Wednesday, January 26, 2011

“Thy hands made me and fashioned me; give me understanding, that I may learn Thy commandments.” ~Psalm 119:73

“Abigail!” Lydia exclaimed from the other side of the room. “How about just one of us talks? Okay?” She’s been saying it rather a lot lately. The reason is simple: since Josiah has left, she and I have developed a distinct habit of saying exactly the same thing at exactly the same moment. Answering questions, commenting, offering advice, even making snide remarks. Far, far worse a connection than I ever shared with either of my brothers. It’s not occasional. It’s almost constant.

I’ve never in my life been such an emotional roller-coaster. I try to pinpoint it to a time, a place, a cause, but I can’t remember. Just when did I become so emotional? I say that, like it is true, but I don’t even remember. Perhaps I have always been this up-and-down.

Apparently, I ride with dignity. The other day Mom commented, “You are such a calm, logical girl. Very much in control of your emotions.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I shrugged.

I suppose that does make me appear unemotional.

This morning I felt strong, determined, hopeful. Two realtors were scheduled for visits and I had a plate of possibilities to pursue online while my parents negotiated. Somewhere in my heart of hearts I believe I must have been hoping we would find a realtor who could work with us to get us what we wanted.

But alas. Alas. Alas. The real estate system is set up like a trap, closed to all but the chosen club. And should one of those chosen club wish to break the caste system, to step out of protocol—well, he is sewn up into a straight-jacket that hardly allows such deviation from the norm.

At lunch Papa began to talk of online marketing ourselves. Trying to get our website better optimized to catch web-shoppers. I wilted. I don’t know enough to accomplish the competition necessary online and I don’t believe I will ever be capable of it. Top rankings in search engines requires money, the right website, the right smarts and…well, the right product. I just doubt that a private website for a single house is ever going to bump out established sites like Realtor.com and ReMax. It’s not because our site isn’t pretty. Or well organized. Or well-done. It’s just that people don’t usually Google for homes. They go straight to sites they know of, if they’re smart enough to know where to look. If not, they Google to find MLS listings. I know enough to feel pretty certain I can’t bring in the traffic necessary to sell our home by our website. I feel like I’ve been asked to compete in a barn-raising with a rusty hammer and a few bent nails. The other team, of course, has a truckload of power tools.

After lunch, I sprawled across my bed and cried. Covertly, of course. I cried out to God that my heart hurts. It just hurts. I plead to know when I will be through this—this grieving? Is it grieving? It feels like grieving. Am I grieving the loss of focus? The loss of depth in my relationship with the Lord? But the Lord has been with me. I have not lost Him. He has not lost me. He cannot lose me. Am I grieving the loss of my idealism? That perfect is so out of reach that I must struggle and fight to simply survive? Am I simply battling? Daily aware of a struggle I forgot existed. I don’t know what hurts. I just know my heart is heavy.

A walk in the sunshine and fresh air stirred me up and made me ready to keep fighting. I pulled on my jacket just to escape, to be free with the breath of the wind in my hair and the kiss of celestial fire on my face. As I walked, my spine prickled with determination. God is doing this! He has divinely purposed difficulty and even sorrow in my life to make me strong. Courageous. Because I trust in Him. Can’t I see how dependent He has made me? Pleading for ideas, for creativity, for stamina. Pleading for help to accomplish what must be done.

Dog-ugly is the correct descriptive to describe the hideous creature that came barking and snarling out of the woods at me. Rather a large bulldog of a mutt with a ragged mouthful of sharp teeth. Disgusted, I raised my arm over my head and pointed straight into the ugly beast’s tan-and-white face and shouted, “Get out of here! Go home! Go!” She stopped, taken aback, before beginning her charge again. I stomped and shouted my order, staring her down. She slinked backward and waited until I continued on my way, still wary, since I dislike turning my back on a hostile canine. “Go home!” I ordered one last time, as she slinked along behind me. She picked up her speed and made a sharp turn down a side-road. Probably home. I was attacked by an angry dog once upon a time in a land far away as a little girl. My Papa came to my rescue, shouting down my great white attacker with the authority that confidence and rightness lends. I’ve never forgotten the lesson and never been attacked since.

I returned home with a few new ideas pressing at my mind. There must be other holes in this wall I keep slamming into. And perhaps, just perhaps, if I slam into it enough, it will weaken—and crumble.

Either that, or I will.

During the second interview, I eavesdropped as I worked at my desk. “We’re not desperate to sell,” Papa told the realtor. “We own our home—it’s all paid for and we have no other debts. We don’t have to sell right away.” A comforting perspective.

While I stuffed sweet potatoes and seasoned chicken, Mom pinched together the crusts for a Colorado pie for the neighbors. We talked. And talked. From every angle of every plan to keep us through the next year. She’s an advocate of trusting the Lord. Which I know is right, but I’m not good at. I can always argue, “Yes. We have to trust Him. Nothing will happen without Him. But we also have to work hard. He wants us to grow by working hard and recognizing His work in it.” Which is true, too. How can I find that balance? Sure, the lilies of the fields don’t toil or spin…but if I don’t toil or spin, it’s laziness. The answer isn’t to quit toiling and spinning. It’s to get the proper perspective.

