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.
Showing posts with label blessings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blessings. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
“Read this,” Sherry told me Monday as she handed me several printed pages. “We’ve been given a citation and will appear in the Senate chamber Wednesday. See if you want to come.” My stomach flip-flopped. I’d expected some increased opposition after the murder of Dr. Tiller but I couldn’t imagine what we could have possibly done. “What is it about?” I asked, my brows knit together, perplexed. Sherry smiled easily, “It’s for our service to the state and community in saving lives.” I blinked. Wait. The citation wasn’t bad?
I told the family at supper. “It’s a citation for good work,” I explained. Papa leaned back in his chair, an enigmatic smile spreading across his face. “I got a Police citation once.” Three heads snapped quickly to look at him. “It was a citation for aiding in the apprehension of a criminal. They called me a hero.” I raised my eyebrows. “Tell us about it.” And he did.
See, when I was a wee little bairn, we lived in Hutchinson, Kansas where Papa worked as an electrical technician at the Kansas Cosmosphere. Before it was such a big deal. In fact, you can still see his work in the displays as well as several space suits that Mom sewed for the manikin space walkers. One day, Papa was working on a bicycle on the screened patio when he heard a ruckus. As he opened the screen door to see what the noise was, here came a policeman in hot pursuit of another man. As Papa started to close the door and turn away the policeman yelled “Stop him!” Papa opened the door right in front of the fleeing criminal who lost his footing and tumbled to the ground as the officer of the law dived on top of him with handcuffs. That was that. After loading up the hand-cuffed man the police officer stopped by the thank Papa. “I want to give you a citation,” he said, in spite of Papa’s protest that he hadn’t done anything. “You did more than most people would have done.” By the time Papa arrived at work the next day, he was heralded as a hero.
Mom was giggling from across the table as Papa finished his story with his disclaimer, “The policeman was the real hero.” “Tell them what it was the guy had done,” were Mom’s words. Papa grinned too as he remembered. “Well,” he said slowly, “He’d stolen a pizza.”
Now see? I always knew my dad was a hero, even if he didn’t tie Superman up in his own cape like he once told me.
Today, Crisis Pregnancy Centers all over the state of Arkansas were given a citation for their dedication and service in saving lives—both women and babies. It was my first time in my new home-state’s capitol building, and I turned circles gazing up at the marbled pillars and stairways before we entered the Senate chamber for the simple ceremony. In fact, we were some of the only people there, due to congress being out of session for the summer. It was brief and quaint, but it’s something that’s never before been done in Arkansas. Perhaps never in the nation. Recognized by the government for the effort to save lives. Just after Dr. Tiller’s murder. Just when we expected to be blasted with a smear campaign and redoubled efforts to close our doors.
We’ll hang the certificate in the clinic and take comfort knowing that we have friends in congress who will do their best to uphold the rights of the unborn and the interests of abandoned women from the side of politics.
Praise the Lord for such an encouraging reminder!
I told the family at supper. “It’s a citation for good work,” I explained. Papa leaned back in his chair, an enigmatic smile spreading across his face. “I got a Police citation once.” Three heads snapped quickly to look at him. “It was a citation for aiding in the apprehension of a criminal. They called me a hero.” I raised my eyebrows. “Tell us about it.” And he did.
See, when I was a wee little bairn, we lived in Hutchinson, Kansas where Papa worked as an electrical technician at the Kansas Cosmosphere. Before it was such a big deal. In fact, you can still see his work in the displays as well as several space suits that Mom sewed for the manikin space walkers. One day, Papa was working on a bicycle on the screened patio when he heard a ruckus. As he opened the screen door to see what the noise was, here came a policeman in hot pursuit of another man. As Papa started to close the door and turn away the policeman yelled “Stop him!” Papa opened the door right in front of the fleeing criminal who lost his footing and tumbled to the ground as the officer of the law dived on top of him with handcuffs. That was that. After loading up the hand-cuffed man the police officer stopped by the thank Papa. “I want to give you a citation,” he said, in spite of Papa’s protest that he hadn’t done anything. “You did more than most people would have done.” By the time Papa arrived at work the next day, he was heralded as a hero.
Mom was giggling from across the table as Papa finished his story with his disclaimer, “The policeman was the real hero.” “Tell them what it was the guy had done,” were Mom’s words. Papa grinned too as he remembered. “Well,” he said slowly, “He’d stolen a pizza.”
Now see? I always knew my dad was a hero, even if he didn’t tie Superman up in his own cape like he once told me.
Today, Crisis Pregnancy Centers all over the state of Arkansas were given a citation for their dedication and service in saving lives—both women and babies. It was my first time in my new home-state’s capitol building, and I turned circles gazing up at the marbled pillars and stairways before we entered the Senate chamber for the simple ceremony. In fact, we were some of the only people there, due to congress being out of session for the summer. It was brief and quaint, but it’s something that’s never before been done in Arkansas. Perhaps never in the nation. Recognized by the government for the effort to save lives. Just after Dr. Tiller’s murder. Just when we expected to be blasted with a smear campaign and redoubled efforts to close our doors.
We’ll hang the certificate in the clinic and take comfort knowing that we have friends in congress who will do their best to uphold the rights of the unborn and the interests of abandoned women from the side of politics.
Praise the Lord for such an encouraging reminder!
My 22nd birthday, Friday, June 5, 2009
All week long Mom had been asking, “So, what do you want to do for your birthday?” All week long I’d been answering, “I don’t know.” In the back of my head I was thinking, “I’d like to do nothing for my birthday.” Not nothing as in I don’t want to do anything, but nothing like Winnie-the-Pooh means it. The kind of nothing that can be done while relaxing.
At breakfast, Papa assigned me a weedeating task and I sighed inwardly. I should have asked to do nothing. Instead a shouldered the weedeater and marched out to the tick-infested woods. And returned tick-infested. I thank the Lord that chiggers don’t bite me. And I’m immune to poison ivy. And mosquito bites vanish in a matter of hours from my skin. In the realm of ichiness, ticks are my only enemies. Usually they are easily vanquished, no matter how numerous. What followed was a shower during which I got a brilliant idea.
With Emily coming in the afternoon, wouldn’t it be lovely if she and I could go knock around town, maybe do some thrift-store shopping and just generally do nothing for the afternoon? With soggy hair and a crooked smile, I suggested my plan to Mom as she fried hamburger. I expected her to declare “What a lovely idea!” Instead she half-shook her head. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea or not.”
I swallowed my tongue. In fact, I think it slid all the way down the back of my throat and down through my nervous system into my left foot where it sat feeling like a heavy lead-weight. Hadn’t she been asking all week what I wanted to do? And we were doing absolutely nothing. The kind of nothing that simply means not a thing. I rounded up my scattered thoughts before I asked, “Were you planning something?” She kind of shrugged. “Not exactly. I just had a little thing I thought we might do. We’ll see about it.”
Emily was due to arrive any time when I finally ventured again to ask Mom what she was thinking. “Well,” she said, “It’s probably okay. See what Emily wants to do when she gets here.”
I bobbed my head. Emily’s pretty easy to get along with. Usually.
In came Emily. I was in the rapping mood and started talking a hundred miles an hour. “Hey! How are you? I was thinking…I know you just came from town, but would you be up for a little goofing off? We could look for some business shirts to go with those jackets you’ve got.” “Well,” said Emily, “that might be okay.” In an instant I was off again, “Oh! But before we go, look at this bag of clothes from Amber C and see if you like any.” Emily agreed and began digging through clothes while I sat by watching.
A red pick-up pulled up into our nifty little parking lot. I glanced out the window and did a double take. “That’s funny,” I knew it wasn’t Tim and Lindsey, though I was expecting them later. “It looks like…it can’t be…it…really looks like…who in the…? It is!” And that was all I said. Then I split a grin almost big enough to swallow myself. And I just stood by my bedroom door grinning as the girl scrunched in the middle seat of the pick-up stretched her long arms and climbed out.
Just a little something Mom had planned. Just a little something called Tabitha and Cliff.
“Now you can go into town if you want,” Mom flashed me a smile as she came out the door. “Were you surprised?”
I had no clue. Absolutely none. Even though a few almost hints had been dropped. Why in the world would I suspect that Tabby and Cliff were coming all the way down just for my birthday?
With Cliff’s permission to steal his wife, we piled into Emily’s car and headed into town where we pretty much did nothing. I couldn’t have had a better birthday if I’d have planned it.
At breakfast, Papa assigned me a weedeating task and I sighed inwardly. I should have asked to do nothing. Instead a shouldered the weedeater and marched out to the tick-infested woods. And returned tick-infested. I thank the Lord that chiggers don’t bite me. And I’m immune to poison ivy. And mosquito bites vanish in a matter of hours from my skin. In the realm of ichiness, ticks are my only enemies. Usually they are easily vanquished, no matter how numerous. What followed was a shower during which I got a brilliant idea.
With Emily coming in the afternoon, wouldn’t it be lovely if she and I could go knock around town, maybe do some thrift-store shopping and just generally do nothing for the afternoon? With soggy hair and a crooked smile, I suggested my plan to Mom as she fried hamburger. I expected her to declare “What a lovely idea!” Instead she half-shook her head. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea or not.”
I swallowed my tongue. In fact, I think it slid all the way down the back of my throat and down through my nervous system into my left foot where it sat feeling like a heavy lead-weight. Hadn’t she been asking all week what I wanted to do? And we were doing absolutely nothing. The kind of nothing that simply means not a thing. I rounded up my scattered thoughts before I asked, “Were you planning something?” She kind of shrugged. “Not exactly. I just had a little thing I thought we might do. We’ll see about it.”
Emily was due to arrive any time when I finally ventured again to ask Mom what she was thinking. “Well,” she said, “It’s probably okay. See what Emily wants to do when she gets here.”
I bobbed my head. Emily’s pretty easy to get along with. Usually.
In came Emily. I was in the rapping mood and started talking a hundred miles an hour. “Hey! How are you? I was thinking…I know you just came from town, but would you be up for a little goofing off? We could look for some business shirts to go with those jackets you’ve got.” “Well,” said Emily, “that might be okay.” In an instant I was off again, “Oh! But before we go, look at this bag of clothes from Amber C and see if you like any.” Emily agreed and began digging through clothes while I sat by watching.
A red pick-up pulled up into our nifty little parking lot. I glanced out the window and did a double take. “That’s funny,” I knew it wasn’t Tim and Lindsey, though I was expecting them later. “It looks like…it can’t be…it…really looks like…who in the…? It is!” And that was all I said. Then I split a grin almost big enough to swallow myself. And I just stood by my bedroom door grinning as the girl scrunched in the middle seat of the pick-up stretched her long arms and climbed out.
Just a little something Mom had planned. Just a little something called Tabitha and Cliff.
“Now you can go into town if you want,” Mom flashed me a smile as she came out the door. “Were you surprised?”
I had no clue. Absolutely none. Even though a few almost hints had been dropped. Why in the world would I suspect that Tabby and Cliff were coming all the way down just for my birthday?
With Cliff’s permission to steal his wife, we piled into Emily’s car and headed into town where we pretty much did nothing. I couldn’t have had a better birthday if I’d have planned it.
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.
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.
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?”
December 1, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Josiah and I walked through the entrance to Wal-mart laden with return items—a couple of crock-pots, a coffee grinder and a pair of jeans—from the family’s shopping spree on Black Friday. “We have half a million returns,” I smiled apologetically at the lady stickering returns. “I only count four,” Josiah commented dryly. The lady tossed us a sympathetic smile. “That’s all right,” she said, taking the first box from my arms. “When I got married…”
Of course, getting us to Wal-mart required effort. People are like the clocks of old—some run more quickly than others. I’d warned Josiah we were leaving at eight. Right after breakfast and chores. Eight o’clock rolled around and I walked out the door, purse slung over my arm, keys in hand. I opened the garage door myself. I loaded all the returns into the back of the pick-up. Then I backed the vehicle out of the garage and sat waiting. And waiting. And waiting. It’s a funny thing, this waiting business. Seems like my whole life has been spent waiting. Papa used to be the timely one. The first one in the car waiting on the rest of us. Soon I learned to be out the door as soon as he hollered “Let’s go!” Now I’m the one who waits in the car for everyone else. Even Papa gave up on being out early. I get supper on early, call everyone and wait. While the food grows cold. We make plans to start projects at a specified time and I emerge from my den and wait. While everyone else leisurely finishes up whatever they were doing when the deadline rolled around. I wait for others to finish their tasks so I can do mine. Sometimes I just do both because I get tired of waiting. This morning as I sat in the truck, waiting, I could feel the tendons in my neck growing tighter and tighter. I have a schedule, you know, Josiah. It’s planned out perfectly so we can get everything done perfectly. You know we have a lot to get done, Josiah. And we’ve got to get started on time, you know, Josiah. Josiah, I did tell you what time we needed to leave? How long ago did I holler “Let’s go”? How long have I been waiting? Why is my whole life filled with people who keep me waiting?!
