recalling the days of “He loves me, he loves me not.” It’s nice to be reminded that I’ve grown-up at least a little. All afternoon my strength ebbed like the tide. “I’d better go,” I said, an hour earlier than usual, “I’ve got some things to do yet.” “Things” meant a bench at the head of Bona Dea, reading the Psalms for the day. How perfect they were! In spite of laughter, of fun, of joy, I’d been lost in a cloud of confusion, unable to be alone and sort out my thoughts. “Lord, Thou hast searched me and known me, Thou dost understand my thoughts from afar. Search me, O God, and know my heart, try me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there be any wicked way in me and lead me in the everlasting way.” Quiet. At last. Knowing that God understands what even I can’t fathom. Unafraid of His gentle searching, His loving scrutiny, I poured out my heart to Him and then left the empty shell in His hands, to be refilled.
Lord, Thou art my very essence--
To live is to be in Thy presence.
I lay aside all that’s confused
And sit down at Thy feet to muse.
The Lover that I seek is Thee,
Because Thou sought and first loved me.
The only truth that I possess
Is Thou, my King of Righteousness.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
I’ve seen a few eggs in my time. Blue eggs, green eggs, pink eggs, yellow eggs, brown eggs and white eggs, double yokers, no yokers, developing yokers, oops-it’s-a-chick yokers. We’re not talking about Easter Eggs, but the real-live-laid-by-hen eggs. I’ve never seen any so huge. “These are the small ones,” he commented. “The large ones cost fifty cents more.” I peered around the yard for a glimpse of the chickens, but was disappointed in my scrutiny. The best clue I had as to the appearance of the fine-feathered fowl who laid such monster eggs was a fine white feather, delicately clinging to the crate as I carried it out to the Suburban.
Driving through the hills and valleys on a misty, moisty morning brought my thoughts to life. Fog swirls in the valleys, causing me to slow down, watch carefully, and turn on my lights hoping to be seen. From the hills I can see over the mists to the other side—but I have no clue what might lie in the valley. Always, whether I see it or not, the sun is shining, above the clouds. In fact, the mists are caused by the sun as it sends refreshment to the land.
Here in the Bible belt, I ask someone about their spiritual beliefs and they vanish behind a church marquee. Opening up is a breeze. “I noticed you have a lot of religious books,” to the man in the Flea Market. “Do you have any spiritual beliefs?” Quickly he assures me he is Church of Christ—even preached for a few years. The ladies in the bead store explain their membership in the Assembly of God. The Librarians always cheerfully remind me that the invitation to First Baptist is always open. I’ve never had anyone actually share the gospel with me. Usually dragging from them the name Jesus and all it entails feels like wisdom tooth extractions. “You go to the Church of Christ? Really? Neat. So…who is Christ?” It was refreshing to see one man’s eyes light up, “He is the Son of God, the Savior of the world.” Well. Not much else needs said. But how have we become so lost in our denominations that our spiritual beliefs boil down to “I’m Methodist” or “I’m Baptist”. No one is saved by believing in a building or claiming a title. We’re saved through the person and work of Jesus Christ! My heart aches to see how unready we are to give an account for the hope within us—if it is truly a living hope within us.
When the rain started, I hurriedly pulled on my boots and headed out to enjoy the warm shower. Disappointed by the gentleness, I trekked down to the creek instead and fell in. On purpose. The woods grow silent on a rainy day—no one speaking, no one listening. Just the restful drip of God’s fresh filtered rain, sliding from leaf to leaf to water the earth. Really, I was simply enjoying the shifting mists, polishing the woods with vibrant green and red and gold when the urge to jump the creek came on. I jumped it in narrow spots. I skipped over stones through the miniature rapids. I scrambled across fallen logs. A wide, deep pool, clear as crystal, beckoned me. “You can’t jump that,” I whispered to myself. “I know,” I giggled, and backed up for a running start. I hit the bank full speed, threw myself into the air and landed inches from the steep shore on the far side, splattering cold water up to my waist. Sometimes you have to take the risk and fall in to discover it’s no so bad. Thoroughly soggy and thoroughly satisfied, I struck out through the pine trees, headed for home.
