Over the year I collected together the things I feel I am failing...and here they are for me to, by God's grace, grow in this year.
Resolved to try:
To put my whole mind into whatever I am doing, as an act of worship to God. Therefore to be careful that whatever I am doing may be done whole-heartedly as worship to God.
To seek the Lord in quietness and solitude first thing every morning, that being with Him may color my outlook on life.
To refrain from speaking any ill of anyone not present and to confront only that person if there truly is an issue of character or obedience.
To keep a careful account of the Lord’s dealings with me and all that I learn of Him and to share His goodness with all who will listen.
To keep continually in mind God’s grace, truth and beauty in order to keep uglier things from dwelling there.
To learn as much as I can of God’s creation and praise Him for it.
To employ both time and money in seeking souls for the Lord.
To be bold to offer mercy, to speak of God, to speak truth, to love as Christ, but innocent of any evil or selfish ambition.
To be slow to promise, but swift to deliver, slow to speak, but swift to hear, slow to affirm or correct, but swift to love, slow to judge, but swift to forgive.
To consult the Lord and His wisdom constantly and to seek His answer fervently and without giving up.
To praise character, encourage holiness, focus on God’s grace as being the means of true beauty.
To rejoice always, pray unceasingly and always give thanks.
To never regard circumstances except in the light of God’s wisdom and Word.
To never be satisfied with anything less than perfection in myself, yet eager to regard attempt in others.
To never grow weary in doing what is right or compare myself to the world with envy or self-satisfaction.
To offer love and service without regard to “fair treatment,” “personal rights” or return of either.
To keep in mind the cross as my own just end and the picture of God’s wrath from which I am delivered and God’s love which paid the price. And to remember that, in the cross, I am delivered from God’s wrath and God’s justice is satisfied, therefore all that befalls me—even discipline which seems unpleasant for the moement--flows from His mercy, grace and love, lavished on a daughter.
To accept weakness as a tool of God’s strength and to be willing to be wholly dependent on Him.
To do what is right, regardless of results, rumors, rewards, remarks or revilings.
To keep perspective that God, the powerful Creator, Who alone is imperishable and dwells in unapproachable light, has granted me confident access to His throne of grace, that I might receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need, and to make full use of this access.
To never suggest, by my words or actions or thoughts, that I might be more righteous than God. For He does what is right and this is what I must trust, when He does what is different than I expect or wish.
Showing posts with label confessions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label confessions. Show all posts
Sunday, December 19, 2010
I claim I am Yours,
Yet I act like my own.
I say that I know You
Yet if I were known
With the depth that I offer
(Of which I am proud)
My sensitive nature’d
Be shouting aloud
That we were still strangers—
Still heart-years apart.
Is that how You feel
In the depth of Your heart?
Yet I act like my own.
I say that I know You
Yet if I were known
With the depth that I offer
(Of which I am proud)
My sensitive nature’d
Be shouting aloud
That we were still strangers—
Still heart-years apart.
Is that how You feel
In the depth of Your heart?
Sunday, November 21, 2010
At the moment I feel:
Small, sad, hopeless, helpless, weak, confused, tired, disillusioned, empty, at a complete loss
But that’s okay, because He is:
Infinite in size, the source of joy, the Helper of those who trust in Him, perfect in strength, omniscient, never tiring, keeper of promises, overflowing with grace and entirely sovereign
I know I am not holy or godly or pure or good or kind or patient or loving. How well I know it! I know I am not humble or wise or discrete or perfect. How well I know it! But Jesus, the spotless Lamb is. Conform me to His image.
Small, sad, hopeless, helpless, weak, confused, tired, disillusioned, empty, at a complete loss
But that’s okay, because He is:
Infinite in size, the source of joy, the Helper of those who trust in Him, perfect in strength, omniscient, never tiring, keeper of promises, overflowing with grace and entirely sovereign
I know I am not holy or godly or pure or good or kind or patient or loving. How well I know it! I know I am not humble or wise or discrete or perfect. How well I know it! But Jesus, the spotless Lamb is. Conform me to His image.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I’m an idiot because it’s midnight and I have my alarm set for 5 o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ve been skimming through my old journals, staring at the pages of time passed, wondering how it is that I was so much more focused, in love with the Lord and mature—three years ago. So much for the perseverance of the saints. How can I make these important things happen? Bible study, worship and journaling. I need them. They keep me spiritually vital. But when?
My heart has forgotten how to worship.
How did it happen? I don’t pour out praise, my mind is here now, poetry is long forgotten, music whispers in past history, my meditations are trying to sort out my deathly emotions. Where is God? Where is my passion? How can the two meet again?
Where, my heart, is worship hiding?
Hast thou left it by the way?
Now thou sleepest due to sorrow,
When thou shouldst wake, watch and pray.
Dare to plead again with Jesus,
Dare to wear thyself with praise
Dare to lose thy mind in worship
Dare to waste thy precious days
Seeking, groping, searching duly
For the Ancient One of Days.
My heart has forgotten how to worship.
How did it happen? I don’t pour out praise, my mind is here now, poetry is long forgotten, music whispers in past history, my meditations are trying to sort out my deathly emotions. Where is God? Where is my passion? How can the two meet again?
Where, my heart, is worship hiding?
Hast thou left it by the way?
Now thou sleepest due to sorrow,
When thou shouldst wake, watch and pray.
Dare to plead again with Jesus,
Dare to wear thyself with praise
Dare to lose thy mind in worship
Dare to waste thy precious days
Seeking, groping, searching duly
For the Ancient One of Days.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Witness my deep, dark confession:
I’m just like every other stupid young person, who thinks she knows everything. And I don’t.
I’m just like every other stupid young person, who thinks she knows everything. And I don’t.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Last night as I struggled against the insistent tears of hurt, I sat up in bed and told myself, “Abigail, don’t be silly. Suffering for doing what’s right might sound heroic and deserving of drama, but you’re losing sight of true suffering for what is right. Jesus suffered unlike you can ever imagine suffering and He learned obedience through the things which He suffered and has left us an example that we should follow in His footsteps. Which means it’s just what we should expect—all of us. And it works to teach us obedience. You are learning to be obedient to the Father and that’s just exactly a part of your Christian walk that you need work in.” Slowly, methodically I refuted my whining “Why did I get hurt? I didn’t deserve this” attitude. I reminded myself of my rebellion against God, my sin against His holiness and my utter helplessness to stand justified before God. Suddenly what I deserved came into focus like the slow turn of a camera lens: I deserve hell, utterly separated from God, hopeless, dark and agonized. It is only by His mercy that I am not a miserable, damned sinner. Perspective dampens the martyr’s tears and wells up within me the overwhelming joy. I am saved. From a horrible eternal existence without God. From exactly what I deserved. Jesus took the wrath that I deserved. Here I sit, moaning about something I didn’t deserve when He has left me that example. In that moment I knew that I was not suffering. My pain was healed. If the Lord of glory would rescue me from eternal punishment at the expense of Himself, He will do for me what is best. Why do I so lack trust and wallow in misery over things that should bring me joy? So, by His grace I did what was right. Do I suffer for it? Sheesh. Can it really be suffering if it is what God has allowed to teach me obedience? Obedience is only tested through the hard and painful things. Can it really be suffering if given from the loving hand of my Abba Father? Can it really be suffering when measured alongside the suffering of Christ?