Then, as if they sun had burst through the foggy clouds, came my moment of truth. Uh, duh, Abigail. You’re life is filled with waiting because you still haven’t become good at it. And Yahweh knows that practice makes perfect.
I managed to make it to the Doctor's on time. And then we appeared at the home of Miss Judy and Amber to finish much of the work which we had begun, making their apartment a home. The pictures hanging on the walls and the curtains in the windows add so much warmth and coziness to that little abode. Josiah and I were on a mission today to hang a couple of shelves in Amber’s room—and string up some curtains—lime green, tied back with purple ribbons and a sheer overlay of silver stars. Makes me think of pickle and jelly sandwiches smothered in fairy dust. It matched the rest of her room perfectly. But we didn’t finish on schedule. Quite. “Are you almost done?” I demanded as Emily called, wondering if we were going to make it for lunch. We finished our work in a flurry and made a mad dash for the pick-up and on to campus. And we made it. Barely.
Then, as predictably as the tide, we were back out and on the road home. I still had to clean the Ware’s. I try to make a racket coming in and holler “knock, knock” in case Travis is still home. As soon as I stepped in, I noticed the dark form of a head and shoulder slumped over the couch. Great. He was sleeping. I hate trying to figure out how to wake sleeping people without scaring them. For me, the slightest noise sends me bounding from bed, but I've developed a reputation for sneaking up on people--accidentally. Travis had slept through my vacuuming before. I cleaned the back bathroom and came back out into the living room. There he still reposed. But just then Josiah called. “Hey,” I whispered. “Come over here. Travis is asleep on the couch and I don’t want to scare him.” After all he was an Air Force courier in active combat. No telling what he’d do if threatened. Plus, he just had heart surgery. Josiah arrived post-haste and walked straight up to the snoozing form, scooped it up and displayed his find. “Here’s Travis,” he announced, holding up a black hooded sweatshirt.
It was late when I talked to Jacinda. But later still when we finally hung up as I drooped in a near-slumber posture. I’ve heard others accuse her of not talking. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t talk, but the world is full of people who don’t listen. They assume that those who won’t compete with them simply can’t talk. Jacinda is a wealth of interesting thought-patterns and lovely revelations. Some find her harsh, but she’s at least as harsh on herself as she is on anyone else. She always seeks to speak truth and she proclaims her own faults with more fervor than she ever would anyone else’s. She’s quick to challenge herself and her attitudes and even quicker to seek the Lord in all things. So I let her talk. I love to hear her vent. She says she hates journaling, but when she talks to me I hear her heartbeat as she works through issues, sorts out her feelings, digs for the truth and finally triumphs. “I don’t talk to anyone else like I do you,” she told me, and I grew warm all over. Even if I needed two-by-fours to prop my eyelids open, her words permeated my mind and sent a smile shivering all over my body. Maybe she is struggling with the shallowness of the girls at training. Maybe she is struggling with developing deeper relationships and feeling like others won't open up to her. But I love hearing it all, because that’s the thread of feeling running through Jacinda’s heart. And I feel privileged to reach out and touch it. People don’t realize what they are missing when they don’t listen. The first warbled notes of a fledgling sparrow, proclaiming the Creator’s genius. The veiled tears behind the standard, “fine, thank you, how are you?” The wonder and delight of a child touching an animal. The hesitation in a voice that wishes you would ask more. The heart throb of one of God’s precious children—that only He hears with perfect clarity. In this vast world, I am privileged to hear a tiny bit of what He hears. And all of it is important to Him.
I listen to His creation, but how often do I listen to Him? In those moments between perfect scheduling and frustration, while I wait for that person who is chronically late or wonder when this important event will finally come to pass, my own thoughts clamor for my attention, ranting and raging and railing on the one who keeps me waiting. Forgetting that it’s actually One who keeps me waiting. Because nothing gets off of His schedule. And I forget to tune my heart to hear the subtle truths He would teach me through my frustrations, through my circumstances, through my surroundings. That singing bird is a work of His genius—it trusts Him entirely for every breath it takes, for every moment it flies through the glorious air. He keeps me waiting because He would have me ready—not to do a host of all-important things, but to listen. To hear His voice in the quiet moments of meditation, when He gently reminds me of the truth of His word.
Lord, aren’t Thou, who made the ear
Worth the time it takes to hear?
Thou who spoke the final word,
Must forevermore be heard.
Teach me such an attitude
To listen, with my heart renewed
To hear whatever Thou might say
And hearing, hasten to obey.
Josiah and I walked through the entrance to Wal-mart laden with return items—a couple of crock-pots, a coffee grinder and a pair of jeans—from the family’s shopping spree on Black Friday. “We have half a million returns,” I smiled apologetically at the lady stickering returns. “I only count four,” Josiah commented dryly. The lady tossed us a sympathetic smile. “That’s all right,” she said, taking the first box from my arms. “When I got married…”
Of course, getting us to Wal-mart required effort. People are like the clocks of old—some run more quickly than others. I’d warned Josiah we were leaving at eight. Right after breakfast and chores. Eight o’clock rolled around and I walked out the door, purse slung over my arm, keys in hand. I opened the garage door myself. I loaded all the returns into the back of the pick-up. Then I backed the vehicle out of the garage and sat waiting. And waiting. And waiting. It’s a funny thing, this waiting business. Seems like my whole life has been spent waiting. Papa used to be the timely one. The first one in the car waiting on the rest of us. Soon I learned to be out the door as soon as he hollered “Let’s go!” Now I’m the one who waits in the car for everyone else. Even Papa gave up on being out early. I get supper on early, call everyone and wait. While the food grows cold. We make plans to start projects at a specified time and I emerge from my den and wait. While everyone else leisurely finishes up whatever they were doing when the deadline rolled around. I wait for others to finish their tasks so I can do mine. Sometimes I just do both because I get tired of waiting. This morning as I sat in the truck, waiting, I could feel the tendons in my neck growing tighter and tighter. I have a schedule, you know, Josiah. It’s planned out perfectly so we can get everything done perfectly. You know we have a lot to get done, Josiah. And we’ve got to get started on time, you know, Josiah. Josiah, I did tell you what time we needed to leave? How long ago did I holler “Let’s go”? How long have I been waiting? Why is my whole life filled with people who keep me waiting?!
Then, as if they sun had burst through the foggy clouds, came my moment of truth. Uh, duh, Abigail. You’re life is filled with waiting because you still haven’t become good at it. And Yahweh knows that practice makes perfect.
I managed to make it to the Doctor's on time. And then we appeared at the home of Miss Judy and Amber to finish much of the work which we had begun, making their apartment a home. The pictures hanging on the walls and the curtains in the windows add so much warmth and coziness to that little abode. Josiah and I were on a mission today to hang a couple of shelves in Amber’s room—and string up some curtains—lime green, tied back with purple ribbons and a sheer overlay of silver stars. Makes me think of pickle and jelly sandwiches smothered in fairy dust. It matched the rest of her room perfectly. But we didn’t finish on schedule. Quite. “Are you almost done?” I demanded as Emily called, wondering if we were going to make it for lunch. We finished our work in a flurry and made a mad dash for the pick-up and on to campus. And we made it. Barely.
Then, as predictably as the tide, we were back out and on the road home. I still had to clean the Ware’s. I try to make a racket coming in and holler “knock, knock” in case Travis is still home. As soon as I stepped in, I noticed the dark form of a head and shoulder slumped over the couch. Great. He was sleeping. I hate trying to figure out how to wake sleeping people without scaring them. For me, the slightest noise sends me bounding from bed, but I've developed a reputation for sneaking up on people--accidentally. Travis had slept through my vacuuming before. I cleaned the back bathroom and came back out into the living room. There he still reposed. But just then Josiah called. “Hey,” I whispered. “Come over here. Travis is asleep on the couch and I don’t want to scare him.” After all he was an Air Force courier in active combat. No telling what he’d do if threatened. Plus, he just had heart surgery. Josiah arrived post-haste and walked straight up to the snoozing form, scooped it up and displayed his find. “Here’s Travis,” he announced, holding up a black hooded sweatshirt.
It was late when I talked to Jacinda. But later still when we finally hung up as I drooped in a near-slumber posture. I’ve heard others accuse her of not talking. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t talk, but the world is full of people who don’t listen. They assume that those who won’t compete with them simply can’t talk. Jacinda is a wealth of interesting thought-patterns and lovely revelations. Some find her harsh, but she’s at least as harsh on herself as she is on anyone else. She always seeks to speak truth and she proclaims her own faults with more fervor than she ever would anyone else’s. She’s quick to challenge herself and her attitudes and even quicker to seek the Lord in all things. So I let her talk. I love to hear her vent. She says she hates journaling, but when she talks to me I hear her heartbeat as she works through issues, sorts out her feelings, digs for the truth and finally triumphs. “I don’t talk to anyone else like I do you,” she told me, and I grew warm all over. Even if I needed two-by-fours to prop my eyelids open, her words permeated my mind and sent a smile shivering all over my body. Maybe she is struggling with the shallowness of the girls at training. Maybe she is struggling with developing deeper relationships and feeling like others won't open up to her. But I love hearing it all, because that’s the thread of feeling running through Jacinda’s heart. And I feel privileged to reach out and touch it. People don’t realize what they are missing when they don’t listen. The first warbled notes of a fledgling sparrow, proclaiming the Creator’s genius. The veiled tears behind the standard, “fine, thank you, how are you?” The wonder and delight of a child touching an animal. The hesitation in a voice that wishes you would ask more. The heart throb of one of God’s precious children—that only He hears with perfect clarity. In this vast world, I am privileged to hear a tiny bit of what He hears. And all of it is important to Him.
I listen to His creation, but how often do I listen to Him? In those moments between perfect scheduling and frustration, while I wait for that person who is chronically late or wonder when this important event will finally come to pass, my own thoughts clamor for my attention, ranting and raging and railing on the one who keeps me waiting. Forgetting that it’s actually One who keeps me waiting. Because nothing gets off of His schedule. And I forget to tune my heart to hear the subtle truths He would teach me through my frustrations, through my circumstances, through my surroundings. That singing bird is a work of His genius—it trusts Him entirely for every breath it takes, for every moment it flies through the glorious air. He keeps me waiting because He would have me ready—not to do a host of all-important things, but to listen. To hear His voice in the quiet moments of meditation, when He gently reminds me of the truth of His word.
Lord, aren’t Thou, who made the ear
Worth the time it takes to hear?
Thou who spoke the final word,
Must forevermore be heard.
Teach me such an attitude
To listen, with my heart renewed
To hear whatever Thou might say
And hearing, hasten to obey.
Because I am Completely Single
(From 2 Peter 1:2-11)
And society insists I should be whining about it. Secular society proclaims that something must be terribly amiss if I have no boyfriend while Christian society simply insinuates my second-rateness by asking, “You’re still not married?”
Because a significant other is, after all, the measure of completeness.
Step back in time with me to a day when I was at enmity with God, excluded from His promises, cut off from His mercy by my sin. Having rebelled against Almighty God, choosing myself over Him, I found myself in a place of stark emptiness, alone, accursed, afraid. Single. Strip me back to the raw bones of helpless humanity and my needs become apparent—only one: to know God. Jesus stepped in, offering His life a ransom for my sins, redeeming me into a relationship with God, saving my soul from eminent death and destruction and betrothing me to Himself for eternity. Jesus took an empty, meaningless life and hid it in His making me complete.
In Christ, God granted to me everything pertaining to life and godliness. Do I lack?
Once upon a time you, too, were incomplete. Broken. Empty. Excluded from God’s mercy. But if you know Christ, you have everything. You are complete. Society doesn’t know God and tries to fill His place with everything imaginable: talent, money, beauty, fame, intelligence, experience, health, food, power, family, friends and romance. None of these complete you. Not even having all your appendages attached and in working order makes you a complete person. Completeness is apart from anything you can touch or see. Knowing Christ, you have escaped the corruption that is in the world by lust. Lust that is never satisfied, that always wants more. That we pursue until it controls us. You needn’t pursue anything but Yahweh.