We sat down to pray for supper. My turn, and as Papa asked me to pray about what we’d heard today and our options, I was reminded again of a simple truth. Priorities. All day I’ve struggled to lay my head against the chest of my Heavenly Father and just rejoice that I am His. My mind is overwhelmed and occupied by responsibilities and preparations. How can I maintain my responsibilities while seeking first His Kingdom and His righteousness? Some argue that my responsibilities are exactly that. But it’s not what I do that makes me godly, it’s Who I worship.

Now I am exhausted. And I just want to go to bed without journaling. Again.

Herein lies a sign that the Lord is teaching me perseverance and determination and discipline. I wrote anyway.

In days when I feel dry as the Sahara desert, it’s encouraging to see any little sign of the green growth of spiritual fruit. He will teach me perspective. He will guide me in prioritizing. He will give me wisdom. He will give me strength. He will use all this dry boring effort poured into stuff that burns up and takes wings to fly away to shape me into a worshiper.

Herding sheep taught David to praise.

Lord, this life o’ershadows me,

O’erwhelmed, I take my eyes off Thee,

But as I grope my way about

This is the truth without a doubt:

That though I take my eyes off Thee,

Thou never takes Thine eyes off me.

January 22, 2011

“Therefore, do not be anxious for tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” ~Matthew 6:34

I just want to curl up, cozy with a mug of blueberry tea and read.

My deep dark confession: I don’t want to journal tonight.

Hate me. Stone me. Boycott me. Shun me. Cast me out of the synagogue. I don’t care. Just don’t take away my book.

Of secondary interest: Lydia has been purging, and doing a right smart job of it, too. In fact, I dare say her bookshelf looks better than mine.

Amber stopped by on her way back from Mountain Home. “My therapist is so awesome!” she exulted. “She assigned me homework of looking up verses to see what God says about my worth.” I stood my iron up and reached for my Bible as we began to discuss some verses. Because self-esteem is not the issue. We didn’t make ourselves. But recognizing God’s work—and ourselves as His creations—that is the esteem we must cultivate. Amber sat on my bed, carefully attaching flowers to a couple of headbands—creating. In the end, she had a couple of fun, new accessories. Creation. Something we learned from God.

I’ve achieved emotional equilibrium. I decided I would never be anxious again. Or discouraged. It’s just not worth the emotional energy and besides that, it accomplishes nothing. I’ve come to grips with the fact that life is difficult, but I can’t help surviving. Until my time comes to die (which blessing I will embrace with rapture *ooh, a pun*), I will manage to survive everything else that happens to me, whether I try or not. I can’t lengthen my life by worrying. And, frankly, I can’t actually shorten it, either. My times are in His hand. So I might as well forget about worrying.

The end.

I told Tabby of my resolution today, via Bluetooth attached to my ear while I deep-cleaned the far end of the house. On the other end of the line, I could hear a moment of profound silence followed by her giggle. “Well, if you’ve really figured that one out,” came her reply, “then you’d better write a book. It would be a best-seller.”

A pause before I rejoined. “Well, I started to…but it was really stressing me out.”

We were having one of our “entertain ourselves at our own expense” pow-wows. First we make a case for why a besetting weakness is so stupid. Next, we point out how that besetting weakness besets us. If you’re ever hard up for laughs, poke fun at yourself. With someone who knows you well. I promise, you know all the best places to poke.

It’s like this: we can’t stand drama. In fact, we often shrug when we see others stressed out and comfort them with words like, “It’s not such a big deal, really. You’ll survive.” Of course, that’s because we have earth-shaking, ear-shattering, moon-melting, sun-darkening, global-warming-kinds of crisis in our lives. You know, the kinds of drama we look back on and think, “That really wasn’t such a big deal. I survived.” That kind of drama. And we are always calm, cool, collected and…you guess it. Stressed out. You try surviving global warming. If the polar ice caps melt, the world will be flooded!

Which is why I’ve decided not to be anxious.

Besides that, the flood is past and promised never to occur again. The world will be destroyed with fire!

I suppose that would cause some global warming. Nothing a new heaven and new earth won’t solve. And the best part is what dwells in the new heaven and earth—righteousness.

Surprising, isn’t it, how poking fun at yourself can bring you into a proper perspective?

Even between the time I talked to Tabby and the time I am journaling when I don’t want to, that nauseating fear of failure has gripped my mind a half dozen times. Yipes! Someone actually bought into my whole “I am a smart person who can tutor your poor child” ad? My hands start shaking as I type a very pert, very professional e-mail response. Do I even remember eighth grade math? I think I can hear my bones rattling. Eek! Did I totally oversell myself answering that florist that I am pretty familiar with RussVegas? Can I memorize a map before Valentine’s Day? What if he wants me to do more work? Am I capable of negotiating? My heart melts into a pool of wax and drains out a crack in the bottom of my shoe. Oh yeah! Those poor homeschool mothers. Are they signing their kids up for class number boring? Maybe I shouldn’t have revealed that I’m a published author. It’s not like I’ve written a Newberry. Can I ever deliver to the expectations I raised with that one? My adam’s apple swells to the size of a grapefruit. And this CNA stuff. Um. What if I totally fail the boards? And what if I can’t make enough money? What if I can’t hold down a job? What if I can’t, you know, do things right?