Peter held it too much an honor to be crucified like his Lord and asked to be crucified upside down instead. Did he suffer for Christ? He said that suffering in the flesh helps us to forget our flesh and live instead for the will of God. That doesn’t sound to me like a tragedy, but a triumph.
I will learn to embrace the cross, the thorns, the nails if only they demonstrate that I am following the footsteps of Christ and will someday be like Him.
“For even if you should suffer for the sake of righteousness, you are blessed.” 1 Peter 3:14
Teach me, Lord, to measure pain
Alongside of my greater gain
The things that make me seek to hide
Drive me to Thy wounded side.
And there I place my hand and see
That Thou wast wounded more for me
And through Thy pain Thou learned to kneel.
So I will learn and Thou wilt heal.
Peter held it too much an honor to be crucified like his Lord and asked to be crucified upside down instead. Did he suffer for Christ? He said that suffering in the flesh helps us to forget our flesh and live instead for the will of God. That doesn’t sound to me like a tragedy, but a triumph.
I will learn to embrace the cross, the thorns, the nails if only they demonstrate that I am following the footsteps of Christ and will someday be like Him.
“For even if you should suffer for the sake of righteousness, you are blessed.” 1 Peter 3:14
Teach me, Lord, to measure pain
Alongside of my greater gain
The things that make me seek to hide
Drive me to Thy wounded side.
And there I place my hand and see
That Thou wast wounded more for me
And through Thy pain Thou learned to kneel.
So I will learn and Thou wilt heal.
Monday, June 15, 2009
See, it's like this: it doesn't happen often, but when it does, beware. Today I was riding an emotional rollercoaster--and it looked like a suburban. It's been building up for a couple of weeks. No, actually, it's been building up for a year. A year's worth of build-up can be pretty nasty. And to top it off, several things this weekend resulted in a complete drop-out in the careful nest of my emotions--mostly due to relief, partly due to confusion and a lot of bewilderment. Why did I have to go through all that misery, confusion and pain, trying desperately to do the right thing--and there's no point to it?
Then along comes the reminder that I still haven't sold the suburban. That suburban that I've had for a year to sell. That one goes like this: Papa gave me the suburban (sort of) to sell with a caveat. See, the money I get from the suburban is supposed to pay for my wedding. Whenever. That's the missing link for all those people who keep pestering me to find out when I'm going to get married. I can't until I sell this suburban. (That's a joke...I think.) The problem is that I never wanted the suburban. In fact, it was kind of embarrassing, so I never explained to anyone why my parents gave me a suburban. In olden days girls had countries or lands or cows for dowries. I have a suburban. It's not very useful to drive in the meanwhile and if I never sell it, it's not exactly the kind of vehicle I care to start out with. In fact, on the surface it feels like the kind of gift where the giver says, "You know, I've got this thing I don't want anymore. And someday soon, I'm going to have to pay for her wedding. So, why don't I just give her this thing I don't want anyway and tell her to sell it and pay for her own wedding." And I feel just that valuable. Which isn't very.
Is that the truth? Tell me, dear Searcher of Hearts, since when were emotions dependent on reason or truth? My wish-wash emotions aren't terribly interested in the truth. So this gift I have has been weighing on my will, mind and emotions for a year now. And I've tried everything that doesn't cost money out of my pocket in order to sell it. Oh people are interested until it comes down to a price and then they aren't. At least not in a reasonable price. Or they're super interested, but wait? You live in D-town? That's too far to drive. Nevermind. More trouble than it's worth.
And today Papa expressed his frustration that we still have a suburban. You must understand, this suburban and I are both still at home for one simple reason: the right person just hasn't come along yet. The right person who needs just this special vehicle (which is really not so much special as not in demand) and is willing to pay the price. Yet here we are, still paying tags and taxes, trying to keep clean and spiffy and advertised something that no one wants. And here I am, trying to sell a suburban to pay for a wedding when no one even wants to marry me.
How pointless is all of that?
I fought tears and crashing emotions all the way to work where I dropped Papa off and wished him a good day and noticed that the gas was on empty. I hadn't even been the last person to drive it, but I would get to fill it up--and I was already late for Choices. I drove away feeling frustrated, lost and unloved.
Remember, emotions are not always reasonable. Or based on truth.
Trying to talk truth into my weeping soul, I began reminding myself, "Nobody promises results, Abigail. You're just supposed to do your best and seek to do what's right anyway."
"Yeah," I argued with myself, "But that's just not fair. I've tried so hard! I've been honest and forthright! I've researched, I've posted ads, I've tried to please my parents. I don't get why hard things always happen to me. Why I'm always frustrated and hurt and confused. What am I doing wrong?"
That was a rhetorical question, you know. When I ask, "What am I doing wrong?" I don't expect an answer, or I expect to hear "nothing." Because, clearly, no fault lies with me.
Instead a verse in Philippians drifted over the current of my complaints. "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks. This is God's will for you."
Great. The good ol' rejoice always passage. Smiling is God's will for me.
But the truth began to sink in deeper than my level of self-pity. In everything give thanks...in all honesty, I had always resented that suburban. I had viewed it as a burden, something I hadn't asked for, which would be sold to pay for a designated purpose I never sought. Gee thanks. Some gift. In all my recalling, I could never recall being thankful for that suburban. In all my recalling, I could recall being irritated about trying to park it, or having to park it at the library for advertising and walking to Choices, or having to wash and vacuum it or having to get gas. I certainly was not grateful for that gift. A generous gift from my loving parents.
Then began the sermon. I'm very eloquent when I preach at myself. "Abigail, be grateful! You be grateful! Be grateful!" I signaled and shifted into the turn lane on Main street. "You be grateful for this suburban!"
And the suburban died. Right there in the middle of the busiest intersection in town at two o'clock in the afternoon, this suburban that I was going to be grateful for died. And it wouldn't restart.
Two possibilities--absolutely no gas, not even fumes. Or the battery, which we'd just replaced and had worked on, since the battery light was on. Becky called to tell me there was no power at the clinic and we were closed and I sniffled into the phone as I explained where I was anyway. Kindly she offered whatever help she could. Then I called Mom to see if Josiah could tell me anything about what my next course of action should be. I didn't relish braving oncoming traffic while checking on the battery if I just needed more gas. I tried starting it again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even on empty, surely I could have made it that last block to the gas station.
Then I heard sirens and saw the flashing blue lights. By now I had tears streaming down my face. So much for being grateful, I was ready to call a wrecker and have this stupid car towed. And plan a fifty dollar wedding. Fifty years from now. I feel terribly sorry for the police man who approached my door. He probably has enough to do dealing with one emotional woman at home. When I opened my door I was both laughing and crying. And I know I must have looked like a tiny teen who didn't know squat about cars. He quickly noted the for sale signs and asked, "Are you just test-driving?" Ludicrous. I don't WANT this car. Can't you tell that just from looking? (I'm sure my parents never guessed. I still need to be sure I've thanked them.) I tried to explain my situation as best I could and he nodded in sympathy. "Can you start it for me?" Which I did and nothing happened. Then he said, "Do you have it in park?" Well, no. I'd been driving when it died. And I was already emotionally nuts by then. Of course I didn't think to put it in park. I shifted into park and turned the key. And it started. "I feel stupid," I said and laughed and snorted and choked on tears. "You're okay," he smiled. "See if you can make it to 2nd and Arkansas and I'll follow you."