Does this make “other” things evil? Not at all. Each of these things is a responsibility given by God to glorify Him. Every good thing and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights (James 1:17). He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, will He not also along with Him, graciously give us all things (Romans 8:32)? We know that God will supply all our needs according to the riches in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:19). Take it back to the basics and we discover that we only have one primal need—to be saved, to belong to God. Everything else is a bonus. More. Above and beyond. An overflowing cup.
If your Heavenly Father met your primal need for a Savior, so miraculously bridging the gap between fallen man and perfect deity, does He have the power and wisdom to will and to work in your life for His good pleasure? Is there really anything “missing”? Are you incomplete? Lacking something?
Of course not. You have everything you need for life and godliness. Jesus. The lover of your soul. The bread from heaven. The pearl of great price. He beautifies the afflicted with salvation. He heals the soul. He makes wise the foolish and strengthens the weak. He is a father to the fatherless and a friend to all those who call on Him.
I realize that reflecting on these almost cliché truths sets your heart at ease and puts a smile on your face—for the duration of about two minutes. Just until the next wedding announcement arrives or you climb into bed alone. When sitting patiently, singing “Jesus is all the world to me” fails to stave off those second-rate blues, forget waiting to be pursued by a man and pursue!
Pursue Yahweh--Seek to know Him intimately, what pleases and displeases Him, His goals, His purposes, His promises. While you are unmarried, you have so much time energy and emotion you could be pouring into seeking Yahweh and building a foundation that will hold strong through the rest of your life. Are you wasting that time in pining for a husband when you already have a Perfect Lover?
Pursue your family--There is no shame, no indiscretion in a girl wooing her father or brothers. Certainly none in her reaching out to her mother or sisters. While you are unmarried you have so much time, energy and emotion that you could pour into the relationships that will best prepare you for marriage and uphold you through it—the relationships God has already blessed you with. He who is faithful in small things will be given great things (Mark 25:21). Are you wasting this precious training ground by day-dreaming of “escaping” it?
Pursue relationships with other girls—When Jesus healed the Gerasene demoniac (Mark 5:1-20), the man begged to go with Jesus. His request was a good one. Your desire for marriage is also. But Jesus told him “no.” That “no” was not a punishment. It was a redirection. The Lord had work for that man to do. The result of his cheerful obedience was that, even though Jesus had to leave the area, the entire region heard the good news of Jesus’ salvation. While you are unmarried, you have so much time, energy and emotion that you could be pouring into relationships with other girls. Are you wasting it feeling sorry for yourself when others could benefit from your encouragement?
Endure! Press on! Knowing that by the testing of your faith you will be perfect and complete, lacking nothing (James 1:2-4)! Be diligent to supplement your faith with moral excellence, consistently choosing to do the right thing. Your moral excellence comes from the knowledge of Christ! You come to know Christ through self-control and diligent study of Him and His word, which requires perseverance in your desire for God. Reach out to others, be kind to others. Forget about being “in love” and love! For real.
And guess what—you’ll find that you’ve been preparing for marriage in the best way possible. Or for whatever else the Lord might throw your way. You’re not depending on a husband to complete you. Or a father. Or a friend. Or anything else. Only Christ is perfect. Only Christ will never disappoint. In Christ you are complete. Lacking nothing. That is the secret of contentment in all circumstances (Philippians 4:11-13). Married? Single? Widowed? Your completeness comes from Christ. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
If these qualities are yours and are increasing, you’re neither useless nor unfruitful! You’re not incomplete. Second-rate. In Christ, you have everything you need for life and godliness. If you practice these things, you will never stumble. You’ll be so busy enjoying both that you’ll forget about the fact that you’re “still not married.” That you only turn down one side of your bed. You’ll forget to evaluate guys in light of your “husband-worthy” list. Time will fly by while the Lord is at work writing the life-stories that only He knows how to compose. Being completely single is an opportunity to be completely singled out to serve the Lord only. It’s an opportunity that, most likely, will not last forever.
Why would I whine about being free to serve Yahweh wholly? Why would I worry whether the God of eternity takes note of the ticking of a biological clock? Why would I feel as if I’m missing out on all the things God doesn’t have for me right now? I’ve got everything I need. In Christ I am complete.
Once I was a broken child,
Marked for death, by sin defiled,
But Thou hast brought me near by grace
To gaze upon Thy perfect face.
Complete in Jesus Christ I stand,
He holds me wholly in His hand,
I need no argument or plea—
He died to set my spirit free.
This is the love that Jesus brings,
Who left His throne as King of Kings,
And donned my sinful flesh to prove
The height and breadth and depth of love.
Complete in Jesus Christ I stand,
Receiving mercy from His hand
I trust that He will also give
Whatever I most need to live.
What else should I demand or plead?
I have no other pressing need
But to partake of Love Divine
And to be His as He is mine.
Complete in Jesus Christ I stand,
And dare to open wide my hands
To let go of my hopes and dreams,
Be emptied to be filled by Him.
And society insists I should be whining about it. Secular society proclaims that something must be terribly amiss if I have no boyfriend while Christian society simply insinuates my second-rateness by asking, “You’re still not married?”
Because a significant other is, after all, the measure of completeness.
Step back in time with me to a day when I was at enmity with God, excluded from His promises, cut off from His mercy by my sin. Having rebelled against Almighty God, choosing myself over Him, I found myself in a place of stark emptiness, alone, accursed, afraid. Single. Strip me back to the raw bones of helpless humanity and my needs become apparent—only one: to know God. Jesus stepped in, offering His life a ransom for my sins, redeeming me into a relationship with God, saving my soul from eminent death and destruction and betrothing me to Himself for eternity. Jesus took an empty, meaningless life and hid it in His making me complete.
In Christ, God granted to me everything pertaining to life and godliness. Do I lack?
Once upon a time you, too, were incomplete. Broken. Empty. Excluded from God’s mercy. But if you know Christ, you have everything. You are complete. Society doesn’t know God and tries to fill His place with everything imaginable: talent, money, beauty, fame, intelligence, experience, health, food, power, family, friends and romance. None of these complete you. Not even having all your appendages attached and in working order makes you a complete person. Completeness is apart from anything you can touch or see. Knowing Christ, you have escaped the corruption that is in the world by lust. Lust that is never satisfied, that always wants more. That we pursue until it controls us. You needn’t pursue anything but Yahweh.
Does this make “other” things evil? Not at all. Each of these things is a responsibility given by God to glorify Him. Every good thing and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights (James 1:17). He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, will He not also along with Him, graciously give us all things (Romans 8:32)? We know that God will supply all our needs according to the riches in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:19). Take it back to the basics and we discover that we only have one primal need—to be saved, to belong to God. Everything else is a bonus. More. Above and beyond. An overflowing cup.
If your Heavenly Father met your primal need for a Savior, so miraculously bridging the gap between fallen man and perfect deity, does He have the power and wisdom to will and to work in your life for His good pleasure? Is there really anything “missing”? Are you incomplete? Lacking something?
Of course not. You have everything you need for life and godliness. Jesus. The lover of your soul. The bread from heaven. The pearl of great price. He beautifies the afflicted with salvation. He heals the soul. He makes wise the foolish and strengthens the weak. He is a father to the fatherless and a friend to all those who call on Him.
I realize that reflecting on these almost cliché truths sets your heart at ease and puts a smile on your face—for the duration of about two minutes. Just until the next wedding announcement arrives or you climb into bed alone. When sitting patiently, singing “Jesus is all the world to me” fails to stave off those second-rate blues, forget waiting to be pursued by a man and pursue!
Pursue Yahweh--Seek to know Him intimately, what pleases and displeases Him, His goals, His purposes, His promises. While you are unmarried, you have so much time energy and emotion you could be pouring into seeking Yahweh and building a foundation that will hold strong through the rest of your life. Are you wasting that time in pining for a husband when you already have a Perfect Lover?
Pursue your family--There is no shame, no indiscretion in a girl wooing her father or brothers. Certainly none in her reaching out to her mother or sisters. While you are unmarried you have so much time, energy and emotion that you could pour into the relationships that will best prepare you for marriage and uphold you through it—the relationships God has already blessed you with. He who is faithful in small things will be given great things (Mark 25:21). Are you wasting this precious training ground by day-dreaming of “escaping” it?
Pursue relationships with other girls—When Jesus healed the Gerasene demoniac (Mark 5:1-20), the man begged to go with Jesus. His request was a good one. Your desire for marriage is also. But Jesus told him “no.” That “no” was not a punishment. It was a redirection. The Lord had work for that man to do. The result of his cheerful obedience was that, even though Jesus had to leave the area, the entire region heard the good news of Jesus’ salvation. While you are unmarried, you have so much time, energy and emotion that you could be pouring into relationships with other girls. Are you wasting it feeling sorry for yourself when others could benefit from your encouragement?
Endure! Press on! Knowing that by the testing of your faith you will be perfect and complete, lacking nothing (James 1:2-4)! Be diligent to supplement your faith with moral excellence, consistently choosing to do the right thing. Your moral excellence comes from the knowledge of Christ! You come to know Christ through self-control and diligent study of Him and His word, which requires perseverance in your desire for God. Reach out to others, be kind to others. Forget about being “in love” and love! For real.
And guess what—you’ll find that you’ve been preparing for marriage in the best way possible. Or for whatever else the Lord might throw your way. You’re not depending on a husband to complete you. Or a father. Or a friend. Or anything else. Only Christ is perfect. Only Christ will never disappoint. In Christ you are complete. Lacking nothing. That is the secret of contentment in all circumstances (Philippians 4:11-13). Married? Single? Widowed? Your completeness comes from Christ. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
If these qualities are yours and are increasing, you’re neither useless nor unfruitful! You’re not incomplete. Second-rate. In Christ, you have everything you need for life and godliness. If you practice these things, you will never stumble. You’ll be so busy enjoying both that you’ll forget about the fact that you’re “still not married.” That you only turn down one side of your bed. You’ll forget to evaluate guys in light of your “husband-worthy” list. Time will fly by while the Lord is at work writing the life-stories that only He knows how to compose. Being completely single is an opportunity to be completely singled out to serve the Lord only. It’s an opportunity that, most likely, will not last forever.
Why would I whine about being free to serve Yahweh wholly? Why would I worry whether the God of eternity takes note of the ticking of a biological clock? Why would I feel as if I’m missing out on all the things God doesn’t have for me right now? I’ve got everything I need. In Christ I am complete.
Once I was a broken child,
Marked for death, by sin defiled,
But Thou hast brought me near by grace
To gaze upon Thy perfect face.
Complete in Jesus Christ I stand,
He holds me wholly in His hand,
I need no argument or plea—
He died to set my spirit free.
This is the love that Jesus brings,
Who left His throne as King of Kings,
And donned my sinful flesh to prove
The height and breadth and depth of love.
Complete in Jesus Christ I stand,
Receiving mercy from His hand
I trust that He will also give
Whatever I most need to live.
What else should I demand or plead?
I have no other pressing need
But to partake of Love Divine
And to be His as He is mine.
Complete in Jesus Christ I stand,
And dare to open wide my hands
To let go of my hopes and dreams,
Be emptied to be filled by Him.
Because He’s Not Sentimental
“Did you watch that Mark Twain movie with us?” Papa asked me as I sat on his bedroom floor. “No,” I answered. “Was it good?” He shrugged. “He had a daughter—his youngest I think. Susie was her name. I guess he was kind of enigmatic. Hard to understand. And she really just intuitively understood him. They were very close.” I looked up. “I think I remember hearing that,” I answered. “Didn’t he get really depressed when she died?” Papa nodded, but he didn’t say anything more. When I came to kiss him good night he said, “I love you, Baby.” “I love you, too,” I responded, thinking how far we’ve come since the days of my early teens, when we seemed to have drifted miles apart. Then he added, “Hearing about Mark Twain’s daughter made me think of you.” My heart swelled and pressed against the inside of my ribs so I could hardly breathe. I didn’t answer. What could I say? Papa’s not a sentimental person. He rarely says things that earn an “aw.” I quietly walked down the hall and into my room, my eyes filling with tears—happy tears. What amazing things Jesus can do! Just a few words, but I knew exactly what he meant. He couldn’t have said it better.
Lord, ‘tis Thou whose grace imparts
The turning of a father’s heart
To his daughter, hers to him
And sets love like a diadem
Upon the brow of each in Thee,
To mirror Thy paternity.
When I gaze on both my fathers
I am blessed among all daughters.