And then rushes in the determination. I have to. I don’t have a choice. I just will. Other people do it. I can, too.

On its heels gallops the third horse of the apocalypse: his rider’s name is discouragement. I don’t want to become a CNA and work in a nursing home. Sure, CNA sounds like a wise first step in the medical field, as well as a very useful set of service abilities. And I don’t think medical training is ever wasted. But I can hardly bear nursing homes. I really don’t want to tutor. What if the kid isn’t even willing to work at it? I don’t want a “job.”

Last comes the pale rider of emotional numbness. When I suddenly realize that I’m not feeling anything. Sure the anxiety is gone. And the discouragement. In its place lurks a pale, sunless-moonless sort of existence.

You can see why I’ve resolved not to be anxious.

Jesus commanded me not to be anxious.

Ah! But there is a deeper current to His words than my paltry resolution has demonstrated. “Do not be anxious for your Heavenly Father…”

He knows what we need. He provides. That’s why I’m supposed to seek His kingdom first and His righteousness.

It doesn’t really matter whether it’s a big deal or not.

He doesn’t function on back-up plans like His tiny creations. He just has one sovereign plan. And it includes earth-shattering, ear-splitting, moon-melting, sun-darkening and, yes, some serious global-warming. Followed up by a new heaven and new earth in which righteousness dwells.

Oh yeah! Bring it on!

I’ll probably be hiding in the cleft of the rock until it’s all over.

You spoke the world into existence by the power of Your Word,

And You will slay the prideful devil with the same eternal sword.

This, this power that stretched the heavens from the corners of the sky

Is the power proceeding from You on which a man must feed, or die.

This Word that You spoke, oh so softly, as a fragile, wordless babe

Will be thundering back in glory, turning every word to praise.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

“Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety upon Him because He cares for you.” ~1 Peter 5:6-7

Last night I dreamed I was a missionary to the Ghenges River. Only it looked more like the Amazon. Trees that stretched into heaven, silent, verdant, yet holding hidden stories. I kept asking my guides about piranhas as we canoed, barefoot, with our pants rolled up to the knees to keep them dry.

I awoke this morning to a grievous discovery. First it rained. Then it snowed. At breakfast, Papa volunteered to help me as I rescued my clothes from the line, shook out myriads of perfect, unique snowflakes and loaded them into the dryer.

He’s been so tender lately, even as he holds my hand during meal-time prayer, so careful to thank me frequently, telling me “I love you, baby,” every night, and gently saying “Abigail, wake up” when I struggle miserably to stay awake during Bible time. It’s been driving me crazy for months now. It doesn’t seem to matter—little sleep, or plenty—I fall asleep any time I am not going. I’ll be wriggling, trying to keep myself awake, changing positions, sitting up, shifting my gaze. Slowly my body begins to relax. The strength simply slides down from my face and drains out my little toe. My eyes cross, my vision blurs and suddenly I am being called back from a blissful slumber. Not only is it infuriating, it’s embarrassing.

I waded through six telephone book pages of attorneys today, searching, not for legal representation, but for an office cleaning job. Obviously, attorneys are the right kind of people to target with this kind of service. They all already had a cleaning lady. Next I called florist, looking for extra contracting as a delivery girl for holidays. After several of them kindly told me they already had a pool to draw from, I was startled to hear one say, “Actually, yes we do that sometimes. Are you familiar with RussVegas?” Swiftly, I retrieved my jaw from the floor and answered. He quizzed me a little—asked my age, where I lived, if I had another job and told me he did indeed need a “jumper” for Valentine’s Day. And that he would probably call me—and seemed pleased by my offer to come in next week. A very small possibility, but still, after a host of “nos” it’s always nice to hear a “yes.”

Papa was very quiet, pensive as we drove through the slush into a soggy RussVegas. The radio told tales of the sexual trafficking of children at the Super Bowl. Inwardly, I raged against the demons who would dare to destroy what God has made. Papa whistled through his teeth and seemed almost about to speak. That little knot of not knowing twisted inside my stomach, until I asked if he was tired. “No,” came his answer, “Just thinking.” We picked up applications from a fitness center—and then from a few less glamorous places. “I ought to have you apply to some of these places a few days after I do and see if they discriminate based on my age.” His blue eyes stood out, crisply highlighted by his white goatee and golden skin. Handsome. Trim. Strong. But something else. “Are you discouraged?” I ventured. “A little bit,” he admitted, and I began to see more clearly. “Mostly just because I might not be able to finish the PTA program and have to go back to corporate work.” He looked weary. In all my past longings to be a man, I never really grasped how much pressure is really on a man. Sure, when times are good, he can thrive and flourish and grow strong like a cedar in Lebanon. But when times are lean, he not only grows lean, but he watches his family grow lean, as well. Sure, Papa can always find a job—with some heartless corporation that just wants to own him and drive him into the ground with hours and counter-productive activities. That’s what he’s staring at. The possibility of going back to something that slowly sucks out his life. He’s too old for up-and-coming jobs. Too experienced to out-bid the young guys. And too independent to sell his life for stability.

I do think he’d be a good PTA. He’s been good at everything he’s done. I think he would enjoy it. Once upon a time, he began his college career in physical fitness. And he eats up medical information like a caterpillar about to change forms.