“Indescribable, uncontainable...Who has told every lightning bolt where it should go,” crackled over the radio, just before the huge crash shook the house. Like a ball of thunder rolling across the sky and slamming into something—no echo. “Did you see that?” Josiah dashed into my room from outside. “Did you hear that?” I shrugged. “I heard thunder.” Catching his breath, Josiah explained, “This huge bolt of lightning just shot out of the sky and struck one of the trees in the woods. I watched it splinter and fall from the shop. Just when the radio played that song…you know…that one…” We stood by my French door together, staring out into the now pouring rain at the rivulets washing down our yard. Finish the song: You are amazing, Lord.
Lord, Thou art enthroned on high
As King of earth and sea and sky,
And sends as by Thy own decree
Thy storms upon the land or sea.
The power of the elements,
Can only partly represent
The power that is in Thy hand
To make or to destroy all land.
Driving through the hills and valleys on a misty, moisty morning brought my thoughts to life. Fog swirls in the valleys, causing me to slow down, watch carefully, and turn on my lights hoping to be seen. From the hills I can see over the mists to the other side—but I have no clue what might lie in the valley. Always, whether I see it or not, the sun is shining, above the clouds. In fact, the mists are caused by the sun as it sends refreshment to the land.
Here in the Bible belt, I ask someone about their spiritual beliefs and they vanish behind a church marquee. Opening up is a breeze. “I noticed you have a lot of religious books,” to the man in the Flea Market. “Do you have any spiritual beliefs?” Quickly he assures me he is Church of Christ—even preached for a few years. The ladies in the bead store explain their membership in the Assembly of God. The Librarians always cheerfully remind me that the invitation to First Baptist is always open. I’ve never had anyone actually share the gospel with me. Usually dragging from them the name Jesus and all it entails feels like wisdom tooth extractions. “You go to the Church of Christ? Really? Neat. So…who is Christ?” It was refreshing to see one man’s eyes light up, “He is the Son of God, the Savior of the world.” Well. Not much else needs said. But how have we become so lost in our denominations that our spiritual beliefs boil down to “I’m Methodist” or “I’m Baptist”. No one is saved by believing in a building or claiming a title. We’re saved through the person and work of Jesus Christ! My heart aches to see how unready we are to give an account for the hope within us—if it is truly a living hope within us.
When the rain started, I hurriedly pulled on my boots and headed out to enjoy the warm shower. Disappointed by the gentleness, I trekked down to the creek instead and fell in. On purpose. The woods grow silent on a rainy day—no one speaking, no one listening. Just the restful drip of God’s fresh filtered rain, sliding from leaf to leaf to water the earth. Really, I was simply enjoying the shifting mists, polishing the woods with vibrant green and red and gold when the urge to jump the creek came on. I jumped it in narrow spots. I skipped over stones through the miniature rapids. I scrambled across fallen logs. A wide, deep pool, clear as crystal, beckoned me. “You can’t jump that,” I whispered to myself. “I know,” I giggled, and backed up for a running start. I hit the bank full speed, threw myself into the air and landed inches from the steep shore on the far side, splattering cold water up to my waist. Sometimes you have to take the risk and fall in to discover it’s no so bad. Thoroughly soggy and thoroughly satisfied, I struck out through the pine trees, headed for home.
“Indescribable, uncontainable...Who has told every lightning bolt where it should go,” crackled over the radio, just before the huge crash shook the house. Like a ball of thunder rolling across the sky and slamming into something—no echo. “Did you see that?” Josiah dashed into my room from outside. “Did you hear that?” I shrugged. “I heard thunder.” Catching his breath, Josiah explained, “This huge bolt of lightning just shot out of the sky and struck one of the trees in the woods. I watched it splinter and fall from the shop. Just when the radio played that song…you know…that one…” We stood by my French door together, staring out into the now pouring rain at the rivulets washing down our yard. Finish the song: You are amazing, Lord.
Lord, Thou art enthroned on high
As King of earth and sea and sky,
And sends as by Thy own decree
Thy storms upon the land or sea.
The power of the elements,
Can only partly represent
The power that is in Thy hand
To make or to destroy all land.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Today was a perfect day. Because it was.
Josiah and I trooped back from sawing wood to discover the basketball goal, lying prone like Goliath himself, slain by a mischievous gale, the backboard shattered underneath. Our skills will be needing improvement to swoosh our balls without the benefit of the backboard.
Lauryn breezed in briefly, like the personification of summer herself—golden sunlight hair and a sky blue shirt to match her eyes. It’s hard to believe she’s not been out since Christmas break, but her presence was more than welcome. As always. I’ve missed the days from last semester, when we spent so much time together and spilled out everything the Lord was teaching us or every way we felt the pruning sheers.