I made it. And filled up. And went home. And washed the suburban. Vacuumed it. And sprayed that silly foam on the tires to make them shiny. Because everyone is looking for a car with shiny tires, you know. Then I posted up some new ads. And I whispered, "Thank you for this suburban. I don't understand. I don't get it. It doesn't seem fair. It hurts. It's annoying. I don't see the point. But thank you."
Because I don't have to understand. Things don't have to go right. Things don't have to make sense or have a point. But I have to be thankful. That's God's will.
Now, the temptation is to say, "Look, Abigail! You learned your lesson! You're thankful now! God can bless you now!"
But the Lord is not a genii in a bottle. Rubbing Him right doesn't earn me three wishes. Doing the right thing doesn't equal getting what I want. I assure you, I want to sell this suburban. Trust means doing the right thing and believing that He sees it, is pleased and will reward it--sometime. Someway. His way. I can't make anyone buy that suburban. I can't make things happen by believing--that's humanism, paganism--not Christianity. But by believing, sometimes I can see things that are happening in a new light--I can believe God's promises that He will withhold no good thing from those who walk uprightly, that He works all things for the good of those who love Him, that trials produce proven character and that His will for me is my sanctification--that I would be made holy like Him. With those promises in mind, I can look squarely at anything thrown my way and say "Okay. Thanks."
Thank you, Lord, for an excellent reminder.
And...when You get around to it...please sell my suburban.
Then along comes the reminder that I still haven't sold the suburban. That suburban that I've had for a year to sell. That one goes like this: Papa gave me the suburban (sort of) to sell with a caveat. See, the money I get from the suburban is supposed to pay for my wedding. Whenever. That's the missing link for all those people who keep pestering me to find out when I'm going to get married. I can't until I sell this suburban. (That's a joke...I think.) The problem is that I never wanted the suburban. In fact, it was kind of embarrassing, so I never explained to anyone why my parents gave me a suburban. In olden days girls had countries or lands or cows for dowries. I have a suburban. It's not very useful to drive in the meanwhile and if I never sell it, it's not exactly the kind of vehicle I care to start out with. In fact, on the surface it feels like the kind of gift where the giver says, "You know, I've got this thing I don't want anymore. And someday soon, I'm going to have to pay for her wedding. So, why don't I just give her this thing I don't want anyway and tell her to sell it and pay for her own wedding." And I feel just that valuable. Which isn't very.
Is that the truth? Tell me, dear Searcher of Hearts, since when were emotions dependent on reason or truth? My wish-wash emotions aren't terribly interested in the truth. So this gift I have has been weighing on my will, mind and emotions for a year now. And I've tried everything that doesn't cost money out of my pocket in order to sell it. Oh people are interested until it comes down to a price and then they aren't. At least not in a reasonable price. Or they're super interested, but wait? You live in D-town? That's too far to drive. Nevermind. More trouble than it's worth.
And today Papa expressed his frustration that we still have a suburban. You must understand, this suburban and I are both still at home for one simple reason: the right person just hasn't come along yet. The right person who needs just this special vehicle (which is really not so much special as not in demand) and is willing to pay the price. Yet here we are, still paying tags and taxes, trying to keep clean and spiffy and advertised something that no one wants. And here I am, trying to sell a suburban to pay for a wedding when no one even wants to marry me.
How pointless is all of that?
I fought tears and crashing emotions all the way to work where I dropped Papa off and wished him a good day and noticed that the gas was on empty. I hadn't even been the last person to drive it, but I would get to fill it up--and I was already late for Choices. I drove away feeling frustrated, lost and unloved.
Remember, emotions are not always reasonable. Or based on truth.
Trying to talk truth into my weeping soul, I began reminding myself, "Nobody promises results, Abigail. You're just supposed to do your best and seek to do what's right anyway."
"Yeah," I argued with myself, "But that's just not fair. I've tried so hard! I've been honest and forthright! I've researched, I've posted ads, I've tried to please my parents. I don't get why hard things always happen to me. Why I'm always frustrated and hurt and confused. What am I doing wrong?"
That was a rhetorical question, you know. When I ask, "What am I doing wrong?" I don't expect an answer, or I expect to hear "nothing." Because, clearly, no fault lies with me.
Instead a verse in Philippians drifted over the current of my complaints. "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks. This is God's will for you."
Great. The good ol' rejoice always passage. Smiling is God's will for me.
But the truth began to sink in deeper than my level of self-pity. In everything give thanks...in all honesty, I had always resented that suburban. I had viewed it as a burden, something I hadn't asked for, which would be sold to pay for a designated purpose I never sought. Gee thanks. Some gift. In all my recalling, I could never recall being thankful for that suburban. In all my recalling, I could recall being irritated about trying to park it, or having to park it at the library for advertising and walking to Choices, or having to wash and vacuum it or having to get gas. I certainly was not grateful for that gift. A generous gift from my loving parents.
Then began the sermon. I'm very eloquent when I preach at myself. "Abigail, be grateful! You be grateful! Be grateful!" I signaled and shifted into the turn lane on Main street. "You be grateful for this suburban!"
And the suburban died. Right there in the middle of the busiest intersection in town at two o'clock in the afternoon, this suburban that I was going to be grateful for died. And it wouldn't restart.
Two possibilities--absolutely no gas, not even fumes. Or the battery, which we'd just replaced and had worked on, since the battery light was on. Becky called to tell me there was no power at the clinic and we were closed and I sniffled into the phone as I explained where I was anyway. Kindly she offered whatever help she could. Then I called Mom to see if Josiah could tell me anything about what my next course of action should be. I didn't relish braving oncoming traffic while checking on the battery if I just needed more gas. I tried starting it again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even on empty, surely I could have made it that last block to the gas station.
Then I heard sirens and saw the flashing blue lights. By now I had tears streaming down my face. So much for being grateful, I was ready to call a wrecker and have this stupid car towed. And plan a fifty dollar wedding. Fifty years from now. I feel terribly sorry for the police man who approached my door. He probably has enough to do dealing with one emotional woman at home. When I opened my door I was both laughing and crying. And I know I must have looked like a tiny teen who didn't know squat about cars. He quickly noted the for sale signs and asked, "Are you just test-driving?" Ludicrous. I don't WANT this car. Can't you tell that just from looking? (I'm sure my parents never guessed. I still need to be sure I've thanked them.) I tried to explain my situation as best I could and he nodded in sympathy. "Can you start it for me?" Which I did and nothing happened. Then he said, "Do you have it in park?" Well, no. I'd been driving when it died. And I was already emotionally nuts by then. Of course I didn't think to put it in park. I shifted into park and turned the key. And it started. "I feel stupid," I said and laughed and snorted and choked on tears. "You're okay," he smiled. "See if you can make it to 2nd and Arkansas and I'll follow you."