I want him to make his goals.

A tiny flame sprang up deep inside me. Where I’ve been blindly stumbling, just trying to help out, battling discouragement and disillusionment, I see. Not a path. Just an attitude.

Kelley at Homeland Realty hadn’t offered much hope when I’d propositioned her about “alternative” routes to selling our home. SharpMLS didn’t seem too promising when I finally got ahold of Mr. Jude T. Smith—a month after my original messages to him. Somehow in all this crumbling economy jargon there must be at least one more little thing I can do to push a little harder. Bingo. I can proposition all the rest of the local realtors. Maybe one will bite, but at least they will all know about our home, have access to our website and know we are willing to pay a finder’s fee. I think I sent a dozen e-mails this afternoon. Tonight I already had two responses. A very pleasant one from Ms. Tabatha at Remax, offering all she could. And a bite. Another, smaller realtor saying, “I’m willing to negotiate. Call me.” Sent from his iPhone.

I couldn’t help grinning as I read the messages to Mom and Papa. It’s like we’re back in the game again. Maybe we can score a touchdown yet.

When your Papa says to you, “I’m so glad you’re not giving up,” you want to keep fighting. At least, if you’re me. I noticed, while working in the barn the other day, that the fighter is reawakening in me. “You don’t have to carry that if it’s too heavy,” Papa told me as I hoisted a rugged, blue-sprayed pallet. So I carried it.

Papa is hoping we can sell the house before his heavy load of classes starts in June.

While cuing up a BBC “Life” episode, he turned to me and began, “I don’t really just want you to get a job to get a job.” Agreed. I was browsing indeed.com at a snail’s pace. “I would want it to be something that would be good skills for you to have—things that could serve your family. And maybe some orphans.” He smiled as he began to tell me about a CNA training program in Little Rock—two weeks prep for the state boards. It would be a first step toward any medical goal. That could be followed by some work in a nursing home, perhaps. Practical training that would never go to waste, plus some income. Better income than scrapping up odd jobs. I am certain I wouldn’t actually enjoy working in a nursing home. Just walking into the place turns my stomach with the lingering stench of decaying lives. Have you ever smelled hopelessness? Visit a nursing home. Perhaps I could administer hope. And it could be service. And it could prepare me for service. Service often includes stomach turning.

My mind felt numb at the thought of taking training and studying for boards and taking a job. It’s so foreign.

It would be one more tool in my toolbox.

Perhaps my life isn’t as old and stale as it seemed. In this hardest year of my life, past now by three weeks, I can see God carefully laboring and fashioning, while I cried and complained and demanded answers. What He is fashioning, I don’t know. I know the tumult of desires that rages below the surface of my supposedly analytical mind. To be a helper, a wife and mother. I was unaware how distinctly I desired that until this year past. To pour life and energy into lives that God can shape and mold, hoping, praying, trusting that they will join their parents in service to the King. To throw the rope of God’s good news to the lost, to wrap my arms around the lonely, to depend on God for daily life. Somewhere in that mixture is an intense interest in the human heart, mind and body. A desire to relieve suffering, to hold, to help, to heal.

I pray that the Lord would grant wisdom. Is this, too, part of the preparation?

Preparation, I whisper. Preparation for what?

I look at life and I see, all that I have been was preparation for who I am now. All that I am now, must be preparation for what I will become. What is it? I don’t know. Probably someday a wife. Because I stare at my clients at the clinic and I think, “These young women need an older woman to train them to be sensible, pure workers at home.” I am not yet that older woman. I want to walk that path to gain the wisdom and maturity to be that older woman. Probably someday, I will be a widow. Because most of the older women I know are. I am not afraid of widowhood. In it lies rare potential. I hope someday to open heart and home, married or single, to the Fatherless of the world. I hope to be strong enough to help the faint. I hope to have courage to rescue the captives, following in the footsteps of my Lord. To heal the broken. To bind up wounds. Medical training is never wasted. Could this be preparation for what I am to be? But it is not so much preparation for what I will become here—on earth—as what I will become at the glorious appearing of Jesus, when I am forever revealed as I was intended to be. Blameless through Christ Jesus. Glorified through the power of His resurrection.

In mercy, the Lord is carrying me, through a maze of life where I might be lost or destroyed. In mercy, He will carry me to the end. And through the end. To the beginning.

Yahweh, You stretched the heaven above,

The stars tell stories of Your love.

In distant suns the tale I’ve read

Of how You crushed the serpent’s head.

These flaming worlds fell from Your hand

To show that nothing halts Your plan

And You will reign as Lord supreme,

Beginning and the End, and King.

I think I understand the stars.

You’ve named them all, both near and far

And set them as a sign for me

To measure my infirmity.

And yet, I gaze at heaven above—

It is not stars, but me, You love.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

“Around God is awesome majesty, the Almighty—we cannot find Him; He is exalted in power; and He will not do violence to justice and abundant righteousness. Therefore men fear Him; He does not regard any who are wise of heart.” Job 37:22-24

The sun rose today, bright and clear, and I snuggled under the covers, enjoying my morning off from making breakfast, while Lydia reluctantly slid out of bed. These cold mornings dawn and I long, every one, for Tuesday and the luxury of staying curled up in a cocoon for just so much longer.