Lord, ‘tis Thou whose grace imparts
The turning of a father’s heart
To his daughter, hers to him
And sets love like a diadem
Upon the brow of each in Thee,
To mirror Thy paternity.
When I gaze on both my fathers
I am blessed among all daughters.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
I should have known better than to ask Josiah to help me wash the Suburban. And I certainly should have known better than to hand him the hose. I hardly need explain how cold the water was, or how he seemed unable to stop eliciting funny squeaks and complaints from me. “You never just say ‘stop’,” he defended himself. “You sound like you’re having fun.” That’s because I think it’s funny. I know I make funny noises when doused with cold water. I’m just hoping he’ll be gentleman enough to stop without me asking. The Suburban is now waxed and shiny, vacuumed inside and ready for sale. It will be something new for us not to have a vehicle that seats more than five people.
I opened my Bible to the book of Ruth and smiled. Fairytales are silliness. Romance novels are disgusting. Feminist literature is nauseating. But here, at the end of the tale of humanism, I find a woman I can admire and emulate. Not even a Jew. Excluded from the commonwealth of Israel. Married to a disobedient man. Widowed at a young age. Ruth made the decision to leave her people and her country in pursuit of Yahweh and in service to her mother-in-law. Humble, faithful, industrious and hopeful, Ruth rescued her Jewish family from ruin, her mother-in-law from despair and herself from paganism at home and despising in Israel by throwing herself upon the mercy of the God of Israel. Her trust reaped bountiful rewards through a kind kinsman redeemer who recognized her character and married her, placing her in the ancestry to Christ. “Ah,” said the women of Israel, to Naomi, her mother-in-law. “Ruth is better to you than seven sons!” Ruth’s faithfulness left Naomi better provided for than her husband or sons had ever done. In this is the beauty of the story: the truth that Jesus is our kinsman redeemer, waiting for us to come to Him and say, “Can you help me?” When we throw ourselves on His mercy and kindness, we find that He will not rest until He has redeemed us, made us respectable, beautiful and finally, brought us home to be with Him forever.
Here I kneel at His feet, in awe of His kindness in noticing me, a humble maidservant, foreign to His people.
Lord, I praise Thee, precious Lord!
My purity has been restored,
My heart seems to again be one
Delighting in Thy Risen Son.
And, Oh, the thoughts that weighed me down,
Have flown, Thou art the only sound
My ears or heart can hear or heed.
At last, my Love, Thou’rt all I need.
I opened my Bible to the book of Ruth and smiled. Fairytales are silliness. Romance novels are disgusting. Feminist literature is nauseating. But here, at the end of the tale of humanism, I find a woman I can admire and emulate. Not even a Jew. Excluded from the commonwealth of Israel. Married to a disobedient man. Widowed at a young age. Ruth made the decision to leave her people and her country in pursuit of Yahweh and in service to her mother-in-law. Humble, faithful, industrious and hopeful, Ruth rescued her Jewish family from ruin, her mother-in-law from despair and herself from paganism at home and despising in Israel by throwing herself upon the mercy of the God of Israel. Her trust reaped bountiful rewards through a kind kinsman redeemer who recognized her character and married her, placing her in the ancestry to Christ. “Ah,” said the women of Israel, to Naomi, her mother-in-law. “Ruth is better to you than seven sons!” Ruth’s faithfulness left Naomi better provided for than her husband or sons had ever done. In this is the beauty of the story: the truth that Jesus is our kinsman redeemer, waiting for us to come to Him and say, “Can you help me?” When we throw ourselves on His mercy and kindness, we find that He will not rest until He has redeemed us, made us respectable, beautiful and finally, brought us home to be with Him forever.
Here I kneel at His feet, in awe of His kindness in noticing me, a humble maidservant, foreign to His people.
Lord, I praise Thee, precious Lord!
My purity has been restored,
My heart seems to again be one
Delighting in Thy Risen Son.
And, Oh, the thoughts that weighed me down,
Have flown, Thou art the only sound
My ears or heart can hear or heed.
At last, my Love, Thou’rt all I need.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Grandma’s house is a place to grow fat. She always makes enough food to feed an army of hippos and insists we eat it. “No one’s going anywhere until that vegetable soup is gone.” “I made a huge cake! I expect to see it eaten.” I was delighted we had Nick along to help our endeavor.
And Mandy was another welcome addition. “I’m at my Grandma’s,” I told her over the phone. “Are you busy this afternoon?” As a matter of fact she wasn’t. And she was coming to town anyway for a game night at Abigail and Shane’s. After an amazing lunch of chicken enchiladas, eaten fashionably late (at three o’clock), the whole family packed out in the suburban and headed into their house for a tour and a glimpse of little Miss Sofia Grace. A few months ago I’d figured I’d be spending my days holding Abigail’s baby and hanging out with Mandy. This is the first time I’ve held Sofia, and I’ve not seen Mandy in six months. Seems like I keep being reminded how the Lord changes things—quickly sometimes. I always look ahead, when the change is still misty and unknown and grow frightened, but each change is simply the rerouting of a channel. The flow is never stopped—just redirected. Never as dangerous as my overactive imagination deems possible.
Grandma’s house is also a wealth of distractions. “I’ll have plenty of time to finish Joshua,” I cheerfully tell myself, but instead I sit through the entire KU game, keeping track of the players almost as avidly as Grandma herself. As if I care who makes it into the top four. As if it has any benefit or bearing on my life or the path the Lord would have me walk. As if watching these poor deluded souls grasping at a fading crown will somehow spur me on toward my own eternal crown.
“The Prayer of Jabez” lay quietly by on the coffee table, so I picked it up and started reading. More out of curiosity, since I’d seen more “prayer of Jabez” paraphernalia than I ever cared to see. Creating study Bibles named after one verse seems a bit of overkill to me. However, I soon found myself engrossed in the truths and principles shared in this original pocket-sized book—many of which the Lord has been bringing forth in my life already. Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, “Oh that Thou wouldst bless me indeed, and enlarge my border, and that Thy hand might be with me, and that Thou wouldst keep me from evil, that it may not bring pain to me.” A simple prayer, it seems, and perhaps a little self-serving. In my self-righteousness, I tend to reprimand myself for praying for “me” all the time. But David, the man after God’s own heart prayed and pleaded for himself constantly. Yahweh wants us to seek Him for ourselves, to seek His blessings for ourselves, and to seek His protection for ourselves. This little booklet broke down Jabez’s prayer into four parts: A plea for God’s blessing, a plea for increased influence, a plea for God’s empowering and a plea to be kept from temptation. When we ask for God to bless what we do, we must understand that His blessings point to Him, that He blesses what brings glory to Him, that His blessings include pruning, disciplining and guidance. When we ask that he increase our influence, we are asking for more ministry—sometimes beyond what we can handle! I’ve seen this over and over again in my life, especially in the past few months. But having more than we can handle is simply the perfect situation for Yahweh to work—if we humbly entreat His hand to be with us, His Spirit to empower us, His wisdom to guide us. There is no question then about Who did the work. The more we seek to do for the Lord, the larger a target we make ourselves to Satan. To pray to be kept from temptation—“lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil,” Jesus taught His disciples to pray. Beg the Lord, not only for strength to endure, to resist and to come safely through temptation, but pray in advance that He would remove temptation, that He would keep our feet on a level path. What could glorify God more than to bless us as we seek to serve Him, by His power and to implore His protection from even the temptation to sin? Chronicles tell us, God answered the prayer of Jabez.
As I read, my mind kept coming back to Caleb, the man I read about this morning. Of the generation that rebelled against Yahweh and fearfully refused to take the land, only Joshua and Caleb lived to enter the land—the two spies who remained faithful to Yahweh. Incidentally, Caleb’s name means faithful. At age eighty-five, when he finally entered the land and took his possession, he came to Joshua saying, “I’m still strong! There’s still so much to do! Give me more land (enlarge my boundaries) so I can drive out the Lord’s enemies.” What a delight Caleb must have been to Yahweh, in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, he shone like a light, praising Yahweh for giving him health, desiring more room to use God’s blessings to further God’s name.
Lord, bless me! Bless my soul indeed
Fulfill my deeply rooted need
To be with Thee and to be Thine,
And turn my water into wine
That it may bring Thy joy to all,
And hear my prayer whene’er I call.
May Thy hand be swift to guide me
And from every evil hide me.
And Mandy was another welcome addition. “I’m at my Grandma’s,” I told her over the phone. “Are you busy this afternoon?” As a matter of fact she wasn’t. And she was coming to town anyway for a game night at Abigail and Shane’s. After an amazing lunch of chicken enchiladas, eaten fashionably late (at three o’clock), the whole family packed out in the suburban and headed into their house for a tour and a glimpse of little Miss Sofia Grace. A few months ago I’d figured I’d be spending my days holding Abigail’s baby and hanging out with Mandy. This is the first time I’ve held Sofia, and I’ve not seen Mandy in six months. Seems like I keep being reminded how the Lord changes things—quickly sometimes. I always look ahead, when the change is still misty and unknown and grow frightened, but each change is simply the rerouting of a channel. The flow is never stopped—just redirected. Never as dangerous as my overactive imagination deems possible.
Grandma’s house is also a wealth of distractions. “I’ll have plenty of time to finish Joshua,” I cheerfully tell myself, but instead I sit through the entire KU game, keeping track of the players almost as avidly as Grandma herself. As if I care who makes it into the top four. As if it has any benefit or bearing on my life or the path the Lord would have me walk. As if watching these poor deluded souls grasping at a fading crown will somehow spur me on toward my own eternal crown.
“The Prayer of Jabez” lay quietly by on the coffee table, so I picked it up and started reading. More out of curiosity, since I’d seen more “prayer of Jabez” paraphernalia than I ever cared to see. Creating study Bibles named after one verse seems a bit of overkill to me. However, I soon found myself engrossed in the truths and principles shared in this original pocket-sized book—many of which the Lord has been bringing forth in my life already. Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, “Oh that Thou wouldst bless me indeed, and enlarge my border, and that Thy hand might be with me, and that Thou wouldst keep me from evil, that it may not bring pain to me.” A simple prayer, it seems, and perhaps a little self-serving. In my self-righteousness, I tend to reprimand myself for praying for “me” all the time. But David, the man after God’s own heart prayed and pleaded for himself constantly. Yahweh wants us to seek Him for ourselves, to seek His blessings for ourselves, and to seek His protection for ourselves. This little booklet broke down Jabez’s prayer into four parts: A plea for God’s blessing, a plea for increased influence, a plea for God’s empowering and a plea to be kept from temptation. When we ask for God to bless what we do, we must understand that His blessings point to Him, that He blesses what brings glory to Him, that His blessings include pruning, disciplining and guidance. When we ask that he increase our influence, we are asking for more ministry—sometimes beyond what we can handle! I’ve seen this over and over again in my life, especially in the past few months. But having more than we can handle is simply the perfect situation for Yahweh to work—if we humbly entreat His hand to be with us, His Spirit to empower us, His wisdom to guide us. There is no question then about Who did the work. The more we seek to do for the Lord, the larger a target we make ourselves to Satan. To pray to be kept from temptation—“lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil,” Jesus taught His disciples to pray. Beg the Lord, not only for strength to endure, to resist and to come safely through temptation, but pray in advance that He would remove temptation, that He would keep our feet on a level path. What could glorify God more than to bless us as we seek to serve Him, by His power and to implore His protection from even the temptation to sin? Chronicles tell us, God answered the prayer of Jabez.
As I read, my mind kept coming back to Caleb, the man I read about this morning. Of the generation that rebelled against Yahweh and fearfully refused to take the land, only Joshua and Caleb lived to enter the land—the two spies who remained faithful to Yahweh. Incidentally, Caleb’s name means faithful. At age eighty-five, when he finally entered the land and took his possession, he came to Joshua saying, “I’m still strong! There’s still so much to do! Give me more land (enlarge my boundaries) so I can drive out the Lord’s enemies.” What a delight Caleb must have been to Yahweh, in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, he shone like a light, praising Yahweh for giving him health, desiring more room to use God’s blessings to further God’s name.
Lord, bless me! Bless my soul indeed
Fulfill my deeply rooted need
To be with Thee and to be Thine,
And turn my water into wine
That it may bring Thy joy to all,
And hear my prayer whene’er I call.
May Thy hand be swift to guide me
And from every evil hide me.