I made it. And filled up. And went home. And washed the suburban. Vacuumed it. And sprayed that silly foam on the tires to make them shiny. Because everyone is looking for a car with shiny tires, you know. Then I posted up some new ads. And I whispered, "Thank you for this suburban. I don't understand. I don't get it. It doesn't seem fair. It hurts. It's annoying. I don't see the point. But thank you."
Because I don't have to understand. Things don't have to go right. Things don't have to make sense or have a point. But I have to be thankful. That's God's will.
Now, the temptation is to say, "Look, Abigail! You learned your lesson! You're thankful now! God can bless you now!"
But the Lord is not a genii in a bottle. Rubbing Him right doesn't earn me three wishes. Doing the right thing doesn't equal getting what I want. I assure you, I want to sell this suburban. Trust means doing the right thing and believing that He sees it, is pleased and will reward it--sometime. Someway. His way. I can't make anyone buy that suburban. I can't make things happen by believing--that's humanism, paganism--not Christianity. But by believing, sometimes I can see things that are happening in a new light--I can believe God's promises that He will withhold no good thing from those who walk uprightly, that He works all things for the good of those who love Him, that trials produce proven character and that His will for me is my sanctification--that I would be made holy like Him. With those promises in mind, I can look squarely at anything thrown my way and say "Okay. Thanks."
Thank you, Lord, for an excellent reminder.
And...when You get around to it...please sell my suburban.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
I feel as though I’ve thought a million thoughts today and talked a million more. And when I get them all down on paper, perhaps I will expose a few of them to the critical eyes of the world. I am amazed to consider that the Lord knows all of them already.
Lauren shared with me over the phone how she and Nathaniel have formed a method of dealing with issues “on the love seat” to remind them that love must be at the root of it. Without revealing particulars she shared some of her thoughts on when and how to work through issues. “My problem,” I expressed, “is that I have the mistaken view that loving means just always giving in.” “Well,” she answered, “I could probably learn a lot from that.” “No,” I protested. “Not giving in and joyfully serving, but giving in without joy, just giving in and grumbling inwardly. So instead of setting boundaries, I just give in and it festers until I am whining and wondering why I have to be the one who always gives in.” She suggested the best thing I’ve heard yet: seeking to respectfully set boundaries, express preferences and desires and then give in. That’s love.
Why is it that just when I begin to discover what love really means, I discover as well how unloving I am? It seemed easy to never say anything negative, always give in, just do whatever it took to make good happen and pretend like I had no feelings. It’s so hard to really love. In fact, I think I’m a complete failure.
Jesus, help me.
Lauren shared with me over the phone how she and Nathaniel have formed a method of dealing with issues “on the love seat” to remind them that love must be at the root of it. Without revealing particulars she shared some of her thoughts on when and how to work through issues. “My problem,” I expressed, “is that I have the mistaken view that loving means just always giving in.” “Well,” she answered, “I could probably learn a lot from that.” “No,” I protested. “Not giving in and joyfully serving, but giving in without joy, just giving in and grumbling inwardly. So instead of setting boundaries, I just give in and it festers until I am whining and wondering why I have to be the one who always gives in.” She suggested the best thing I’ve heard yet: seeking to respectfully set boundaries, express preferences and desires and then give in. That’s love.
Why is it that just when I begin to discover what love really means, I discover as well how unloving I am? It seemed easy to never say anything negative, always give in, just do whatever it took to make good happen and pretend like I had no feelings. It’s so hard to really love. In fact, I think I’m a complete failure.
Jesus, help me.
Friday, May 1, 2009
All day I pushed from my mind the weight of knowledge that was frustrating me. Sometimes I feel like I know more about everyone else's business than they do. Humorously, sometimes I feel like I know more about everyone else's business than I know about my own. Before the Lord I can honestly attest that I don't try to get muddled up with matters not concerning me. Somehow getting concerned in matters that concern others just happens to me. Then arises the dilemma--is this matter secret? I desire to be discreet, though I often lack wisdom. Am I supposed to DO anything with this knowledge? I desire to tell the truth, though I often lack discretion. Am I allowed to seek advice from my father? I desire to be wise, though I often misunderstand the truth.
And my emotions raged up and down, around in circles, roller-coastering from confusion to anger. While showering, I showered a far distant person with a piercing lecture, expressing the truth from my perspective. Before I'd finished drying my hair, my anger had melted into understanding and compassion. We all act out what has been acted upon us: Fear leads to insecurity. Lack of intimacy leads to lack of commitment. Hurt leads to pretending that we don't hurt. Stifled sensitivity leads to insensitivity.
And then I am reminded of the Lord's grace to me in my failing and flailing and confusion. I am forced to kneel and plead forgiveness for myself again and also plead the Lord's mercy and grace that my own life would be a cause of encouragement in the Lord and that the Lord would protect all those I love from me, even in the best of my intentions.
What a mercy that the world was not given into my hands to govern.
And my emotions raged up and down, around in circles, roller-coastering from confusion to anger. While showering, I showered a far distant person with a piercing lecture, expressing the truth from my perspective. Before I'd finished drying my hair, my anger had melted into understanding and compassion. We all act out what has been acted upon us: Fear leads to insecurity. Lack of intimacy leads to lack of commitment. Hurt leads to pretending that we don't hurt. Stifled sensitivity leads to insensitivity.
And then I am reminded of the Lord's grace to me in my failing and flailing and confusion. I am forced to kneel and plead forgiveness for myself again and also plead the Lord's mercy and grace that my own life would be a cause of encouragement in the Lord and that the Lord would protect all those I love from me, even in the best of my intentions.
What a mercy that the world was not given into my hands to govern.
Christmas Day, Thursday, December 25, 2008
Josiah neatly shot a nail through the ball of his finger and into the birdhouse he was building for Grandma. It’s a good thing finishing nails have no heads. “That was stupid,” he grimaced, sucking his finger and waiting for Lydia to return with a band-aid. “I knew I should be more careful with the nail gun.” I hardly thought a band-aid sufficient. The birdhouse turned out adorably.
If I had anything worth reporting, I wouldn’t need to be so brief.
Lord, the year is almost past,
It seems I lose momentum fast,
My emotions never last
Beyond the first commotion.
Oh, teach me what is faith to Thee
That I would learn devotedly
To follow Thee in purity,
Endurance and devotion.
If I had anything worth reporting, I wouldn’t need to be so brief.
Lord, the year is almost past,
It seems I lose momentum fast,
My emotions never last
Beyond the first commotion.
Oh, teach me what is faith to Thee
That I would learn devotedly
To follow Thee in purity,
Endurance and devotion.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I should have mentioned that my lingering search for a treadmill and total-gym finally paid off and we no longer have need of anyone else’s workout room. Tonight we gathered in the parent’s suite in search of the toasty warmth and also eager to lubricate the treadmill belt. “It’s slipping still,” I informed Papa, and he bravely climbed aboard to try it out. Sure enough, it slipped throwing him forward, then backward until he looked to be doing an Indian war-dance. While Josiah tightened, Papa kept walking at break-neck speed. With an impish grin Josiah winked at us and then grabbed the edge of the belt, causing a ginormous slip which nearly sent Papa tumbling off. We held our collective breath to keep from laughing. “Whoa!” Papa exclaimed. “Better tighten that at least another quarter turn.”