I made the acquaintance of Lydia’s snowmen and admired their stately six-inch tall forms. I loaded mountains of laundry into the washing machine and, for once, courtesy of the snow-covered ground and chill air, passed them on to the dryer. Lydia cracked herself up by listening to Michael Card on high speed dubbing and made fun of me. Apparently, she spoke to me and I continued on in my own world, but when Freckles came scampering up to the window and she greeted her with a “Hi Beautiful!” I responded. I caught up with Tabby while exercising the treadmill belt and Jacindarella while stirring together a pot of chili and a tossed salad. I marked off to-dos and avoided to-don’ts.

These are the days when little of value seems to transpire.

We spread out on Mom and Papa’s bedroom floor to finish reading “Exploring Planet Earth”. A little below my age-level, I know, but an interesting read non-the-less. I surprised myself with how much I knew and remembered, especially of more recent history--air and space travel. But then, my Papa did work at the Kansas Cosmosphere in my wee days and I vividly remember much of that. I found the contrast between believing astronauts and unbelieving astronauts to be so distinct. Believers recounted that they couldn’t imagine how a person could not look back at the earth from space and be in awe of the Creator. Unbelievers puffed themselves up. The Russians said something like, "We were up there and never saw God so He obviously doesn't exist." Just how small of a God were they looking for? Because the God they didn’t see is the God who sprinkled the stars like dust from His fingertips and unrolled the heavens like a mantle and holds all things together by the word of His power and dwells in unapproachable light. They were staring at a universe He humbles Himself just to look at and marveling at its vastness. Did they expect Him to fit inside His creation?

Each moment, each pondering, reveals to me again how powerful, how eminent, how huge is the Lord God Almighty. He teaches the Monarch butterfly to migrate from Canada to Mexico where it lies dormant all winter. He equips the ant with wisdom, ability and teamwork. He instructs the grete to swim and the flying fish to soar. He provides nectar for the bee and dung for the beetle.

Yet at the end of each day, I feel forsaken.

No one can shake my trust that an all-knowing Creator has left His fingerprints around me. No one can prove to me that He is empty air. No one can cause me to forget His care of me in the past, His mercy, His grace, His joy poured out on me. Those truths are fixed in time and space with the certainty of gravity and the necessity of air.

But at this moment, I see the natural world around me, awash in His care, guided by His wisdom, basking in His touch, and I weep. Because I am pleading His wisdom. I am begging His guidance. I am seeking His truth. I am craving His presence. I am starved for His filling. I only want to know, Divine Judge, if I am doing right.

I am lonely. I am pining for Yahweh.

For an answer, I hear profound silence.

And in my tears, I am wrong. For I have suggested that I am a more devoted Lover than God. That I have sought Him with more passion than He has sought me. That I have sought to battle for right and have been forsaken by the righteous King. That I have tirelessly sought an audience from an ever-hearing Lord and have been refused admittance to His presence. That while I have emptied my resources and provisions, He has withheld from me the strength to continue. I have supposed that because He is so huge as to overflow all time and space, that He is distant from me. That while He is tending the sparrow, He has forgotten that I cannot fly.

He has not.

If Thou art silent, God on high

When I cry out for reasons why,

When I weep, lonely, hungry here

Thy voice, Thy Word, Thy pow’r to hear,

If Thou art silent, when my heart

Is rent and broken, torn apart,

When understanding flees my breast

And sorrow haunts me in my rest,

If Thou art silent, when I weep

And doubts o’ertake me like the deep

When everywhere Thy smile seems laid

Except the dust of which I’m made,

If Thou art silent, though so strong

When morning seems to tarry long

And joy has fled my heart and mind

And truth seems vagrant, hard to find,

If Thou art silent, as Thou art

And speakest not within my heart

Then teach me, in Thy silent face

To read pursuing, haunting grace.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Over the year I collected together the things I feel I am failing...and here they are for me to, by God's grace, grow in this year.

Resolved to try:

To put my whole mind into whatever I am doing, as an act of worship to God. Therefore to be careful that whatever I am doing may be done whole-heartedly as worship to God.

To seek the Lord in quietness and solitude first thing every morning, that being with Him may color my outlook on life.

To refrain from speaking any ill of anyone not present and to confront only that person if there truly is an issue of character or obedience.

To keep a careful account of the Lord’s dealings with me and all that I learn of Him and to share His goodness with all who will listen.

To keep continually in mind God’s grace, truth and beauty in order to keep uglier things from dwelling there.

To learn as much as I can of God’s creation and praise Him for it.

To employ both time and money in seeking souls for the Lord.

To be bold to offer mercy, to speak of God, to speak truth, to love as Christ, but innocent of any evil or selfish ambition.

To be slow to promise, but swift to deliver, slow to speak, but swift to hear, slow to affirm or correct, but swift to love, slow to judge, but swift to forgive.

To consult the Lord and His wisdom constantly and to seek His answer fervently and without giving up.

To praise character, encourage holiness, focus on God’s grace as being the means of true beauty.

To rejoice always, pray unceasingly and always give thanks.

To never regard circumstances except in the light of God’s wisdom and Word.

To never be satisfied with anything less than perfection in myself, yet eager to regard attempt in others.