Wednesday, March 26, 3008
When you don’t own an Ipod, an Iphone or whatever other Is exist, you’re forced to use your own eyes. And ears. At least, I am. And I notice things like the license plate number: “300 LBS”. Sadly, the car was parked, so I didn’t get a peek at the operator. In the thrift store a father wisely told his son, “Your mother will never let you get that game. She’ll say, ‘Look at all the little bitty pieces! You’ll have them lost in a week! No, we’re not going to get that.’” Determined to find out, the little boy wove through the mazes of used clothes to find his mother. She took one look at his choice of game and said, “Look at all the little bitty pieces! You’ll have them lost in a week! No, we’re not going to get that.”
“Are you enjoying Spring Break?” asked the friendly Wal-mart attendant. I nodded, not seeing fit to correct him. “What school do you go to? You look about my daughters age. What are you, thirteen…fourteen?” My age seems to be slipping backward through a time warp. “Uh, I’m twenty, actually.” His jaw hit the floor with a resounding thud. “Well…well. My daughter’s fourteen. You…eh…you carry your age well. They’ll be asking if you’re twenty-four when you’re thirty-five.” I smiled, and refrained from telling him how “they” asked if I was eighteen when I was twelve. At this rate of regression, I’m figuring I’ll pass for a first grader by the time I’m thirty-five. Instead we were able to pass from age to the Ageless One, while he stickered my return item.
After hours on the phone, navigating through automated phone panels and repeating my plight (this GearRatchet extension is broken—it’s under lifetime warranty—you don’t sell it anymore—can you just replace it with a Craftsman?) to various Sears customer service reps, I wound up back in the local store. The dark-skinned girl at the counter recognized me immediately. “Did they still not help you?” she asked. With a sigh, I told my tale of woe. As soon as I’d finished she vanished into the back, returned with a Craftsman extension, tore of the label and handed it to me. “I don’t know what their problem is. Girl, I don’t need anything else from you. They can handle the paperwork however they want.” Even with the “very much” I tacked on the end of my “thank you”, it hardly expressed my gratitude and relief. I will shop again at that store—we hadn’t even bought the set from them, but she was quick to take care of us.
“Dress for going out,” I told Amber, when I called her. “I’m picking you up and we’re going on a road trip.” Who says a road trip has to be, you know, out of town? We played on the traintracks,
My head was splitting, shooting brightly colored pain stars across my vision as I shifted into reverse, backing up to go pick up Papa. Why am I so privileged? Blessed so greatly with spiritual blessings, as well as physical ones?
Lord, Thy bounty overwhelms me,
Thou hast given every heavenly
Blessing, and bestowed Thy grace
Abundantly. I turn my face
To gaze on Thee, for Thou art kind.
I pray Thou would renew my mind
To be consumed with all Thou dost
And magnify Thee, by my trust.
“Are you enjoying Spring Break?” asked the friendly Wal-mart attendant. I nodded, not seeing fit to correct him. “What school do you go to? You look about my daughters age. What are you, thirteen…fourteen?” My age seems to be slipping backward through a time warp. “Uh, I’m twenty, actually.” His jaw hit the floor with a resounding thud. “Well…well. My daughter’s fourteen. You…eh…you carry your age well. They’ll be asking if you’re twenty-four when you’re thirty-five.” I smiled, and refrained from telling him how “they” asked if I was eighteen when I was twelve. At this rate of regression, I’m figuring I’ll pass for a first grader by the time I’m thirty-five. Instead we were able to pass from age to the Ageless One, while he stickered my return item.
After hours on the phone, navigating through automated phone panels and repeating my plight (this GearRatchet extension is broken—it’s under lifetime warranty—you don’t sell it anymore—can you just replace it with a Craftsman?) to various Sears customer service reps, I wound up back in the local store. The dark-skinned girl at the counter recognized me immediately. “Did they still not help you?” she asked. With a sigh, I told my tale of woe. As soon as I’d finished she vanished into the back, returned with a Craftsman extension, tore of the label and handed it to me. “I don’t know what their problem is. Girl, I don’t need anything else from you. They can handle the paperwork however they want.” Even with the “very much” I tacked on the end of my “thank you”, it hardly expressed my gratitude and relief. I will shop again at that store—we hadn’t even bought the set from them, but she was quick to take care of us.
“Dress for going out,” I told Amber, when I called her. “I’m picking you up and we’re going on a road trip.” Who says a road trip has to be, you know, out of town? We played on the traintracks,
went to the lakeand walked on the pier, played in the sand, waded into the freezing water, kissed turtles, chased geese and followed it up with a trip to the local Goodwill to model terrific outfits, ritzy shoes and stunning hats. As we drove back out to Amber’s apartment she kept thanking me, over and over again. “This has been so much fun! Thank you so much for doing this.” I laughed and commented on her overabundance of enthusiasm. She was quiet for a moment then explained, “I’ve never done this kind of thing before. Just gone out and played. I thought I hated shopping in second hand stores—especially trying things on. This was so much fun. This is the kind of thing of been dreaming of for a year.” I turned my face away a little, so she couldn’t see the tears well up, thinking how often I’ve done nothing with friends just for the fun of it—just like today. Wasting time. No. Not wasting time. Not today, at least. I’d enjoyed every single moment. We finished up the day in John, reading about the last supper, and I bounced off the sagging couch to the floor to demonstrate “reclining at table”, lying on the left side, up on one elbow, feet out from the table, eating with the right hand. Light bulbs appeared above Judy and Amber’s heads as the visual suddenly brought the story of life. I forget just how grateful I should be for my father’s faithful study and diligent instruction.
My head was splitting, shooting brightly colored pain stars across my vision as I shifted into reverse, backing up to go pick up Papa. Why am I so privileged? Blessed so greatly with spiritual blessings, as well as physical ones?
Lord, Thy bounty overwhelms me,
Thou hast given every heavenly
Blessing, and bestowed Thy grace
Abundantly. I turn my face
To gaze on Thee, for Thou art kind.
I pray Thou would renew my mind
To be consumed with all Thou dost
And magnify Thee, by my trust.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Back in the day, speech judges suggested I consider a career in TV or Radio broadcasting. Humorous, since I rarely pay attention to either. Nick had a brilliant idea for a new voice mail message for his cell phone—an important news flash about an escaped maniacal penguin which interrupted his usual greeting. Most entertaining were the friends who thought my voice was an actual automated recording.
I’d been attempting to play some rag-time when Sleeper arrived, guitar in tow, hoping for a jam session. It’s been too long since I’d played with a guitar. Leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the piano bench, he dragged inspiration out of me with misinformed statements like: “You know what you’re doing. Just play!” Just when Sleeper’d be getting the hang of my chord progression, I’d change it up or throw in some off chord, just to see what he’d do. “If I ever record a CD,” he said, shaking his head at one point, “You’re playing piano.” To hear some real piano, he should play with Bruce. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve never played like that before in my life and likely never will again. Perhaps that maniacal penguin has rubbed off on me.
My brother is a good man. His e-mail reply this morning tied up one issue in a neat little package to put away in my china cabinet for later. Lauren finished the task with a phone call in the afternoon. I know I over evaluate, and wind up only wrestling myself—a losing situation, it seems. Conversely, God’s grace can turn it on end for a win-win. Lauren even tossed out the possibility of co-authoring a book, or even a blog, devoted to exploring issues for godly women from both sides of the fence: singleness and marriage.
“They” say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. “They” have never learned the secret of contentment—I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Today I am the Lord’s single woman, living under my father’s protection, headship and guidance. Today I re-evaluated my life in light of honoring him and discovered it severely lacking as wish after wish, goal after goal of his came to mind that I had left incomplete or marked unimportant. If I want to embrace the Lord’s will, I must embrace my father’s ministry and do what I can to further it by serving him. The temptation to simply “try to do better” was strong, but the conviction that I should confess my negligence to him won out. To mentally decide to surrender is not to lay down one’s sword. Embarrassing it is that my dad and I communicate best through e-mails—but we are both visual. Write it out for us and we’ll get it. I wrote out for him how the Lord had used his teaching Sunday to convict me and then listed the things I could think of that I’d not finished, asking for his direction in them. His reply was a gracious and kind acknowledgement. Details will follow shortly.
The rest of the day I tried to bring closure to several dragging tasks he’d asked me to do. Every step of the way I ran headlong into brick walls. Someone needed me for this. Could I do that? Phone calls wouldn’t go through, customer service certainly didn’t seem interested in helping the customer. How am I supposed to fulfill my great aspirations of serving my dad if the rest of the universe doesn’t share them? Sit still and the day is calm, but start running and you’ll feel the wind tugging against you. But at the end of the day, it’s the one who ran into the wind who sleeps the soundest.
Yahweh, Thou art great and kind,
Thou will not leave my soul behind
When Thou dost gather those Thou loves
To carry us to Thee, above.
Yahweh, teach me to rejoice
And lift an ever thankful voice
To Thee, for Thou hast heard my prayers
And hushed and stilled all of my cares.
I’d been attempting to play some rag-time when Sleeper arrived, guitar in tow, hoping for a jam session. It’s been too long since I’d played with a guitar. Leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on the piano bench, he dragged inspiration out of me with misinformed statements like: “You know what you’re doing. Just play!” Just when Sleeper’d be getting the hang of my chord progression, I’d change it up or throw in some off chord, just to see what he’d do. “If I ever record a CD,” he said, shaking his head at one point, “You’re playing piano.” To hear some real piano, he should play with Bruce. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve never played like that before in my life and likely never will again. Perhaps that maniacal penguin has rubbed off on me.
My brother is a good man. His e-mail reply this morning tied up one issue in a neat little package to put away in my china cabinet for later. Lauren finished the task with a phone call in the afternoon. I know I over evaluate, and wind up only wrestling myself—a losing situation, it seems. Conversely, God’s grace can turn it on end for a win-win. Lauren even tossed out the possibility of co-authoring a book, or even a blog, devoted to exploring issues for godly women from both sides of the fence: singleness and marriage.
“They” say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. “They” have never learned the secret of contentment—I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Today I am the Lord’s single woman, living under my father’s protection, headship and guidance. Today I re-evaluated my life in light of honoring him and discovered it severely lacking as wish after wish, goal after goal of his came to mind that I had left incomplete or marked unimportant. If I want to embrace the Lord’s will, I must embrace my father’s ministry and do what I can to further it by serving him. The temptation to simply “try to do better” was strong, but the conviction that I should confess my negligence to him won out. To mentally decide to surrender is not to lay down one’s sword. Embarrassing it is that my dad and I communicate best through e-mails—but we are both visual. Write it out for us and we’ll get it. I wrote out for him how the Lord had used his teaching Sunday to convict me and then listed the things I could think of that I’d not finished, asking for his direction in them. His reply was a gracious and kind acknowledgement. Details will follow shortly.
The rest of the day I tried to bring closure to several dragging tasks he’d asked me to do. Every step of the way I ran headlong into brick walls. Someone needed me for this. Could I do that? Phone calls wouldn’t go through, customer service certainly didn’t seem interested in helping the customer. How am I supposed to fulfill my great aspirations of serving my dad if the rest of the universe doesn’t share them? Sit still and the day is calm, but start running and you’ll feel the wind tugging against you. But at the end of the day, it’s the one who ran into the wind who sleeps the soundest.
Yahweh, Thou art great and kind,
Thou will not leave my soul behind
When Thou dost gather those Thou loves
To carry us to Thee, above.
Yahweh, teach me to rejoice
And lift an ever thankful voice
To Thee, for Thou hast heard my prayers
And hushed and stilled all of my cares.
Monday, March 24, 2008
The hair on my fingers is now gone, thanks to the leaves and trash I burned in the incinerator. I heard a sizzle in my nest of messy hair, and clapped my hand over it, fearing I’d scorched my mop right off. No such luck. A good thing, or I might have been forced to make a standard fashion from the lime green wig Lydia and Leah dolled me up in earlier.
Bidding farewell to Dathan and Bruce left us in relative quiet. “It’s hard to get away from your family,” Bruce commented, sprawled on the pew, lingering long past his planned departure time. The whole way out to his truck, he and Josiah sparred and wrestled and he threw socks at Lydia. I’d already given up on successfully stomping his feet. One would think such “love” would drive him away more quickly.
Audrey’s arrival for lunch came packaged with an interesting bit of news. Wes has accepted a job at a clinic two hours away—they’ll be moving in June. This is the Wes and Audrey who have hosted the college kids since Nathaniel’s freshman year, who prayed that we would move down here. Now they’re moving away. RussVegas won’t be the same without them. The very “things” that brought us here are slowly dwindling—just tools the Lord used to affect our move? Is our presence here only a phase?