Balaam brought home a powerful point. Not such an exemplary character, this Balaam fellow, who would have eagerly cursed the Israelites for a price, had not the Lord prevented him—through the intervention of his donkey. Instead, he blessed them and delivered beautiful promises of the future Messiah. Self-assured, self-righteous and self-confident, I imagine myself special because perhaps sometimes the Lord speaks or works through me. Well, doesn’t He? Well, didn’t He also speak through Balaam’s donkey? I sat still for several minutes (which is quite the accomplishment for me) trying to wrap my mind around the truth. God used a donkey to convince a shady character to bless His people. Who am I to boast of being a tool? Is it amazing that a shovel would be used to dig a hole? That a bucket would be used to water flowers? Do we honor the shovel or the bucket for being used? Neither does the Lord’s work in me bear any honor for me, but only more honor for the Lord, that He could stoop and find a use for such a worthless vessel as I am. But I will not always be so broken, leaky and dirty.
Once again I am reminded how frail I am and how big the Lord is. How capable He is of protecting me, upholding me and of working things out. I trust He is working out His perfect will in me. Making me perfect.
Perfect days might seem evasive, but I’m looking back on twenty years of them. Perfect in the light of God’s handiwork, His timing, His plans and what He’s been doing. Perfect because He has remained Lord over all creation.
Lord, Thou art enthroned in splendor,
Yet to this child of dust art tender.
Year by year, here’s what I see:
That Thy perfection touches me.
Thy creation: seas and woods,
Thou said all were “very good”,
But Thou hast promised, when life’s done
I’ll be perfect, like Thy Son.
Josiah and I trooped back from sawing wood to discover the basketball goal, lying prone like Goliath himself, slain by a mischievous gale, the backboard shattered underneath. Our skills will be needing improvement to swoosh our balls without the benefit of the backboard.
Lauryn breezed in briefly, like the personification of summer herself—golden sunlight hair and a sky blue shirt to match her eyes. It’s hard to believe she’s not been out since Christmas break, but her presence was more than welcome. As always. I’ve missed the days from last semester, when we spent so much time together and spilled out everything the Lord was teaching us or every way we felt the pruning sheers.
Balaam brought home a powerful point. Not such an exemplary character, this Balaam fellow, who would have eagerly cursed the Israelites for a price, had not the Lord prevented him—through the intervention of his donkey. Instead, he blessed them and delivered beautiful promises of the future Messiah. Self-assured, self-righteous and self-confident, I imagine myself special because perhaps sometimes the Lord speaks or works through me. Well, doesn’t He? Well, didn’t He also speak through Balaam’s donkey? I sat still for several minutes (which is quite the accomplishment for me) trying to wrap my mind around the truth. God used a donkey to convince a shady character to bless His people. Who am I to boast of being a tool? Is it amazing that a shovel would be used to dig a hole? That a bucket would be used to water flowers? Do we honor the shovel or the bucket for being used? Neither does the Lord’s work in me bear any honor for me, but only more honor for the Lord, that He could stoop and find a use for such a worthless vessel as I am. But I will not always be so broken, leaky and dirty.
Once again I am reminded how frail I am and how big the Lord is. How capable He is of protecting me, upholding me and of working things out. I trust He is working out His perfect will in me. Making me perfect.
Perfect days might seem evasive, but I’m looking back on twenty years of them. Perfect in the light of God’s handiwork, His timing, His plans and what He’s been doing. Perfect because He has remained Lord over all creation.
Lord, Thou art enthroned in splendor,
Yet to this child of dust art tender.
Year by year, here’s what I see:
That Thy perfection touches me.
Thy creation: seas and woods,
Thou said all were “very good”,
But Thou hast promised, when life’s done
I’ll be perfect, like Thy Son.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Walking through the dining room just before six this morning on my way to fix breakfast, I stopped in my tracks and stared outside at a layer of snow. Not a measly Arkansas powdered sugar dusting, either, but a serious birthday cake layer of pure, white, cold, wet snow. Eleven inches, the news channels all insisted, though I don’t believe I saw more than half that amount. With a little friendly persuasion from Zach, we all abandoned our regular activities to tromp through this winter wonderland in search of Narnia or the North Pole. Josiah and I got the bright idea to deck ourselves in summer outfits and discard our shoes for a “white” themed picture. By the time we made the mad dash back to the house, I couldn’t even feel my toes, but a few minutes inside soon left them burning with the heat of returning circulation.