To never grow weary in doing what is right or compare myself to the world with envy or self-satisfaction.

To offer love and service without regard to “fair treatment,” “personal rights” or return of either.

To keep in mind the cross as my own just end and the picture of God’s wrath from which I am delivered and God’s love which paid the price. And to remember that, in the cross, I am delivered from God’s wrath and God’s justice is satisfied, therefore all that befalls me—even discipline which seems unpleasant for the moement--flows from His mercy, grace and love, lavished on a daughter.

To accept weakness as a tool of God’s strength and to be willing to be wholly dependent on Him.

To do what is right, regardless of results, rumors, rewards, remarks or revilings.

To keep perspective that God, the powerful Creator, Who alone is imperishable and dwells in unapproachable light, has granted me confident access to His throne of grace, that I might receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need, and to make full use of this access.

To never suggest, by my words or actions or thoughts, that I might be more righteous than God. For He does what is right and this is what I must trust, when He does what is different than I expect or wish.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

At the moment I feel:
Small, sad, hopeless, helpless, weak, confused, tired, disillusioned, empty, at a complete loss

But that’s okay, because He is:
Infinite in size, the source of joy, the Helper of those who trust in Him, perfect in strength, omniscient, never tiring, keeper of promises, overflowing with grace and entirely sovereign

I know I am not holy or godly or pure or good or kind or patient or loving. How well I know it! I know I am not humble or wise or discrete or perfect. How well I know it! But Jesus, the spotless Lamb is. Conform me to His image.

Monday, June 15, 2009

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

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

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

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

How pointless is all of that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Lord, for an excellent reminder.

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

Monday, May 4, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

It sounded too good to be true.

It was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Concerning Hard Hearts

"Would God harden a Christian’s heart?” The question has been addressed to me a couple of times recently. Exodus chapters 1-14 and Psalm 81 are two of the passages inspiring this question. The first show Pharaoh resisting God’s command to let the Israelites go followed by God hardening his heart. The second speaks of a rebellious Israel, given over to the stubbornness of their hearts to walk in their own devices. Is this a fate that can befall the believer?

Amber and I are starting that little gem of a book "The Joy of Discovery in Bible Study" and one of the first rules for understanding a passage is to understand WHO it was written to and WHO it was written about. In the Exodus passage, we quickly see two things: first, Pharaoh was not a believer. Second, he had already chosen to harden his own heart. The obvious result of God hardening his heart was a lack of good judgment—his resistance to God prevented him from making reasonable decisions. His whole land was being destroyed, his people killed, himself tormented and yet he could not relent. The second passage might seem a little less obvious at first glance, because we are used to interpreting the Psalms as applicable to us. After a little observation, it's pretty clear that the passage is about the nation Israel. This might seem unimportant until we recall that God's relationship with Israel the nation is different than His relationship with the individual. This passage wasn't actually written FOR a believer. That doesn't mean we can't glean anything from it--we can! But the application is not as direct.

Even when Israel was rebellious to Yahweh, there was always a believing remnant. The whole nation was His chosen nation, chosen to be blessed by Him, but the nation was not a nation of believers. Many of the Israelites were rebellious—my family just finished a study of the kings of Israel and Judah--very few of which obeyed Yahweh. And even then, some of the wicked kings (like Ahab) occasionally obeyed God. And some of the good kings (like Josiah) disobeyed and lost their lives. Do you remember the blessings and the curses from Mount Ebal and Mount Gerizim (Deuteronomy 27-28)? These blessings and curses were a part of Yahweh's covenant with Israel. He'd warned them that if they refused to listen to Him, to obey them, He would turn them over to poor leaders, poor judgment and ravaging enemies. As a nation. This meant if the nation as a whole turned away from Him, He would stop blessing the nation, as a whole. "The stubbornness of their heart, to walk in their own devices" meaning, He'd let them go their own foolish way--as a nation. This didn't mean He would stop interacting with individuals. He still spoke through many prophets. Even during the humanistic time of the judges we find Ruth and Boaz who loved Yahweh and who Yahweh blessed. His curse was that He would stop blessing them on a national basis. But He never stops interacting on an individual basis.

For us in the new covenant, inaugurated through Christ’s all-sufficient sacrifice, we have a different promise: “If we are faithless, He remains faithful, for He cannot deny Himself.” (2 Timothy 2:13)

The promise for believers is that, if you believe Jesus and belong to Him, He won't deny you. He won't forsake you. Nothing separates us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. (Romans 8:35-39) We have confident access to the throne of grace (Hebrews 4:14-15). I know of no scripture to believe that God would harden your heart. Believer's can drift from the Lord and can become disobedient--and scripture says that the Lord will chasten disobedient children (Hebrews 12:6)--even sometimes putting them to death (1 Cor. 11:30). But the distance is not caused by God. Nor does He watch them wander and then place a wall between Himself and them so that they cannot return. If you have put your faith in God, He has sealed you with the Holy Spirit (Eph. 1:13) and you have an advocate with Him, any time you sin (1 John 2:1). Not only that, He is waiting as a loving Father, to welcome you home any time you get sick of feeding pigs.