I also neglected to mention that Nick moved in with us yesterday after finishing up his last final. The agreement is that he’ll put in several hours of work per day. This morning he smelled strongly of Windex as he gave every window in the house a thorough shining.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have begun working out again. My bright idea today was sparked while at the Ware’s, cleaning house. A shiny, new shower head lay in the guest bathtub begging to be lovingly placed into its new home. Simple instructions decorated the back, so I slit open the package and installed it. And I did a lovely job, except for the part where it said to screw the hose to the head and finger tighten it. I only used me fingers. I promise! And I hadn’t really even begun to tighten when I heard a sickening “crack!” I waited in trepidation to tell Travis when he got home, but he just laughed and said he’d buy a new one. A better quality one. I crept home in relief.
We finished up Revelation last night and started in on an interesting study tonight. Papa is beginning to feel reinspired to work on a book about the church meeting and we get to help him! Sometimes I hear the words “First Corinthians” and am overwhelmed by an enormous faintness. Is there no other book in the Bible? Sunday night I struggled to pay attention as I heard again a teaching I’ve heard so many times. But today I skimmed through my journal from the first six months here in the not-so-sunny south and was overwhelmed, amazed and reminded of all that I had learned. This book is Papa’s vision. It’s his dream for ministry. I don’t really understand it. I lack his enthusiasm, his drive, his goals. But this is his vision. My joy, my place is in catching his enthusiasm, encouraging his dream and helping his endeavor.
Life stirs within this languid breast. A faint flame is flickering. I must catch it and fan it into a blaze! How have I been languishing and dying all this time? How have I been weeping for myself and avoiding all that is best?
“It takes courage to worship,” says Shai Linne, speaking of the High Priest of bygone days. But worship yields such fullness. Such joy. Such delight.
Here I am to worship.
Lord, I take the faltering step
To come inside the rended veil
To worship at Thy holy throne
To live again within Thy court
To rediscover joy in Thee
To pray with renewed energy
To hope for better things to come
To chase Thy Priest, the Lamb, Thy Son.
I also neglected to mention that Nick moved in with us yesterday after finishing up his last final. The agreement is that he’ll put in several hours of work per day. This morning he smelled strongly of Windex as he gave every window in the house a thorough shining.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have begun working out again. My bright idea today was sparked while at the Ware’s, cleaning house. A shiny, new shower head lay in the guest bathtub begging to be lovingly placed into its new home. Simple instructions decorated the back, so I slit open the package and installed it. And I did a lovely job, except for the part where it said to screw the hose to the head and finger tighten it. I only used me fingers. I promise! And I hadn’t really even begun to tighten when I heard a sickening “crack!” I waited in trepidation to tell Travis when he got home, but he just laughed and said he’d buy a new one. A better quality one. I crept home in relief.
We finished up Revelation last night and started in on an interesting study tonight. Papa is beginning to feel reinspired to work on a book about the church meeting and we get to help him! Sometimes I hear the words “First Corinthians” and am overwhelmed by an enormous faintness. Is there no other book in the Bible? Sunday night I struggled to pay attention as I heard again a teaching I’ve heard so many times. But today I skimmed through my journal from the first six months here in the not-so-sunny south and was overwhelmed, amazed and reminded of all that I had learned. This book is Papa’s vision. It’s his dream for ministry. I don’t really understand it. I lack his enthusiasm, his drive, his goals. But this is his vision. My joy, my place is in catching his enthusiasm, encouraging his dream and helping his endeavor.
Life stirs within this languid breast. A faint flame is flickering. I must catch it and fan it into a blaze! How have I been languishing and dying all this time? How have I been weeping for myself and avoiding all that is best?
“It takes courage to worship,” says Shai Linne, speaking of the High Priest of bygone days. But worship yields such fullness. Such joy. Such delight.
Here I am to worship.
Lord, I take the faltering step
To come inside the rended veil
To worship at Thy holy throne
To live again within Thy court
To rediscover joy in Thee
To pray with renewed energy
To hope for better things to come
To chase Thy Priest, the Lamb, Thy Son.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
“You’re still discouraged?” Lauren asked me. I hate that I simply can’t shake this heavy feeling of despondency that has settled over my shoulders like a wet blanket. I struggle for truth. I read and read. But I don’t write. Not really write. What would I say? I feel shallow when I talk to people. Lost on the surface of a mirror—just reflecting them back, blocking out any view of deeper inside myself. I laugh a lot. I talk more than I used to. I’m hyper and prattle to Lydia in ridiculous voices. But I feel empty. Lost. Frozen. My heart has become a lump of ice that burns with intense cold inside my chest. And I’ve become secretive again, shutting people off from me. Even Tabby. Because Tabby and I are no longer at the same place. She doesn’t really need me any more. I don’t begrudge her anything—I’m thrilled to see what the Lord is going to do. I just don’t have much to tell her any more and it’s easy just to listen to her tell me about what’s going on in her life. Nothing painful or difficult anymore. She doesn’t really need me.
My dreams and hopes are dead. My thoughts are tangled in a web of should and should not, must and must not, might and might not. I don’t even know where to begin to unravel them. Intense loneliness overwhelms me, no matter who I’m with. Somehow I have withdrawn from the Lord or He has withdrawn from me.
When one has known the presence of the Lord, when one has sat at His feet and heard His voice whisper truth, distance is as deadly as hell. People speak kindly to me, but their voices are from another world. My mind drifts from everything at hand and wanders aimlessly across the scope of the universe searching for something I’ve lost. My heart is full of knowledge, but where is the One I love? In His presence is fullness of joy. In His right hand are pleasures forever.
I am not in His presence and I am miserable.
I wandered the length of the galaxies spread
And found it was formless and empty instead
For only in Thee do all things exist
In the world Thou hast made, it is Thou I have missed.
Sightless, my eyes flicker over creation
I breathe without thinking, yet each inhalation
Leaves me still gasping and wheezing for breath
For a soul wand’ring from Thee is dancing with death.
Ah, Father, Thou sees me, wherever I am.
Like the shepherd who follows the wandering lamb
Please find me here lost and alone and afraid,
By the debt of the Passover Lamb, my debt paid.
Capture my heart once again with Thy grace,
Electrify with Thy redeeming embrace,
And lead me in ways that will bring Thee delight.
Teach me the path that’s both pleasure and right.
My dreams and hopes are dead. My thoughts are tangled in a web of should and should not, must and must not, might and might not. I don’t even know where to begin to unravel them. Intense loneliness overwhelms me, no matter who I’m with. Somehow I have withdrawn from the Lord or He has withdrawn from me.
When one has known the presence of the Lord, when one has sat at His feet and heard His voice whisper truth, distance is as deadly as hell. People speak kindly to me, but their voices are from another world. My mind drifts from everything at hand and wanders aimlessly across the scope of the universe searching for something I’ve lost. My heart is full of knowledge, but where is the One I love? In His presence is fullness of joy. In His right hand are pleasures forever.