Part of my untangling process include a lengthy e-mail to Nathaniel and Lauren. As I worked my way through my confusion, writing around in circles, the clouds of doubt and distress began to dissipate. God’s goals are not so vague as worry would have them appear. His Word proved faithful, comforting, strengthening, encouraging, exhorting and by the time I’d finished typing, my way seemed almost clear. Perhaps they, too, will have some valuable insights.
Deuteronomy wrapped up with a beautiful set of blessings from Moses, to the people of Israel, much of which was simply a reminder of God’s promises and God’s character. What a beautiful truth that God’s character, in and of itself, is a profound blessing. There is no God besides Yahweh, who puts to death and gives life, who wounds and heals, who takes hold of justice to render vengeance on those who hate Him. Ah, but the holy ones, who love Him and follow in His steps, He keeps in His hand—protected and safe. “The Eternal God is a dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” The repetition of the concept of forever—a truth so complete, yet so completely beyond my grasp. My home is in Yahweh, Who never changes, Who is eternally the same, eternally perfect. My home is secure.
Lord, Thou art a spring of grace,
Eternal, and my dwelling place.
Within Thy hand, I take my stand
Protected from this barren land.
A single day within Thy courts
Reclaims the heart that earth distorts,
How perfect must that same heart be
That dwells with Thee eternally!
Bidding farewell to Dathan and Bruce left us in relative quiet. “It’s hard to get away from your family,” Bruce commented, sprawled on the pew, lingering long past his planned departure time. The whole way out to his truck, he and Josiah sparred and wrestled and he threw socks at Lydia. I’d already given up on successfully stomping his feet. One would think such “love” would drive him away more quickly.
Audrey’s arrival for lunch came packaged with an interesting bit of news. Wes has accepted a job at a clinic two hours away—they’ll be moving in June. This is the Wes and Audrey who have hosted the college kids since Nathaniel’s freshman year, who prayed that we would move down here. Now they’re moving away. RussVegas won’t be the same without them. The very “things” that brought us here are slowly dwindling—just tools the Lord used to affect our move? Is our presence here only a phase?
Part of my untangling process include a lengthy e-mail to Nathaniel and Lauren. As I worked my way through my confusion, writing around in circles, the clouds of doubt and distress began to dissipate. God’s goals are not so vague as worry would have them appear. His Word proved faithful, comforting, strengthening, encouraging, exhorting and by the time I’d finished typing, my way seemed almost clear. Perhaps they, too, will have some valuable insights.
Deuteronomy wrapped up with a beautiful set of blessings from Moses, to the people of Israel, much of which was simply a reminder of God’s promises and God’s character. What a beautiful truth that God’s character, in and of itself, is a profound blessing. There is no God besides Yahweh, who puts to death and gives life, who wounds and heals, who takes hold of justice to render vengeance on those who hate Him. Ah, but the holy ones, who love Him and follow in His steps, He keeps in His hand—protected and safe. “The Eternal God is a dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” The repetition of the concept of forever—a truth so complete, yet so completely beyond my grasp. My home is in Yahweh, Who never changes, Who is eternally the same, eternally perfect. My home is secure.
Lord, Thou art a spring of grace,
Eternal, and my dwelling place.
Within Thy hand, I take my stand
Protected from this barren land.
A single day within Thy courts
Reclaims the heart that earth distorts,
How perfect must that same heart be
That dwells with Thee eternally!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
As soon as the man on the other end of the line picked up I started in with my Dial-a-trade spiel. A pause as I wound up, then, “Uh…Ma’am, Dial-a-trade is not on the air today.”
True, that I see deer nearly every time I’m in the woods, and often when I’m not, but the mystery and excitement of spotting wild creatures still lingers. When I saw the shape of a round rump through the trees, I turned abruptly off the path and began creeping through the underbrush, around pines, to see how close I could come. Feeling self-satisfied with my “awareness” as I came within twenty feet of my neighbor, I peered around a tree and found myself staring straight into its wide, brown eyes. With a soft snort, its white tail shot up, and from nearly a dozen thickets around me came answering snorts as a whole herd of deer dashed deeper into the woods. So much for my “awareness”.
A little local color comes fresh from our neighbors down the way. Jeff sits on the edge of his rickety porch, talking eagerly of the Lord’s return through streams of tobacco juice, while his wife, Barb, cuddles a spoiled rat terrier in her fuzzy, pink bath robe. “Have you seen that Alpine Buck?” Jeff asks, ejecting a thin, brown stream. “Alpine buck?” I echo. “Yeah, it’s huge an’ all white. Ya know?” I smile. Albino. Right. “An’ if you hear that ol’ black panther screaming, just walk slowly. Don’t run. He comes through here about March or April of every year.” Duly noted. “You seen any o’ them black bears in your woods?” I shake my head “no”, peering closely to see if he’s just trying to worry me. “Bobcat prints are the biggest I’ve seen,” I offer. He shrugs. “Don’t think they’ll hurt you. ‘Cept that panther might. But he ain’t hurt nobody yet. Just keep an eye out.” I remember how terrified we were after Mom spotted a mountain lion back home one night. Nothing ever came of it. I’ll be watching. I wouldn’t mind seeing a bear or a panther—from a little ways off.
Dathan followed Papa and I home last night and has been quietly doing homework all day. He’s here for the rest of his spring break and to see Donnie, home of furlough. Once upon a time we met him in Arkansas, then he wound up at school in Kansas, and we practically adopted him into our family. Now we’re at home in Arkansas and he’s a resident Kansan. He still feels right at home every time he comes to visit, fitting back in like not a day has passed since he was last here.
The first half of Deuteronomy has detailed Moses’ words to the people before his death, as he recounted to them how the Lord had led them through the wilderness and reminded them of God’s laws. I felt like I was wading through a morass—pointless effort with little reward—until last night when I skimmed back over my own past few months, as detailed in my journal. So often Yahweh performs a miracle before my eyes, yet when the next test comes, I am whining and complaining for fresh water or rebelling against the authority He has put in my life. Each day I can only see a tiny part of His work—His plan—but when I look back on where I have come from, I can see His hand more clearly, His leading defined, His power made evident, every single day. Things that were foggy or confusing, that felt like desert wanderings, begin to take shape. Moses reminds me, “Your own eyes have seen the great work of God, which He did.” At a time like now, when I am beginning to feel parched, dry and far from my destination of perfection, it’s good to be reminded from whence I came and where I am headed and, most importantly, Who it is that leads me.
Lord, I seek Thy promised land
And, guided by Thy awesome hand,
I know that I will come at length,
To paradise, by Thy own strength.
Recount to me what Thou hast done,
Both in the person of Thy Son,
And in my soul since, every day,
That I be strengthened to obey.
True, that I see deer nearly every time I’m in the woods, and often when I’m not, but the mystery and excitement of spotting wild creatures still lingers. When I saw the shape of a round rump through the trees, I turned abruptly off the path and began creeping through the underbrush, around pines, to see how close I could come. Feeling self-satisfied with my “awareness” as I came within twenty feet of my neighbor, I peered around a tree and found myself staring straight into its wide, brown eyes. With a soft snort, its white tail shot up, and from nearly a dozen thickets around me came answering snorts as a whole herd of deer dashed deeper into the woods. So much for my “awareness”.
A little local color comes fresh from our neighbors down the way. Jeff sits on the edge of his rickety porch, talking eagerly of the Lord’s return through streams of tobacco juice, while his wife, Barb, cuddles a spoiled rat terrier in her fuzzy, pink bath robe. “Have you seen that Alpine Buck?” Jeff asks, ejecting a thin, brown stream. “Alpine buck?” I echo. “Yeah, it’s huge an’ all white. Ya know?” I smile. Albino. Right. “An’ if you hear that ol’ black panther screaming, just walk slowly. Don’t run. He comes through here about March or April of every year.” Duly noted. “You seen any o’ them black bears in your woods?” I shake my head “no”, peering closely to see if he’s just trying to worry me. “Bobcat prints are the biggest I’ve seen,” I offer. He shrugs. “Don’t think they’ll hurt you. ‘Cept that panther might. But he ain’t hurt nobody yet. Just keep an eye out.” I remember how terrified we were after Mom spotted a mountain lion back home one night. Nothing ever came of it. I’ll be watching. I wouldn’t mind seeing a bear or a panther—from a little ways off.
Dathan followed Papa and I home last night and has been quietly doing homework all day. He’s here for the rest of his spring break and to see Donnie, home of furlough. Once upon a time we met him in Arkansas, then he wound up at school in Kansas, and we practically adopted him into our family. Now we’re at home in Arkansas and he’s a resident Kansan. He still feels right at home every time he comes to visit, fitting back in like not a day has passed since he was last here.
The first half of Deuteronomy has detailed Moses’ words to the people before his death, as he recounted to them how the Lord had led them through the wilderness and reminded them of God’s laws. I felt like I was wading through a morass—pointless effort with little reward—until last night when I skimmed back over my own past few months, as detailed in my journal. So often Yahweh performs a miracle before my eyes, yet when the next test comes, I am whining and complaining for fresh water or rebelling against the authority He has put in my life. Each day I can only see a tiny part of His work—His plan—but when I look back on where I have come from, I can see His hand more clearly, His leading defined, His power made evident, every single day. Things that were foggy or confusing, that felt like desert wanderings, begin to take shape. Moses reminds me, “Your own eyes have seen the great work of God, which He did.” At a time like now, when I am beginning to feel parched, dry and far from my destination of perfection, it’s good to be reminded from whence I came and where I am headed and, most importantly, Who it is that leads me.
Lord, I seek Thy promised land
And, guided by Thy awesome hand,
I know that I will come at length,
To paradise, by Thy own strength.
Recount to me what Thou hast done,
Both in the person of Thy Son,
And in my soul since, every day,
That I be strengthened to obey.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Amber told me I’m hyper. Hyper for me or hyper for Amber or just hyper in general? Hyper because I called her talking in a weird voice, and when she knew who it was, offered to hang up and try again? Hyper because I followed every comment she made with some wise crack? Hyper because I gave her an elaborate description of my day, complete with endless details on the glories of budgeting? “Together Mom and I labored over the reconciliation.” She misunderstood me. “Reconciliation? Wait. Did you and your mom fight? I don’t believe it.”
So much for the valley. Instead the Lord has been leading me alongside a rim, close enough that sometimes my feet dislodge a pebble and send it clattering to the floor far below, but He has my hand and I am safe on high. I feel as if I’ve been walking on air, gazing down into the valley, but never falling, gazing up into His face and seeing His love spelled out there in great tenderness. Every fear that rises in my heart, every worry or doubt that springs up is melted by His goodness. Each time I think I’ve lost His hold and might tumble, I’ve called His name and He’s been there, upholding me with His righteous right hand.
I finished Numbers. (“Can you count now?” Amber demanded, in her best Abigail imitation.) As He sent them into the promised land under the leadership of Moses’ prodigy, Joshua, God warned His people that if they failed to completely destroy the wicked nations living in the land and wipe out their heathen religions, He would have to rain down their punishment on the Israelites. I see that in our homes and our churches—if we embrace the idols of the world, we are likely to bear their shame and consequences with them. “Come out and be separate,” says Yahweh. “Touch no unclean thing.”
When Israel conquered a foreign kingdom, Yahweh told them how to redeem the plunder. “Pass everything that can stand fire through fire, then purify it with water, and whatever cannot stand fire, pass through the water, and it shall be purified.” Later, Yahweh spoke through the prophet Isaiah, using the same beautiful symbolism to describe how He would buy back His people from captivity. “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you, I have called you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you. For I am Yahweh, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” To me, the words ring out with hope—I have been redeemed from the world, bought by the Savior and made holy through His precious blood. When He leads through testing or trials—fire and water—He will be with me, as He leads me in the path to purification. I will never be overwhelmed. Only cleansed. Made holy. Like Yahweh.
Lord, when fiery ways I trod,
Beside me, Thou, the Son of God,
The fiery furnace Thou wilt bear
And always show me Thou art there.
And when my way lies through the water,
Thou reminds this frightened daughter,
Once Thou parted such a sea
And safely o’er Thou’ll carry me.
So much for the valley. Instead the Lord has been leading me alongside a rim, close enough that sometimes my feet dislodge a pebble and send it clattering to the floor far below, but He has my hand and I am safe on high. I feel as if I’ve been walking on air, gazing down into the valley, but never falling, gazing up into His face and seeing His love spelled out there in great tenderness. Every fear that rises in my heart, every worry or doubt that springs up is melted by His goodness. Each time I think I’ve lost His hold and might tumble, I’ve called His name and He’s been there, upholding me with His righteous right hand.