The scripture also speaks of walking in the light (1 John) and living in the Spirit--exercising the Spirit God has given you so that it is strengthened. There's the story of the Eskimo man who had a white dog and a black dog which he would bring to town, make fight and take bets on which would win. He always won the best. Finally someone asked him how he knew which would win. "Simple," he replied gruffly. "Whichever I feed." It's the same way with our Spirit and our flesh. I find that the more I feed my flesh (even just spending time in "harmless" activities--as long as they don't feed my spirit and bring spiritual growth) my desire for spiritual things slides into nonexistence. Also my spiritual perceptions dwindle--I don't notice God's working in my life or that of others, I become discontent, focused on myself, God seems to grow distant and small. On the other hand, when I am feeding my spirit, spending time on my knees begging God to open up the mysteries of His word to me, begging Him to work in my life (not just asking for things I think I need, but for growth and change in myself, too) I become starved for time with Him--ravenously hungry for His word, His people, even just to be alone with Him. Then His word comes alive to me, full of meaning for my life. "God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble"--when we seek Him humbly, we find He is there with blessing upon blessing. Others may not even see that we are blessed, but we can see little things He is doing constantly! Our perspective changes--we recognize all the spiritual blessings we have in Christ (1 Peter 1:1-9). Scripture tells us to work out our salvation with fear and trembling--this doesn't mean we are working to make it happen, but that God's worked it into us, and we must work it out--so that it's visible--with His help, of course. It's an effort. A choice. We don't just sit and say, "God, if you're real, show me." He's evidenced Himself in so many ways--just look around at the world! In all of the scientists clever stories, they really can't account for it at all. Or if we demand, "God, if you love me, show me." Look at the cross! God demonstrated His love toward us, in that while we were sinners, Christ died for us! (Rom. 5:8)

Pharaoh had no interest in a relationship with Yahweh. The Israelites thumbed their noses at His covenant. The Lord stripped them of their judgment—after all, the fear of Yahweh is the beginning of wisdom. Did they care? Pharaoh didn’t. He plunged into the Red Sea after the Israelites and was swept away by the currents of his rebellion. The Israelites, on the other hand, often repented, returned to Yahweh and cried out to Him. Once He even tried to ignore them—but the sound of their humble cry and the smell of their sacrifices reached Him and He turned to them.

The truths I see in these stories are simple. A hard heart is a heart that doesn't care about God. Doesn't desire God. Has poor judgment. Doesn't even realize it resists God. A hard heart never asks the question, "Am I a hard heart?" Never worries that it might not be able to respond to God. A hard heart has no desire for repentance. No desire for God.

A hard heart does not belong to a believer.

For the person who feels they have turned from Yahweh, rejected Him, grown cold and hard with time, bitterness and disappointment, their hope is in God’s character, revealed through His dealings with the Israelites. David told His son Solomon, "Set your heart to seek Yahweh." (1 Chronicles 22:19) It's a choice. A decision. Something you must decide you want to do. If you want to know Yahweh, you must seek Him while He may be found. Later David told Solomon again, "If you seek Him, He will let you find Him." (1 Chronicles 28:9) Even spoken to an individual under the old covenant, these words reveal God’s character. David had beautiful insight into God's character and God's workings with man. He understood that God delights in being sought. That's His desire. It brings glory to Him when we do what we were created to do--seek Him. He doesn't hide Himself from those who seek Him. The best place to find Him is in the pages of His word. Through prayer, praise and thanksgiving, He reveals Himself to us through His word. If you're worried that you've drifted from Him, that you might have gone too far to come back--give His mercy a try! Seek Him diligently and see what will happen! If you want to find Him, seek Him! He who comes to Him must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him. (Heb. 11:6) Anything good requires effort. Our salvation is a free gift--God did the effort there. But for us to grow strong and to enjoy a healthy relationship with Yahweh, we must exercise and feed our spirit for His work to work out.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Papa shared his opinion on the issue of Eli’s sons. He pointed out that as those in leadership, representing Yahweh, they incurred a stricter judgment. He also reminded me that Yahweh gives those whose hearts are hard over to their sin, as in Romans chapter one, and also to the wages of sin—death.

Yahweh’s call to Samuel, and Samuel’s quick answer was encouraging. I hope I am always as quick to answer the Lord, “Speak Lord, Thy servant listens.” It must have been distressing to Samuel to hear God’s judgment on Eli and his sons. I was struck through the story with the view of God’s sovereignty. At the time, the capture of the ark and the death of the priests—all of them—must have seemed like Yahweh forsaking His people! Instead, it was judgment on the wicked priests and Eli, who allowed their wickedness, as well as a reminder to the people that the ark was not a good luck charm. Yahweh is with his people when they are obedient and seek Him. But His plan was even larger than teaching the Israelites an important lesson—still He would not allow His name to be blasphemed among the Philistines. They thought they had triumphed over Him, but soon discovered that even their god Dagon must fall on his face in worship of Yahweh. When plagues swept through their cities, they knew it was the hand of Yahweh—and His hand continued to work in guiding the cows, bellowing all the way for their calves, to carry the ark home. Who had everything under control? Yahweh. Who got the glory? Yahweh. He is worthy!

Lord, Thou over rules our plans,
To show us Thou art not a man,
And though we do not understand
Thou still maintains control.