I am not in His presence and I am miserable.
I wandered the length of the galaxies spread
And found it was formless and empty instead
For only in Thee do all things exist
In the world Thou hast made, it is Thou I have missed.
Sightless, my eyes flicker over creation
I breathe without thinking, yet each inhalation
Leaves me still gasping and wheezing for breath
For a soul wand’ring from Thee is dancing with death.
Ah, Father, Thou sees me, wherever I am.
Like the shepherd who follows the wandering lamb
Please find me here lost and alone and afraid,
By the debt of the Passover Lamb, my debt paid.
Capture my heart once again with Thy grace,
Electrify with Thy redeeming embrace,
And lead me in ways that will bring Thee delight.
Teach me the path that’s both pleasure and right.
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.
About Habits
"I used to have a terrible habit," Tabby admitted in a conspiratorial tone. I pressed the phone closer to my ear. "Go on." She took a deep breath. "I used to be horrible about not knocking on closed doors. Just barged right in. Then Mom told me I needed to practice by always knocking on every door before I came in. Next thing I knew my habit had gone the other way. I caught myself knocking on my closet door before opening it to select an outfit. But, worst of all, I knocked on doors to rooms I was leaving." She never told me the sad ending to her tale--whether she's been able to break these new habits or whether they plague her still.
Monday, April 21, 2008
My version of Windows Movie Maker doesn’t support MPEG2’s. That would have seemed like a random, useless fact, had I not spent the whole afternoon bent over my laptop with Jacinderella, imploring, pleading and trying to bribe it into cooperation. Even free conversion downloads proved a disappointment. While we waited for downloads, uploads, acrossloads, inloads, outloads, offloads and onloads, we behaved like the immature girls we are. Jacinderalla hates being reminded how others are scared of her. I think it’s hilarious. Scared of my Jacinderella? Whatever…Okay. Maybe I’m a little scared, too, when she gives me certain looks. “The South Beach Diet?” She suspiciously pulled the book off my desk. “Uh, yeah,” I answered. “I can explain.” The Librarian at Tech had given me a similar look and probed: “This must be for a research paper, right?” The explanation is simple: Papa asked me to start it with him because I’m the only one in the family who wouldn’t shrivel up and die on a diet. Actually, I think I might. No fruit or dairy in the first phase? Giving up bread and starches is no problem, but I exist on fruits and dairy. In a dearth of other things to talk about, I bravely showed her the language I’d written when I was fifteen. Acacian. I don’t know why it came to mind. It began simply as one of my million codes and grew until it was going to be a whole allegory, with a world of its own. I wasn’t even familiar with Lord of the Rings. Or Gaelic, both of which it resembles. Logistically, it might be pretty difficult to speak, since most of the vowels are silent, vowel sounds being part of the consonants. Or difficult, at least, to understand. But I became very proficient in writing it, back in the day, and even ensnared Josiah in note passing for a time. “This is insane. You could sell this,” Jacinderella commented. I shrugged. I was thinking I’d keep it around for kicks and maybe teach it in the catacombs should America ever become hostile to Christianity.
The new lawn mower is a manual transmission. Of sorts. No gas pedal. Just a brake/clutch and six speeds. I slid the lever into sixth, eased off on the clutch and went flying across the yard at breakneck speed. Well. Fast for a lawnmower, at least. I still can barely hold the seat down, but at least our terrain here is no where near as jostling as back in Kansas. I can’t count all the times the mower died because I zipped through a rut and bounced right off the seat.
A horrible confession escapes me tonight. I followed Lydia into our room to read Ephesians before bed and couldn’t remember the last time I’d read with her. Always some “interference” or “excuse.” We did so well through John and First John, but I’ve completely let it slide to the side of my pathway. Isn’t this just the story of my life. “You started well. Who hindered you from finishing?”
In the midst of our family study through Exodus, as we’ve listened through the details of the bloody sacrifices, I came again upon David’s understanding of God’s true desire: “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise.” Which would be comforting, except that it reminds me that I’ve come again to that place where the well has run dry. Where I realize I’m chasing everything but the Lord. Where the fire in my heart begs to be fanned. Psalm fifty-one always finds me here, disappointed in myself, pleading for a steadfast and willing spirit. Rules, schedules and liturgies turn stale without the holy passion of a heart fixed on Yahweh. Which heart I lack.
Lord, I’ve wandered from Thy feet,
The place where we were wont to meet,
Yet even here, where’er I be
I know that Thou wilt come to me.
So, Father, I implore Thee now,
To grind up every golden cow
And grant to me a heart of praise
To worship Thee through all my days.
The new lawn mower is a manual transmission. Of sorts. No gas pedal. Just a brake/clutch and six speeds. I slid the lever into sixth, eased off on the clutch and went flying across the yard at breakneck speed. Well. Fast for a lawnmower, at least. I still can barely hold the seat down, but at least our terrain here is no where near as jostling as back in Kansas. I can’t count all the times the mower died because I zipped through a rut and bounced right off the seat.
A horrible confession escapes me tonight. I followed Lydia into our room to read Ephesians before bed and couldn’t remember the last time I’d read with her. Always some “interference” or “excuse.” We did so well through John and First John, but I’ve completely let it slide to the side of my pathway. Isn’t this just the story of my life. “You started well. Who hindered you from finishing?”
In the midst of our family study through Exodus, as we’ve listened through the details of the bloody sacrifices, I came again upon David’s understanding of God’s true desire: “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise.” Which would be comforting, except that it reminds me that I’ve come again to that place where the well has run dry. Where I realize I’m chasing everything but the Lord. Where the fire in my heart begs to be fanned. Psalm fifty-one always finds me here, disappointed in myself, pleading for a steadfast and willing spirit. Rules, schedules and liturgies turn stale without the holy passion of a heart fixed on Yahweh. Which heart I lack.
Lord, I’ve wandered from Thy feet,
The place where we were wont to meet,
Yet even here, where’er I be
I know that Thou wilt come to me.
So, Father, I implore Thee now,
To grind up every golden cow
And grant to me a heart of praise
To worship Thee through all my days.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Try cooking for an army of guests over the weekend while pretending nothing unusual is happening. It’s not terribly unusual for us to have a few extras, but we don’t really plan for them. “What’s with all the baking?” Josiah demanded. “I’m just in a baking mood,” Mom answered, shrugging. I smirked, unable to recall her ever being in a baking mood that left the whole kitchen covered in layers of flour, sugar and eggs and included monster casseroles. When the white minivan finally pulled up outside Thursday afternoon and the Willises spilled out, only Lydia was flabbergasted.
Four sleeping bags sprawling out across my bedroom floor, various and sundry pillows scattered abroad, soggy towels and wash cloths hanging limply in the bathroom, piles of clothing, books, Bibles and what-not spilling out of backpacks and shoes lying neglected at every doorway sent my pulse sky-rocketing. Messes don’t bother me terribly, as long as I’m busy, but the laundry room was torn apart, preventing me from fulfilling my Friday duty, supper was already thawing on the kitchen counter and I’d already vacuumed the house—what of it wasn’t occupied. I hardly felt like I deserved a “break” when Josiah proposed a rollicking game of military tactics. Besides, how am I supposed to enjoy playing when there are messes tripping me up every time I sneak in or out a house door? I completely missed the fact that the worst mess of the day was my attitude.