Mom delivered the phone to me and I mouthed, “Who is it?” She shrugged. “Maybe a Japanese girl?” Quickly I greeted the caller. A familiar voice, but I couldn’t quite seem to place it. Finally I said, “I have no clue who you are,” and she alleviated my confusion with her name: Sarahlita. That certainly put a different spin on matters and soon we were chatting away again like the childhood bosom companions that we are. Funny how it is: no matter how long we’ve been apart, we always come back together able to pick up where we left off and always finding that the Lord is teaching us the same things. Even though she’s married now with a six-month-old son. As we talked, she kept probing, “So…nothing else you need to tell me?...Anything else big going on?...What exciting things are happening with you?...Anything specific you need prayer for?” and finally wrapping up with, “Well, if anything important does happen, do call me, or e-mail—or even if there’s something important you need me to pray about.” I enjoyed a giggling spell after we hung up without even a hint of guilt. There’s honestly nothing to tell.
“Tonight is going to be fun,” Lydia informed me, as she tucked her Bible onto her bookshelf. I raised my eyebrows. “What’s happening tonight?” She grinned. “I just finished John chapter two and I have tons of questions for you!”
At the supper table, I nudged her and whisper-asked if she was ready to tell Mom and Papa. She reached under the table and held my hand so tightly that my ring left indents on the insides of my fingers before she finally nodded. We launched out together on the story and watched our parent’s delighted faces. When Josiah came in a few minutes later, Lydia had to go through the retelling—by herself this time. The rest of the evening we all gushed, she called Nathaniel and Lauren, both grandmas and Josh Potts (since his testimony Sunday had driven her to want salvation for sure). Then the family met outside while Papa baptized her in the hot tub. I must admit, a hot tub does make the perfect baptismal on a snowy evening.
Every single day seems to get sweeter and better, and I know the Lord’s lovingkindnesses are new every day, for His compassions never cease. But I’m bracing myself—every mountaintop overlooks a valley. Soon I will have to make the treacherous descent. I find myself clinging to every single second, each one seeming a precious blessing, especially those with my family. I want to have each moment treasured in my heart for the day when a sword may pierce my soul. I want to cling to what God is doing now for the day when darkness and discouragement become too friendly, or when change looms up as a frightening obstacle.
I want to store up the seven fat years for the years of famine that are as sure to come as the spring rain.
Lord, Thy blessings always prove
The vast unmeasured of Thy love,
But teach my heart to yet discern
The mountain world-view I should learn.
For though some days are filled with pleasure,
Thou alone are my true treasure.
Happenstance may turn appalling
Still Thou art Love—my Love--enthralling.
Mom delivered the phone to me and I mouthed, “Who is it?” She shrugged. “Maybe a Japanese girl?” Quickly I greeted the caller. A familiar voice, but I couldn’t quite seem to place it. Finally I said, “I have no clue who you are,” and she alleviated my confusion with her name: Sarahlita. That certainly put a different spin on matters and soon we were chatting away again like the childhood bosom companions that we are. Funny how it is: no matter how long we’ve been apart, we always come back together able to pick up where we left off and always finding that the Lord is teaching us the same things. Even though she’s married now with a six-month-old son. As we talked, she kept probing, “So…nothing else you need to tell me?...Anything else big going on?...What exciting things are happening with you?...Anything specific you need prayer for?” and finally wrapping up with, “Well, if anything important does happen, do call me, or e-mail—or even if there’s something important you need me to pray about.” I enjoyed a giggling spell after we hung up without even a hint of guilt. There’s honestly nothing to tell.
“Tonight is going to be fun,” Lydia informed me, as she tucked her Bible onto her bookshelf. I raised my eyebrows. “What’s happening tonight?” She grinned. “I just finished John chapter two and I have tons of questions for you!”
At the supper table, I nudged her and whisper-asked if she was ready to tell Mom and Papa. She reached under the table and held my hand so tightly that my ring left indents on the insides of my fingers before she finally nodded. We launched out together on the story and watched our parent’s delighted faces. When Josiah came in a few minutes later, Lydia had to go through the retelling—by herself this time. The rest of the evening we all gushed, she called Nathaniel and Lauren, both grandmas and Josh Potts (since his testimony Sunday had driven her to want salvation for sure). Then the family met outside while Papa baptized her in the hot tub. I must admit, a hot tub does make the perfect baptismal on a snowy evening.