With circumstances that appear
To harm Thy purpose, Thou makes clear
That Thou redeemest, year by year,
Both circumstance and soul.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Apparently I’ve become part of the weekly calendar for some people. “Crazy! Is it Wednesday already?” Lauryn yawned, sitting cross-legged on her bed, with her Bible spread across her lap. “No,” I grinned. “I’m off schedule.” My desire to bring the girls a whole field of red clover resulted in only a paltry handful, presented at the door as a peace offering for showing up uninvited at eight o’clock. It’s hard to believe the Sweetest Suite will go the way of the buffalo in less than a month. Sitting on the floor of Lauryn’s room, getting in on her preparation for a Wednesday night teaching from Philippians four. Helping April pick out her outfit or distracting her from homework or getting comfy on the futon as we pray. Or even working alone in the quiet while the three of them are at class.

Ministry lunches are not tops on my menu. Large crowds of noisy students and shallow devotionals from “The Message”, but if that’s what it takes to spend time with Miss Emily, I’m sure I can handle it. Zach resembled a pouting child, waiting for Emily, April and me on the back steps of Wilson, his backpack lying neglected at his feet. “Anybody see the stick yet?” he called, waving us over. Promptly we all shifted gears and headed his direction. Funny how a habit like instant obedience becomes a burden. A million times the light has dawned, “Just because he sounds like he’s in charge doesn’t mean I have to dance to his tune.” Just as we were about to give up on Taylor, he appeared and then we were five. April always voices what I’m thinking. With her it’s not doing whatever she suggests because she suggests it, but because I already wanted to do it. “Let’s walk in the grass” or “I’m going over the top of that pile of dirt”—the things I do when I’m alone…or have a confederate. No wonder people always think we’re up to something when we grin at each other across the room.

Buckling on my spider-slaying sword, I entered Amber’s house, prepared for a severe jousting match with the arachnid who’s been terrorizing them for weeks. “See it?” Amber pointed to a corner of the ceiling. I squinted up at the tiny, grey exoskeleton dangling like a hangman on a noose. “I’ll get you a stool,” she offered and vanished from the kitchen. “Where is it?” I asked, peering again at the ceiling as she returned. “I know,” she blushed. “It’s so tiny you can hardly see it.” She bustled past me to point and then stopped. “It’s gone!” One look at my guilty face and she gave me a shove as I opened the trash can and pointed to our eradicated fiend. Ah, but such valor left me bereft of energy and I nearly drifted into dreamland as Amber talked to me. A rude heroine, indeed.

Lizzy was waiting for me outside the gymnastics building when I pulled up. This is her first “for real” visit and I’ll admit to a little nervousness. More than a little I am guilty of, but refuse to admit. I’m still not exactly sure what Eileen is hoping for or expecting. Or what Lizzy herself is expecting. She cheerfully does anything I suggest or request, doesn’t question me as I sit here, busily typing about her, and tells me funny stories in her engaging way. Most teen girls say “like” like all the time. Lizzy’s word is “all.” “Mom called me into her room and I’m all, ‘What do you need?’” We started John tonight—just after Amber and I finished this afternoon. Behold my life as a hamster: forever on the treadmill of John studies. What a great way to keep me thinking about Jesus and what He’s done—and is still doing.

I can’t seem to move on in First Samuel. One verse is eating at my thoughts and won’t permit me to move on until I find a satisfactory answer. Eli, the godly priest of God who raised Samuel, had two sons, Hophni and Phinehas, who were worthless men—stealing meat from the Lord’s sacrifice, profaning the Lord’s name and committing adultery publicly. It’s not so shocking to realize that, even thousands of years ago, the title “priest” did not make a man holy or even make him a servant of Yahweh. When Eli rebuked his sons, they ignored him, which is also not surprising, since wicked men stiffen their necks and harden their hearts against truth. “But they would not listen to the voice of their father, for Yahweh desired to put them to death.” And here I stop and shake my head to clear all my preconceptions, and reread and shake my head again. Did Yahweh prevent them from listening so that He could destroy them? What about His word through Ezekiel, “I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that the wicked turn from his way and live”? Wouldn't He desire to incline their hearts to listen to Eli? Perhaps this is a story like that of Pharaoh, where these men had hardened their own hearts and stiffened their own necks until Yahweh wouldn’t even allow them to make a wise decision in turning from folly? That Yahweh wished to destroy them because their hearts were still wicked, and didn’t allow Eli’s words to bring them to a change of action because there was no change of heart? That the continuance of their sin would render God’s judgment on their hearts righteous and show Him to be just? Had they improved their behavior, the evil in their hearts would have seemed to vanish and men would have wondered at God’s wrath. Is this Yahweh’s sovereignty, not in causing men to be evil or to do evil, but in denying them the ability to bring forth fruits in keeping with a repentance they do not possess—or even seek? And though Yahweh desired to put them to death, that their sin might not spread and defile His people, He must still have taken no pleasure in pouring out His wrath upon these two rebellious men—sons of a man He loved.

Lord, wrath is hard to comprehend;
Thou must, by nature, punish sin,
So even all the grace Thou send
Does not extend to wicked men.

For, though Thou could, by sovereignty
Demand that all should follow Thee,
Thou shows us grace and bids us choose—
Who chooses self, himself will loose.