I finished Numbers. (“Can you count now?” Amber demanded, in her best Abigail imitation.) As He sent them into the promised land under the leadership of Moses’ prodigy, Joshua, God warned His people that if they failed to completely destroy the wicked nations living in the land and wipe out their heathen religions, He would have to rain down their punishment on the Israelites. I see that in our homes and our churches—if we embrace the idols of the world, we are likely to bear their shame and consequences with them. “Come out and be separate,” says Yahweh. “Touch no unclean thing.”
When Israel conquered a foreign kingdom, Yahweh told them how to redeem the plunder. “Pass everything that can stand fire through fire, then purify it with water, and whatever cannot stand fire, pass through the water, and it shall be purified.” Later, Yahweh spoke through the prophet Isaiah, using the same beautiful symbolism to describe how He would buy back His people from captivity. “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you, I have called you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you. For I am Yahweh, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” To me, the words ring out with hope—I have been redeemed from the world, bought by the Savior and made holy through His precious blood. When He leads through testing or trials—fire and water—He will be with me, as He leads me in the path to purification. I will never be overwhelmed. Only cleansed. Made holy. Like Yahweh.
Lord, when fiery ways I trod,
Beside me, Thou, the Son of God,
The fiery furnace Thou wilt bear
And always show me Thou art there.
And when my way lies through the water,
Thou reminds this frightened daughter,
Once Thou parted such a sea
And safely o’er Thou’ll carry me.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Current events are becoming interesting. California has practically banned home education. Obama and Hillary are fighting it out at the polls, and might even run together in the general election. Nationally, we are a welfare state in a recession, worse than anything we’ve seen since the Great Depression. A man is standing trial for preaching the gospel in Salem, Mass. Who else feels the oppression, the iron curtain beginning to slide closed on our freedoms? Is persecution just around the corner?
In all my wondering, I wonder what the view is from heaven—how the Lord sees my life, day by day, worrying, anxious, fearful, praying, while He’s already given answers in His infinite timing. How often does He shake His head, whispering, “Abigail, be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted in the earth.”
During church, Papa read a sermon by Charles Spurgeon from First Timothy chapter two: Does God really desire ALL men to be saved? Once upon a time our family read this man’s life story, his dedication to preaching the truth—whatever He found in the scriptures. His words, though quaint, were rich and uplifting, filled with the perfection of the gospel.
Josh and Josiah had just dived into First John when I joined them. We took the whole book in a sitting, watching Josh discover the tests, the commands (to believe in Jesus and love the brethren) and the beauty. “I like that,” he’d say, marking the passage with a purple twist-up crayon. “Oooh, I don’t like that,” and he’d mark it, too, knowing it was good. Again and again I am amazed to see the Lord’s hand in his life and heart, the Holy Spirit’s working, leading him into truth and obedience. After the other guys had left, we discovered Josh had been patiently waiting his turn. “Okay, Lane,” he said to my dad, after eagerly accepting an invitation for supper. “Can we have some me time? I’ve got some questions for you.”
Meanwhile, Josiah and I slipped quietly outside and out into the woods, rambling through the green briar, underbrush and falling darkness, crossing the stream on slippery stones and talking about whatever concerned us. Muddy and windblown and full of thorns, we trouped into his room and tumbled to the floor. “Do you want to pray?” I asked. Together we both answered, “For everyone.” We started, sharing back and forth, but suddenly he took off, pouring out his heart for anyone and everyone the Lord brought to his mind, pleading for salvation, asking for peace. When he said my name, a little shiver passed through my body and slipped out my toes, leaving me warm behind it. Not so long ago he was shy to pray aloud with anyone else. Tears slid from my eyes as I prayed for him—with thanksgiving.
Lord, the greatest blessings Thou dost give,
Aside from Thy own grace to live,
Are those who love to seek Thy face
And so reveal Thy matchless grace.
My heart is full of what Thou dost
In teaching sinful man to trust
In standing to receive our prayer.
Where two are gathered, Thou art there.
In all my wondering, I wonder what the view is from heaven—how the Lord sees my life, day by day, worrying, anxious, fearful, praying, while He’s already given answers in His infinite timing. How often does He shake His head, whispering, “Abigail, be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted in the earth.”
During church, Papa read a sermon by Charles Spurgeon from First Timothy chapter two: Does God really desire ALL men to be saved? Once upon a time our family read this man’s life story, his dedication to preaching the truth—whatever He found in the scriptures. His words, though quaint, were rich and uplifting, filled with the perfection of the gospel.
Josh and Josiah had just dived into First John when I joined them. We took the whole book in a sitting, watching Josh discover the tests, the commands (to believe in Jesus and love the brethren) and the beauty. “I like that,” he’d say, marking the passage with a purple twist-up crayon. “Oooh, I don’t like that,” and he’d mark it, too, knowing it was good. Again and again I am amazed to see the Lord’s hand in his life and heart, the Holy Spirit’s working, leading him into truth and obedience. After the other guys had left, we discovered Josh had been patiently waiting his turn. “Okay, Lane,” he said to my dad, after eagerly accepting an invitation for supper. “Can we have some me time? I’ve got some questions for you.”
Meanwhile, Josiah and I slipped quietly outside and out into the woods, rambling through the green briar, underbrush and falling darkness, crossing the stream on slippery stones and talking about whatever concerned us. Muddy and windblown and full of thorns, we trouped into his room and tumbled to the floor. “Do you want to pray?” I asked. Together we both answered, “For everyone.” We started, sharing back and forth, but suddenly he took off, pouring out his heart for anyone and everyone the Lord brought to his mind, pleading for salvation, asking for peace. When he said my name, a little shiver passed through my body and slipped out my toes, leaving me warm behind it. Not so long ago he was shy to pray aloud with anyone else. Tears slid from my eyes as I prayed for him—with thanksgiving.
Lord, the greatest blessings Thou dost give,
Aside from Thy own grace to live,
Are those who love to seek Thy face
And so reveal Thy matchless grace.
My heart is full of what Thou dost
In teaching sinful man to trust
In standing to receive our prayer.
Where two are gathered, Thou art there.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Our backyard resembles a topographical map. In an effort to refrain from exaggeration, I’ve given the ranges such appropriate names as the Himalayan and Andes Mole Hills. Either our neighborly rodents have become archeologists or they should cut down on the caffeine.
Winter must have finally given in and curled up for hibernation. While raking leaves from the front of the house, I kept popping into the house to gulp some water—some golden water, I might add. The ground is still soggy enough to leave our well-water slightly colorful, even after draining through our Burkey filter. Hauling logs over rivulets that danced through the woods brought on the first tingle of being hot.
It seems to my vivid imagination that somehow Papa is holding my hand tighter and even lingering over it during meal-time prayers and his blue eyes shine with a greater tenderness. Has something about me changed? Or is it him? Our relationship has come full circle, through toil and tears, awkwardness and confusion, back to the trust I had when I was my father’s source of joy.
When Rib-eye and Hamburger, excuse me, Lin N and Emily, read Lydia’s testimony they decided on immediate action. A short time later they burst into our house laden with roses, smiles and congratulations. Lindsey hasn’t been here since before Christmas break, due to teacherly studies, but it was just like old times, watching them write an elaborate story in the guestbook, while they giggled and whispered behind their hands. Something about Emily brings out the giggles in everyone I know. Including me.
Becoming irritated with the Israelite’s grumbling invariably guides me into repentance for my own grumbling. “Give us meat to eat!” they whined, “All we have is this bread…this heavenly food. We’re tired of it.” Jesus is the bread that came down from heaven, but I often whine to the Lord, “Look at all the entertainment I had back in Egypt, now it’s just Your word. And these books of Moses, Lord, they’re boring!” Only boring because the eyes of my heart lack depth-perception. Again the Lord revealed His power and His faithfulness when he gave them meat to eat. “Where will you find food for all these people?” Moses demanded, much like the disciples did when Jesus broke the loaves and fish. Yahweh’s answer: “Is My power limited? Now you shall see whether My word will come true or not.” He provided so abundantly that the people ate greedily and many died from a plague.
Today the Lord led me through green pastures and quiet waters, bidding me lie down and wait in peace, sending abundant promises on the wings of hope. I’d rather be up running around in circles, tripping in mole-hills, dancing in the sunshine—anything rather than sitting still. I run to the woods and keep running, when I should stop, drop and pray. He put my life back in perspective as I sped along, reminding me of those without hope, those in other countries where every day merely living is a hazard, and then of His Son, who suffered more in anticipation in the garden than I could ever fear suffering. Why am I afraid? Why do I insist, “I can’t handle this!” when the Lord is faithful to keep all His promises? “All things work together for good to those who love God.” Do I love God? As purely as a broken and confused little girl can. I’ll enjoy the moments of quiet refreshing now, reflecting on the Lord’s faithfulness to those before me, instead of allowing myself to dread all those future things I don’t understand.
Indeed, my heritage is beautiful.
Lord, I will rejoice in Thee
For Thou wilt not abandon me!
An orphan I shall never be—
Thou wills to me, Thyself.
So, when Thou heard my mournful cry
Thou sent Thy only heir to die
To execute Thy will, and I
Inherited Thyself.
Winter must have finally given in and curled up for hibernation. While raking leaves from the front of the house, I kept popping into the house to gulp some water—some golden water, I might add. The ground is still soggy enough to leave our well-water slightly colorful, even after draining through our Burkey filter. Hauling logs over rivulets that danced through the woods brought on the first tingle of being hot.
It seems to my vivid imagination that somehow Papa is holding my hand tighter and even lingering over it during meal-time prayers and his blue eyes shine with a greater tenderness. Has something about me changed? Or is it him? Our relationship has come full circle, through toil and tears, awkwardness and confusion, back to the trust I had when I was my father’s source of joy.
When Rib-eye and Hamburger, excuse me, Lin N and Emily, read Lydia’s testimony they decided on immediate action. A short time later they burst into our house laden with roses, smiles and congratulations. Lindsey hasn’t been here since before Christmas break, due to teacherly studies, but it was just like old times, watching them write an elaborate story in the guestbook, while they giggled and whispered behind their hands. Something about Emily brings out the giggles in everyone I know. Including me.
Becoming irritated with the Israelite’s grumbling invariably guides me into repentance for my own grumbling. “Give us meat to eat!” they whined, “All we have is this bread…this heavenly food. We’re tired of it.” Jesus is the bread that came down from heaven, but I often whine to the Lord, “Look at all the entertainment I had back in Egypt, now it’s just Your word. And these books of Moses, Lord, they’re boring!” Only boring because the eyes of my heart lack depth-perception. Again the Lord revealed His power and His faithfulness when he gave them meat to eat. “Where will you find food for all these people?” Moses demanded, much like the disciples did when Jesus broke the loaves and fish. Yahweh’s answer: “Is My power limited? Now you shall see whether My word will come true or not.” He provided so abundantly that the people ate greedily and many died from a plague.
Today the Lord led me through green pastures and quiet waters, bidding me lie down and wait in peace, sending abundant promises on the wings of hope. I’d rather be up running around in circles, tripping in mole-hills, dancing in the sunshine—anything rather than sitting still. I run to the woods and keep running, when I should stop, drop and pray. He put my life back in perspective as I sped along, reminding me of those without hope, those in other countries where every day merely living is a hazard, and then of His Son, who suffered more in anticipation in the garden than I could ever fear suffering. Why am I afraid? Why do I insist, “I can’t handle this!” when the Lord is faithful to keep all His promises? “All things work together for good to those who love God.” Do I love God? As purely as a broken and confused little girl can. I’ll enjoy the moments of quiet refreshing now, reflecting on the Lord’s faithfulness to those before me, instead of allowing myself to dread all those future things I don’t understand.
Indeed, my heritage is beautiful.
Lord, I will rejoice in Thee
For Thou wilt not abandon me!
An orphan I shall never be—
Thou wills to me, Thyself.
So, when Thou heard my mournful cry
Thou sent Thy only heir to die
To execute Thy will, and I
Inherited Thyself.
Daylight Savings! Sunday, March 9, 2008
Nobody told us to Spring forward. My ever-intelligent computer was my first source for the news. Nine o’clock, it boldly announced. Unless my memory fails me (which is completely possible), I’ve never slept ‘till nine in my life! The fact was soon confirmed by Nick’s arrival. “You’re an hour early,” I heard Mom greet him. “Actually,” Nick said in his matter-of-fact tone, “I’m right on time, it’s just that the clocks are all an hour early now.”