Every single day seems to get sweeter and better, and I know the Lord’s lovingkindnesses are new every day, for His compassions never cease. But I’m bracing myself—every mountaintop overlooks a valley. Soon I will have to make the treacherous descent. I find myself clinging to every single second, each one seeming a precious blessing, especially those with my family. I want to have each moment treasured in my heart for the day when a sword may pierce my soul. I want to cling to what God is doing now for the day when darkness and discouragement become too friendly, or when change looms up as a frightening obstacle.
I want to store up the seven fat years for the years of famine that are as sure to come as the spring rain.
Lord, Thy blessings always prove
The vast unmeasured of Thy love,
But teach my heart to yet discern
The mountain world-view I should learn.
For though some days are filled with pleasure,
Thou alone are my true treasure.
Happenstance may turn appalling
Still Thou art Love—my Love--enthralling.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Sunbathing might seem to require exposed skin, but today was just beautiful enough to allow for soaking up vitamin D—through a layer of cotton. Sadly, that was the most notable occurrence of the entire twenty-four hours we affectionately term “Saturday”. The rest of the day was spent rather uneventfully in laboring over chainsaws that lazily refused to work, and organizing the dusty barn.
At long last I found words and music to express some thoughts spinning through my mind the past few days as I try to reconcile the simplicity of the gospel with the necessity of holy living. As Paul tells us in Romans, the grace of the Lord is not our license to sin and David confirms that no man can by any means redeem his brother. We must claim God’s unmerited favor for ourselves, and when we have grasped it, we will walk in newness of life.
The grace of the Lord must be your own.
You’re not saved through the faith that another has shown,
But if you should wander so far from home
The grace of the Lord can still find you.
So seek the Lord while He may be found.
Call His name while He might be near.
The humble sinner who falls to the ground
Will find that the Lord of grace will hear.
Grace is greater than all our sin.
Grace will teach us to enter in
To the way of faith that the humble have trod.
God’s grace will lead us to God.
So if you have chosen to humbly implore
God’s grace and His mercy to open the door
That you may enter His rest ever more,
May the grace of our Lord be with you.
At long last I found words and music to express some thoughts spinning through my mind the past few days as I try to reconcile the simplicity of the gospel with the necessity of holy living. As Paul tells us in Romans, the grace of the Lord is not our license to sin and David confirms that no man can by any means redeem his brother. We must claim God’s unmerited favor for ourselves, and when we have grasped it, we will walk in newness of life.
The grace of the Lord must be your own.
You’re not saved through the faith that another has shown,
But if you should wander so far from home
The grace of the Lord can still find you.
So seek the Lord while He may be found.
Call His name while He might be near.
The humble sinner who falls to the ground
Will find that the Lord of grace will hear.
Grace is greater than all our sin.
Grace will teach us to enter in
To the way of faith that the humble have trod.
God’s grace will lead us to God.
So if you have chosen to humbly implore
God’s grace and His mercy to open the door
That you may enter His rest ever more,
May the grace of our Lord be with you.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Above the perfect line of floral wallpaper border, the clear, blue sky gaped in at me, as I stood, pouring hot coffee for a tornado refugee. I can still hardly believe the terrible damages I saw and heard. Fatalities, something very rare back in Tornado Alley, where I was born and grew up. Incidentally, we’d all had basements or storm shelters. Here a woman showed me her tiny, windowless bathroom, the only room still intact, and the blessed haven of seven bodies through the tornadoes that swept away so many homes Tuesday. I rejoiced to discover that she also had a more secure haven for her soul.
I’d barely finished running Mom’s errands when I answered a phone call from Audrey, asking if I could come help with Salvation Army relief out in the tornado zone. A short time later we were also joined by Mom, Josiah and Lydia and trooped out to the disaster area, laden with soup, cinnamon rolls and hot coffee and chocolate. If I’d known before-hand I’d have come decked out in worker-girl clothes and dived in to help clean-up. Instead I shuffled down debris crusted streets, offering food and drinks to refugees and workers alike. Since I don’t work for the Salvation Army, I feel at liberty to confide that I would have much rather walked in as a nobody and gotten dirty helping, than in an enormous logo-encrusted polo shirt, dancing around for publicity shots and trying to toss in that phrase “Salvation Army” so folks would know who their Good Samaritan was while toting luke-warm coffee and hot chocolate to folks who’ve already had lunch. And I found myself shying away from the half a dozen TV crews and newspaper reporters who were there only for the story. Caleb, one of my gradeschool-age accomplices was snagged by KARK 4 for a live interview. “Hold up your donuts like you’re proud of them!” the exuberant reporter instructed him. Then he wiped the enthusiasm from his face, replacing it with a feigned sympathy for the poor, poor people who had lost so much. He’d even duded himself up in waders for the occasion—didn’t he just look the part? What a lot of good was hampered by those rat-sniffing media moguls and competing charities. That’s right: competing charities. Well-meaning charities who help people so that people would see what they’re doing and give them more money so they can go help more people. We’ve fallen so short of the left hand unaware of the right hand’s doing.