I finally found my purpose in life, after lunch, playing the mole for Miss Master Electrician Tabitha as she wired in a two-forty breaker for the convection oven/electric stove we brought from Kansas. “It’s actually pretty roomy underneath your house,” she informed me through the crackling walkie-talkies as I crawled through the entrance to the brief world underneath the house. As long as I kept my head between the floor joists, I could actually sit upright to push the thick wire through the hole she’d drilled. I heard her crinkling along the shreds of plastic as she came to check my work and switched off my flashlight, scrambling to lie across her pathway. “Abigail?” she called out through the darkness, her voice hesitant. “I need some light.” She continued at a slower pace. Hoping she’d crawl across me and scream, I held my breath and kept my head low. She must have lost her bearings and gone off crooked. “Abigail, where are you?” she demanded and bumped right into a cinderblock house support. Were I given to exaggeration, I’d insist the whole house shook. From the other side of the blocks, I started giggling and apologizing and flicked on my flashlight to see her rubbing her head and snickering. “I’ll thrash you later.” Willowy as she is, I’ve no doubt she can.
Shuttling a dozen people through showers left the poor well tired and confused and in need of rejuvenation several times. At last we all gathered, with the Tech students who’d come, for some singing and fellowship. At least, we tried to sing through our itchy-with-insulation or sawdust or catacomb grime voices. Inspired by one of the scripture songs, the guys dug out doxologies from scripture—praise for Yahweh and His glory.
In every moment, in every tiny piece of creation, Yahweh reveals Himself and part of His character. As I sat alone in the dark, listening to Tabitha drilling holes above my head, the beam from my LED illuminated dozens of dust particles and set them glowing like tiny stars. Fascinated, I watched them dance and flicker, moving through the darkness as beacons—not so different from the stars Yahweh flung abroad in the expanse above the earth, made of dust, yet glowing with His light. And not so different from me and the believers around me, from dust we came and to dust we will return. Yet Yahweh has shown His light abroad, illuminating us, making us beautiful through His glory, to reflect the light of His Son.
Lord, Thou art the light that shines,
Illuminating hearts and minds,
Teaches us to sing the praise
Of God, the Ancient One of days,
That gives to flesh a heart of trust,
Lends light and beauty e’en to dust
And calls a fallen man Thy friend.
To Thee alone be praise. Amen!
Four sleeping bags sprawling out across my bedroom floor, various and sundry pillows scattered abroad, soggy towels and wash cloths hanging limply in the bathroom, piles of clothing, books, Bibles and what-not spilling out of backpacks and shoes lying neglected at every doorway sent my pulse sky-rocketing. Messes don’t bother me terribly, as long as I’m busy, but the laundry room was torn apart, preventing me from fulfilling my Friday duty, supper was already thawing on the kitchen counter and I’d already vacuumed the house—what of it wasn’t occupied. I hardly felt like I deserved a “break” when Josiah proposed a rollicking game of military tactics. Besides, how am I supposed to enjoy playing when there are messes tripping me up every time I sneak in or out a house door? I completely missed the fact that the worst mess of the day was my attitude.
I finally found my purpose in life, after lunch, playing the mole for Miss Master Electrician Tabitha as she wired in a two-forty breaker for the convection oven/electric stove we brought from Kansas. “It’s actually pretty roomy underneath your house,” she informed me through the crackling walkie-talkies as I crawled through the entrance to the brief world underneath the house. As long as I kept my head between the floor joists, I could actually sit upright to push the thick wire through the hole she’d drilled. I heard her crinkling along the shreds of plastic as she came to check my work and switched off my flashlight, scrambling to lie across her pathway. “Abigail?” she called out through the darkness, her voice hesitant. “I need some light.” She continued at a slower pace. Hoping she’d crawl across me and scream, I held my breath and kept my head low. She must have lost her bearings and gone off crooked. “Abigail, where are you?” she demanded and bumped right into a cinderblock house support. Were I given to exaggeration, I’d insist the whole house shook. From the other side of the blocks, I started giggling and apologizing and flicked on my flashlight to see her rubbing her head and snickering. “I’ll thrash you later.” Willowy as she is, I’ve no doubt she can.
Shuttling a dozen people through showers left the poor well tired and confused and in need of rejuvenation several times. At last we all gathered, with the Tech students who’d come, for some singing and fellowship. At least, we tried to sing through our itchy-with-insulation or sawdust or catacomb grime voices. Inspired by one of the scripture songs, the guys dug out doxologies from scripture—praise for Yahweh and His glory.
In every moment, in every tiny piece of creation, Yahweh reveals Himself and part of His character. As I sat alone in the dark, listening to Tabitha drilling holes above my head, the beam from my LED illuminated dozens of dust particles and set them glowing like tiny stars. Fascinated, I watched them dance and flicker, moving through the darkness as beacons—not so different from the stars Yahweh flung abroad in the expanse above the earth, made of dust, yet glowing with His light. And not so different from me and the believers around me, from dust we came and to dust we will return. Yet Yahweh has shown His light abroad, illuminating us, making us beautiful through His glory, to reflect the light of His Son.
Lord, Thou art the light that shines,
Illuminating hearts and minds,
Teaches us to sing the praise
Of God, the Ancient One of days,
That gives to flesh a heart of trust,
Lends light and beauty e’en to dust
And calls a fallen man Thy friend.
To Thee alone be praise. Amen!
Sunday, February 3, 2008
I’ve been wandering in a spiritual desert for days now, lost in Leviticus and floundering through my emotions. My emotions have been teetering on the edge of utter destruction since Thursday, assaulted by every possible discouragement. I feel stuck in a rut, lost here, not sure what I’m supposed to be doing while “at home”, wondering if anything I’m doing is more than wood, hay or stubble and will survive the fire of time. Wondering what the Lord has for me next and why He hasn’t brought it yet. Is it because I’ve not finished something or learned something or I’m not ready yet? If so, how do I prepare? What in the world am I supposed to be doing? Also looking around at everything I own, detesting my possessions, beginning to think that I should again empty my savings on the altar at the Lord’s feet. Didn’t He provide so that both my cameras now work splendidly? Aren’t those the cameras He generously provided? Why do I think I need a “better” one? Especially when a missionary could live for two years on the amount I’m hoping to spend on a camera.
I also found out yesterday that a good friend had made a foolish, God-dishonoring decision. Surprise could not be tagged onto my list of emotions, but I’d clung tenaciously to the hope that she would choose better than that. She stole a car and ran away in the middle of the night to stay who-knows-where in town before finally flying out today. Now I think of all the times the Spirit pricked me to challenge her salvation even, as well as her behavior and attitudes: the past year or two clearly demonstrates an attitude of selfishness. I can think of many times my mind and heart rebelled and I thought of ways I could throw off the chains that bind me to this household (so the Deceiver tells me). Ultimately my heart is softened and I am brought to repentance because I can’t bear to drag my Savior’s name through the dirt. By His mercy I pray I never give the enemy cause to blaspheme—by speedy repentance when I sin, even in thoughts. Watching her actions I whisper to myself, “But for the grace of God, there go I.” But still, deep inside bubbles a well of anger. How am I to sort out if it is righteous indignation or fleshly wrath? One is pure, the other sin.