“The college guys are nice,” Lydia confided this morning, “but I sure would like to see another, you know, little girl.” Her wish was granted, to her delighted surprise, by the evening arrival of Renee’ and Lydia on a visit from Kansas. I did say Lydia. Two Lydias in the house make for mild confusion and many giggles.
Aside from Josiah’s high-hat cymbal giving out and my distinct inability to clearly strum even simple chords, the day proved very encouraging. Zach has bounced back, and Josh has simply bounced. He ought to be too old to have as much energy as he’s been displaying of late. When he joined us for basketball, late in the afternoon, he decided to bully Taylor, hounding him, fouling him and throwing all kinds of ridiculous belittling comments in his general direction. “You ain’t all this, Big Son!” (swipe, swipe, grab, bear-hug, etc.) Without a word, Taylor dribbled around, underneath, over, upon, beside, between and whatever other prepositions apply, with whatever hands or feet were available to ultimately “lose” the game. Because the first rule in any game is that Josh always wins. By nine o’clock he’d calmed down to nearly adult behavior and he and Josiah and I sat on the floor of Josiah’s room and talked—about what the Lord is doing in each of our lives, how each of us have our defenses up in certain areas, how we can see each other growing. I look at Josh and think, “Wow! Look what God’s doing in him!” Can it be possible that he looks at me and sees growth in me, too? Am I really growing? I see it in others. How encouraging to hear it of myself.
I overheard Papa questioning the guys whether they thought in words or pictures. Following the assumption that thinking takes place, I might as well be a camera. As Papa led us through the first chapter of Paul’s first letter to Timothy, the imagery of shipwrecked faith caught my imagination. He reminded us that Paul had been through shipwrecks, barely surviving with the skin on his back. Josiah chimed in with correlations of how important parts of our faith in the Lord could be “thrown overboard” as we battle the storms of life or are tossed on every wind of doctrine. Do we try to “lighten our load” by tossing out God’s Word, fellowship, prayer, praise, accountability and most importantly, our confident expectation through Jesus Christ—our anchor? I know there are plenty of things in my life that I could cast off and sail more smoothly, but Paul encouraged those on board with him to eat!
Lord, the winds and waves are Thine,
I needn’t match the wind and whine.
Thy hand can calm the raging sea.
‘Tis Thou who made the waves—and me.
The storms, Thou sends, that with each gust
I’d prove Thee faithful and entrust
My soul to Thee, Who holds all time.
Firm Thou remains, and keeps what’s Thine.
“The college guys are nice,” Lydia confided this morning, “but I sure would like to see another, you know, little girl.” Her wish was granted, to her delighted surprise, by the evening arrival of Renee’ and Lydia on a visit from Kansas. I did say Lydia. Two Lydias in the house make for mild confusion and many giggles.
Aside from Josiah’s high-hat cymbal giving out and my distinct inability to clearly strum even simple chords, the day proved very encouraging. Zach has bounced back, and Josh has simply bounced. He ought to be too old to have as much energy as he’s been displaying of late. When he joined us for basketball, late in the afternoon, he decided to bully Taylor, hounding him, fouling him and throwing all kinds of ridiculous belittling comments in his general direction. “You ain’t all this, Big Son!” (swipe, swipe, grab, bear-hug, etc.) Without a word, Taylor dribbled around, underneath, over, upon, beside, between and whatever other prepositions apply, with whatever hands or feet were available to ultimately “lose” the game. Because the first rule in any game is that Josh always wins. By nine o’clock he’d calmed down to nearly adult behavior and he and Josiah and I sat on the floor of Josiah’s room and talked—about what the Lord is doing in each of our lives, how each of us have our defenses up in certain areas, how we can see each other growing. I look at Josh and think, “Wow! Look what God’s doing in him!” Can it be possible that he looks at me and sees growth in me, too? Am I really growing? I see it in others. How encouraging to hear it of myself.
I overheard Papa questioning the guys whether they thought in words or pictures. Following the assumption that thinking takes place, I might as well be a camera. As Papa led us through the first chapter of Paul’s first letter to Timothy, the imagery of shipwrecked faith caught my imagination. He reminded us that Paul had been through shipwrecks, barely surviving with the skin on his back. Josiah chimed in with correlations of how important parts of our faith in the Lord could be “thrown overboard” as we battle the storms of life or are tossed on every wind of doctrine. Do we try to “lighten our load” by tossing out God’s Word, fellowship, prayer, praise, accountability and most importantly, our confident expectation through Jesus Christ—our anchor? I know there are plenty of things in my life that I could cast off and sail more smoothly, but Paul encouraged those on board with him to eat!
Lord, the winds and waves are Thine,
I needn’t match the wind and whine.
Thy hand can calm the raging sea.
‘Tis Thou who made the waves—and me.
The storms, Thou sends, that with each gust
I’d prove Thee faithful and entrust
My soul to Thee, Who holds all time.
Firm Thou remains, and keeps what’s Thine.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
I am exhibiting all the symptoms of genius--restlessness, overabundance of creativity, lack of focus, anti-social behavior, loss of appetite—without the results. “Come jam with me,” Josiah begged after hotwiring his drum-pad for the umpteenth time. “I’d love to,” I responded, “If only I could play something…amazing.” Instead I limped through several odd chord progressions and pounded out boring baselines until my wrists ached. Count your blessings, says the wise hymn, so today I’m thankful no one heard us.
Lydia has always been affectionate—physically, verbally, visually. Now she’s almost smothering. She catches up my hand after we pray at night and kisses is fervently. She clings to me constantly, wanting to cuddle. I have come so far since the time, a few years ago, when I could barely stand to be hugged, but I feel sometimes as if I’m drowning in the depth of her affection. Does love and patience really include being willing to be touched—all the time?
After missing out on our “date” Thursday, Amber’s request to come visit was more than welcome. I hauled my poor friend on a brisk walk, which she cheerfully insisted would help counteract the brownies she’d made.
Calculating the book of Numbers left me skimming along at high speeds, until my progress was arrested by the final tally of the sons of Israel—just the fighting men, disregarding the priestly tribe of Levi: 603, 550. From 70 persons who entered Egypt with Jacob. From one childless, old man, who believed the promise of God, that his descendants would be as great a multitude as the stars in heaven or the sand on the seashore. Four hundred and thirty years later, the child of promise had become a people several thousand strong. Thirty-five hundred years have passed since that time, and the children of Israel have continued to increase. Even more beautiful to me, the promise that all the nations of the earth would be blessed through Abraham—and his seed—has been fulfilled as well. Jesus, the Messiah, seed of Abraham, has come. In Him all the nations of the earth have been blessed, with Abraham the believer. In Him, Abraham’s offspring grew to include all those who believe God and His promises. In Him, Jew and gentile were made into one, and I can claim the godly heritage of my father Abraham. Left breathless for the moment, my mind flew to countless promises. Is He whom Sarah counted faithful to create in her Abraham’s heir, any less able to keep His promises to me?
Lord, Thy promise cannot fail,
Thy Word can and will prevail!
I see Thy faithfulness revealed
From faith to faith, in those Thou sealed.
Thou hast promised I shall be
At last, made to resemble Thee!
What Thou hast promised, Thou wilt do
Because the word Thou speaks is true!
Lydia has always been affectionate—physically, verbally, visually. Now she’s almost smothering. She catches up my hand after we pray at night and kisses is fervently. She clings to me constantly, wanting to cuddle. I have come so far since the time, a few years ago, when I could barely stand to be hugged, but I feel sometimes as if I’m drowning in the depth of her affection. Does love and patience really include being willing to be touched—all the time?
After missing out on our “date” Thursday, Amber’s request to come visit was more than welcome. I hauled my poor friend on a brisk walk, which she cheerfully insisted would help counteract the brownies she’d made.
Calculating the book of Numbers left me skimming along at high speeds, until my progress was arrested by the final tally of the sons of Israel—just the fighting men, disregarding the priestly tribe of Levi: 603, 550. From 70 persons who entered Egypt with Jacob. From one childless, old man, who believed the promise of God, that his descendants would be as great a multitude as the stars in heaven or the sand on the seashore. Four hundred and thirty years later, the child of promise had become a people several thousand strong. Thirty-five hundred years have passed since that time, and the children of Israel have continued to increase. Even more beautiful to me, the promise that all the nations of the earth would be blessed through Abraham—and his seed—has been fulfilled as well. Jesus, the Messiah, seed of Abraham, has come. In Him all the nations of the earth have been blessed, with Abraham the believer. In Him, Abraham’s offspring grew to include all those who believe God and His promises. In Him, Jew and gentile were made into one, and I can claim the godly heritage of my father Abraham. Left breathless for the moment, my mind flew to countless promises. Is He whom Sarah counted faithful to create in her Abraham’s heir, any less able to keep His promises to me?
Lord, Thy promise cannot fail,
Thy Word can and will prevail!
I see Thy faithfulness revealed
From faith to faith, in those Thou sealed.
Thou hast promised I shall be
At last, made to resemble Thee!
What Thou hast promised, Thou wilt do
Because the word Thou speaks is true!
Friday, March 7, 2008
I never denied being a messy cook, as my sweatshirt certainly attested. Beating chicken breasts into humble submission is hardly the cleanest task, but the results were well worth the effort. As soon as I’d finished creating some sort of spinach/cheese/chicken wraps, I escaped the house to run through the woods. Melting snow slid off of pine branches, schlopping and plopping around me at every turn, providing greater amusement in dodging the cold missiles. But two snow days in one week seems a little extravagant. It’s like having three Saturdays spread throughout the week—which might sound nice in theory, but in practicality leaves me feeling inside out and disoriented.
Apparently our popularity is dwindling. Taylor was the lone occupant of our eight-foot pew. Of late he’d seemed lost and weighed down in a cloud of thought, but the cloud must have dissipated, leaving him at his ease tonight. If people are books, Taylor is hard to read past the title page and rarely gives the chance for study. As Zach says, “Dude! I never know what the guy is thinking.” Zach wears his heart on his sleeve. Josh is transparent. Nick comes with a commentary, by the author himself. And the girls—well, even Jacinderella simply lays it out to me in modern English. But Taylor is an enigma--quiet enough to study everyone else at his leisure.
Papa shared some insights to answer a question I’d come across in Psalm sixty-six yesterday—on the topic of Yahweh’s enemies feigning obedience. He took us through several passages about the millennial reign of Jesus, when all the earth will be subject to Him as the divine ruler, for a thousand years, while Satan is bound in the bottomless pit. Fascinating is the reminder that obedience is only for real when it springs from the heart. During this time, there will be those who can see the Lord, who know Him from a distance, but do not know Him intimately. How anyone could rebel against the Creator escapes my understanding, but even greater, how they could rebel against the perfect judge, while He reigns on earth. Some day every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess that Jesus is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. I’m delighted I’ve been privileged to worship Him now. How awesome are His works!
Lord, Thou blesses all with light,
And understanding wrong and right,
Thou blesses all alike with rain.
But I have heard Thee call my name
And hearing, have been blessed to bow
And worship at Thy throne room now.
I wait the day when all will join me
Praising Thee, on bended knee.
Apparently our popularity is dwindling. Taylor was the lone occupant of our eight-foot pew. Of late he’d seemed lost and weighed down in a cloud of thought, but the cloud must have dissipated, leaving him at his ease tonight. If people are books, Taylor is hard to read past the title page and rarely gives the chance for study. As Zach says, “Dude! I never know what the guy is thinking.” Zach wears his heart on his sleeve. Josh is transparent. Nick comes with a commentary, by the author himself. And the girls—well, even Jacinderella simply lays it out to me in modern English. But Taylor is an enigma--quiet enough to study everyone else at his leisure.
Papa shared some insights to answer a question I’d come across in Psalm sixty-six yesterday—on the topic of Yahweh’s enemies feigning obedience. He took us through several passages about the millennial reign of Jesus, when all the earth will be subject to Him as the divine ruler, for a thousand years, while Satan is bound in the bottomless pit. Fascinating is the reminder that obedience is only for real when it springs from the heart. During this time, there will be those who can see the Lord, who know Him from a distance, but do not know Him intimately. How anyone could rebel against the Creator escapes my understanding, but even greater, how they could rebel against the perfect judge, while He reigns on earth. Some day every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess that Jesus is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. I’m delighted I’ve been privileged to worship Him now. How awesome are His works!
Lord, Thou blesses all with light,
And understanding wrong and right,
Thou blesses all alike with rain.
But I have heard Thee call my name
And hearing, have been blessed to bow
And worship at Thy throne room now.
I wait the day when all will join me
Praising Thee, on bended knee.