Lord, teach me to serve and give,
To take my life and truly live
In sacrifice before Thy throne
That Thou might claim my deeds Thine own.
Teach my lips to speak, my eyes
To shed the tears Thy Spirit cries.
Thou loved the world through Thy Son.
Love through me, O Holy One.
I’d barely finished running Mom’s errands when I answered a phone call from Audrey, asking if I could come help with Salvation Army relief out in the tornado zone. A short time later we were also joined by Mom, Josiah and Lydia and trooped out to the disaster area, laden with soup, cinnamon rolls and hot coffee and chocolate. If I’d known before-hand I’d have come decked out in worker-girl clothes and dived in to help clean-up. Instead I shuffled down debris crusted streets, offering food and drinks to refugees and workers alike. Since I don’t work for the Salvation Army, I feel at liberty to confide that I would have much rather walked in as a nobody and gotten dirty helping, than in an enormous logo-encrusted polo shirt, dancing around for publicity shots and trying to toss in that phrase “Salvation Army” so folks would know who their Good Samaritan was while toting luke-warm coffee and hot chocolate to folks who’ve already had lunch. And I found myself shying away from the half a dozen TV crews and newspaper reporters who were there only for the story. Caleb, one of my gradeschool-age accomplices was snagged by KARK 4 for a live interview. “Hold up your donuts like you’re proud of them!” the exuberant reporter instructed him. Then he wiped the enthusiasm from his face, replacing it with a feigned sympathy for the poor, poor people who had lost so much. He’d even duded himself up in waders for the occasion—didn’t he just look the part? What a lot of good was hampered by those rat-sniffing media moguls and competing charities. That’s right: competing charities. Well-meaning charities who help people so that people would see what they’re doing and give them more money so they can go help more people. We’ve fallen so short of the left hand unaware of the right hand’s doing.
Lord, teach me to serve and give,
To take my life and truly live
In sacrifice before Thy throne
That Thou might claim my deeds Thine own.
Teach my lips to speak, my eyes
To shed the tears Thy Spirit cries.
Thou loved the world through Thy Son.
Love through me, O Holy One.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
I crawled out of bed to get ready for a day in town, but when I opened my mouth to ask my reflection how it felt, my voice came rattling out like a rusted chariot. The bit of a cold I contracted after ranging about in the sleet last Thursday seems to have compounded with the thorough soaking I received at the hands of the elements last night and both have conspired to make me sound much worse than I actually feel. I opted for crawling back into bed again.
After a call from Justus Penka, our favorite milkman, Josiah bundled up and loaded his chainsaw to help out some folks with tornado damage near Atkins. Before it was all over, we wound up inviting the Penkas to stay for homemade pizza at the end of a long day. As I packed up my necessary items for a trip into town tomorrow, I eavesdropped on Papa’s conversation with Justus as he asked about Olga—how was it different here for her than it had been in Russia? Justus shared the plight of the Russian people, boxed into cities with no life, no freedom and therefore an overabundance of alcohol. As he talked, I glanced at my desk where I’d tossed a BibleLeague letter, pleading for funds for those seeking Christ in Russia. My heart is drawn toward this land—hearing the stories from Olga, Don and Taylor. Foolishly they drew the iron curtain closed in an attempt to block the light of the Son. Now they live in darkness, despair and desolation.
But those who walked in darkness have seen a great light…
Lord, Thou art the light of life
Thou shines on darkness, pain and strife
And bids those lost within their walls
To seek Thy name and humbly call.
The maze of sin which swallows man
Lies open, bare, before Thy hand.
Thy light, which is the world’s life
Can safely lead through pain and strife.