This is not the way I want to live my life, defeated, discouraged, confused by other's actions and circumstances I can't control.
Discontentment. Restlessness. Discouragement. Unhappiness.
Boil it down into one word: selfishness.
I must cling to Jesus. Worship Jesus. Adore Jesus. Serve Jesus. Praise Jesus. Love Jesus. Speak of Jesus. Sing of Jesus. Think of Jesus. Dream of Jesus. Be consumed by Jesus so that there is no room for anything else.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Lord, Thou art the breath that fills me
Would that Thou in mercy kills me
E’er I might in folly wander
From the presence of Thy splendor.
Why does simply living tempt me
From the paths in which Thou leads me?
I beg the comfort of Thy rod—
Discipline Thy child, O God.
I also found out yesterday that a good friend had made a foolish, God-dishonoring decision. Surprise could not be tagged onto my list of emotions, but I’d clung tenaciously to the hope that she would choose better than that. She stole a car and ran away in the middle of the night to stay who-knows-where in town before finally flying out today. Now I think of all the times the Spirit pricked me to challenge her salvation even, as well as her behavior and attitudes: the past year or two clearly demonstrates an attitude of selfishness. I can think of many times my mind and heart rebelled and I thought of ways I could throw off the chains that bind me to this household (so the Deceiver tells me). Ultimately my heart is softened and I am brought to repentance because I can’t bear to drag my Savior’s name through the dirt. By His mercy I pray I never give the enemy cause to blaspheme—by speedy repentance when I sin, even in thoughts. Watching her actions I whisper to myself, “But for the grace of God, there go I.” But still, deep inside bubbles a well of anger. How am I to sort out if it is righteous indignation or fleshly wrath? One is pure, the other sin.
This is not the way I want to live my life, defeated, discouraged, confused by other's actions and circumstances I can't control.
Discontentment. Restlessness. Discouragement. Unhappiness.
Boil it down into one word: selfishness.
I must cling to Jesus. Worship Jesus. Adore Jesus. Serve Jesus. Praise Jesus. Love Jesus. Speak of Jesus. Sing of Jesus. Think of Jesus. Dream of Jesus. Be consumed by Jesus so that there is no room for anything else.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Lord, Thou art the breath that fills me
Would that Thou in mercy kills me
E’er I might in folly wander
From the presence of Thy splendor.
Why does simply living tempt me
From the paths in which Thou leads me?
I beg the comfort of Thy rod—
Discipline Thy child, O God.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Apparently the bewildered bird yesterday prophesied falsely. It’s freezing today.
Josiah and I had a huge fight this morning. It lasted perhaps five minutes, but the intensity was enough to work out all my restless energy. The fight was entirely my fault. I guess I’m worn down emotionally, tired of making peace, being cheerful, seaking to serve, pleasing everyone, being a gentle, quiet and at-home kind of girl. Everyone else had run to RussVegas and I was filling my sink with soapy, sudsy dishwater while Josiah talked to me when he reached over and pulled out the sprayer nozzle. The next thing I knew, cold water had blasted me in the face. Deep inside I thought it was funny and outwardly I was only mildly annoyed but a little imp of anger tugged at my heart and I began to scold. Josiah was laughing and insisting it was an accident, but I worked myself into a white-hot passion. I wanted to hit him as hard as I could (which is pretty hard). Not because I was really angry, but because a desire for conflict raged inside me, demanding release. I can’t remember the last time I was angry like that—where it actually came out in words and nearly blows, instead of being stifled by studied silence. For the past couple of weeks it has seemed that my emotions had completely shriveled up and died, and I’ve been living my life on pure control. The fight blew over as quickly as it had begun and we stood, washing dishes in sullen silence, tears of repentance mingling with the still un-dried remains of the cold blast and dripping into my steamy dishwater. Finally we both rushed into apologies. Most impressive through the whole situation was Josiah’s self-control. There was a day when his temper flared up at nothing, like a cherry bomb in the presence of fire. Now he could kill me if he wanted to. He never even struck. It’s moments like these when I recognize spiritual warfare and the fact that I am a new creature. Becoming angry was an effort. I chose to be angry, to think up angry things to say and to threaten. I dug up that ugly side from somewhere hidden deep away because I wanted to. I had to work up the passion to continue. In all honesty, I was not in the least overcome by sin, but chose it for the moment because that is what I wanted. It wasn’t too strong for me, I sought it out.
How strange. Why did I do it?
Lord, no sin can ever bind me
No temptation seek or find me
But Thou also dost provide
Thy own grace in which to hide.
I can conquer through Thy power
Evil forms in evil hours.
Before I even cry to Thee
Thou looses bonds and sets me free.
Josiah and I had a huge fight this morning. It lasted perhaps five minutes, but the intensity was enough to work out all my restless energy. The fight was entirely my fault. I guess I’m worn down emotionally, tired of making peace, being cheerful, seaking to serve, pleasing everyone, being a gentle, quiet and at-home kind of girl. Everyone else had run to RussVegas and I was filling my sink with soapy, sudsy dishwater while Josiah talked to me when he reached over and pulled out the sprayer nozzle. The next thing I knew, cold water had blasted me in the face. Deep inside I thought it was funny and outwardly I was only mildly annoyed but a little imp of anger tugged at my heart and I began to scold. Josiah was laughing and insisting it was an accident, but I worked myself into a white-hot passion. I wanted to hit him as hard as I could (which is pretty hard). Not because I was really angry, but because a desire for conflict raged inside me, demanding release. I can’t remember the last time I was angry like that—where it actually came out in words and nearly blows, instead of being stifled by studied silence. For the past couple of weeks it has seemed that my emotions had completely shriveled up and died, and I’ve been living my life on pure control. The fight blew over as quickly as it had begun and we stood, washing dishes in sullen silence, tears of repentance mingling with the still un-dried remains of the cold blast and dripping into my steamy dishwater. Finally we both rushed into apologies. Most impressive through the whole situation was Josiah’s self-control. There was a day when his temper flared up at nothing, like a cherry bomb in the presence of fire. Now he could kill me if he wanted to. He never even struck. It’s moments like these when I recognize spiritual warfare and the fact that I am a new creature. Becoming angry was an effort. I chose to be angry, to think up angry things to say and to threaten. I dug up that ugly side from somewhere hidden deep away because I wanted to. I had to work up the passion to continue. In all honesty, I was not in the least overcome by sin, but chose it for the moment because that is what I wanted. It wasn’t too strong for me, I sought it out.
How strange. Why did I do it?
Lord, no sin can ever bind me
No temptation seek or find me
But Thou also dost provide
Thy own grace in which to hide.
I can conquer through Thy power
Evil forms in evil hours.
Before I even cry to Thee
Thou looses bonds and sets me free.