After a call from Justus Penka, our favorite milkman, Josiah bundled up and loaded his chainsaw to help out some folks with tornado damage near Atkins. Before it was all over, we wound up inviting the Penkas to stay for homemade pizza at the end of a long day. As I packed up my necessary items for a trip into town tomorrow, I eavesdropped on Papa’s conversation with Justus as he asked about Olga—how was it different here for her than it had been in Russia? Justus shared the plight of the Russian people, boxed into cities with no life, no freedom and therefore an overabundance of alcohol. As he talked, I glanced at my desk where I’d tossed a BibleLeague letter, pleading for funds for those seeking Christ in Russia. My heart is drawn toward this land—hearing the stories from Olga, Don and Taylor. Foolishly they drew the iron curtain closed in an attempt to block the light of the Son. Now they live in darkness, despair and desolation.
But those who walked in darkness have seen a great light…
Lord, Thou art the light of life
Thou shines on darkness, pain and strife
And bids those lost within their walls
To seek Thy name and humbly call.
The maze of sin which swallows man
Lies open, bare, before Thy hand.
Thy light, which is the world’s life
Can safely lead through pain and strife.
Super Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Other states planned caucuses this year. Arkansas is stuck with the primary pattern—today was Super Tuesday. My first presidential primary. During highschool years I became a frequent visitor to the political website of Representative Ron Paul, from Texas, in search of the perfect evidence for the perfect case. When the campaigning first started I said, “If he’d run, I’d vote for him.” Imagine my delight when he announced his campaign. A Christian should be in subjection to the governing authorities, and the United States constitution is the highest law in the land. Dr. Paul has always taken seriously his vow to uphold and defend the constitution. In spite of gainsayers who insisted that, though the best man, he didn’t have a chance (imagine how different our outcomes might be, should everyone vote principle) I put in my plug for the “best man”. Now, I know I’m no voting veteran, but I do remember tailing Mom into the voting booths in Topeka—behind curtains—and helping pull the lever on the huge, old metal machines. And at the last Kansas election, nearly two years ago I secluded myself behind a small curtained area in the courthouse basement to use the electronic devices which caused the veteran voters to stare suspiciously. This year I sloshed through the rain into a tiny rural fire station, presented my ID and was handed a ballot and directed to a banquet table a couple of feet away. Several other voters soon joined me as we quickly filled in the circle of our choice and slid our ballots through the slot of the counting machine. Privacy? Who needs privacy? This is Arkansas.
Josiah and I headed out in search of the elusive perfect lawnmower, to end our mowing woes. Actually, we found it, in the midst of a torrential downpour that soaked us to the skin. Backing the pick-up into the ditch we drove the new Murray up the tailgate and strapped it in place before handing the previous owner a rather soggy check. Layers of clothing avail very little against a determined wetting, but I’ve never melted yet and hope I never will.
Everyone’s full of the news tonight: bad tornadoes in Atkins, three fatalities, cars strewn across I-40. Is it just me or is there an increasing number of natural disasters? On top of the regular fighting between selfish human beings. Combine this with the likelihood that we could end up with either a Communist woman or a Muslim man in national office—or both—and I’m praying for the Lord’s speedy return. The time seems ripe. Of course, Jesus might remind me that my time is always opportune.
Lord, Thy time is drawing near
I find it offers me no fear
But only rushing, eager longing.
Tarry not while I am calling!
I know it is Thy mercy, Lord,
In longing that men be restored
That makes Thee tarry yet today.
But, Come Lord Jesus, this I pray.
Josiah and I headed out in search of the elusive perfect lawnmower, to end our mowing woes. Actually, we found it, in the midst of a torrential downpour that soaked us to the skin. Backing the pick-up into the ditch we drove the new Murray up the tailgate and strapped it in place before handing the previous owner a rather soggy check. Layers of clothing avail very little against a determined wetting, but I’ve never melted yet and hope I never will.
Everyone’s full of the news tonight: bad tornadoes in Atkins, three fatalities, cars strewn across I-40. Is it just me or is there an increasing number of natural disasters? On top of the regular fighting between selfish human beings. Combine this with the likelihood that we could end up with either a Communist woman or a Muslim man in national office—or both—and I’m praying for the Lord’s speedy return. The time seems ripe. Of course, Jesus might remind me that my time is always opportune.
Lord, Thy time is drawing near
I find it offers me no fear
But only rushing, eager longing.
Tarry not while I am calling!
I know it is Thy mercy, Lord,
In longing that men be restored
That makes Thee tarry yet today.
But, Come Lord Jesus, this I pray.