Thursday, January 20, 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want him to make his goals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would be one more tool in my toolbox.

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

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

Preparation, I whisper. Preparation for what?

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

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

Yahweh, You stretched the heaven above,

The stars tell stories of Your love.

In distant suns the tale I’ve read

Of how You crushed the serpent’s head.

These flaming worlds fell from Your hand

To show that nothing halts Your plan

And You will reign as Lord supreme,

Beginning and the End, and King.

I think I understand the stars.

You’ve named them all, both near and far

And set them as a sign for me

To measure my infirmity.

And yet, I gaze at heaven above—

It is not stars, but me, You love.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

“Therefore, gird your minds for action, keep sober in spirit, fix your hope completely on the grace to be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ.” ~1 Peter 1:13

Inadvertently, I left my laundry dangling forlornly from the clothes line tonight. I hope it doesn’t snow.

“Did you see what I did?” exuded my dear Mother, pointing to the hanging file on the study wall. I paused, noting the empty bottom section. “Did you do the budget?” She nodded, her smile stretching across my face. “You did it for me last week,” I protested. She nodded again. “I miss it.” She what?! For how many years did I watch her performing that hated task, groaning over mistakes, pecking at the computer keyboard, face-palming when an account didn’t balance properly. Not because she can’t handle money, but because she hates computers. I shook my head to be sure I’d heard her correctly. “I miss cooking and cleaning, too.” She added.

As Lydia and I changed into our dusty, dirty, saggy, baggy, stained and distressed mode of dress for an afternoon of outdoor enterprises, she commented, “This outfit makes me feel like I’m ten. Because this is how I dressed when I was ten.”

I looked her up and down, taking in her puppy-covered fleece sweatshirt and faded denims before I responded. “This outfit makes me feel thirty, because this is how I dressed when I was thirty.” I tossed my classy flats aside and pulled on my no-longer-white tennis shoes.

Lydia rolled her eyes and let out a huge chicken squawk. A very good one, in my opinion.

I raised my eyebrows. “A chicken?”

She snorted. “A chicken laying an egg.”

“Because,” I tried that one on for size, “that’s how you dressed when you were a chicken laying an egg?”

Some things are only funny to sisters.

In the next instant she’d drawn her hair up into a poofy bun. “Who do I look like?” she asked, critically eyeing her reflection in the mirror.

I made a very reasonable attempt at a guess. “A chicken?”

“No,” she rolled her eyes again. “It’s a sticktight.”

I blinked. “A sticktight?”

“Well, no,” she huffed. “That’s not the right word, but it’s like sticktight.”

I blinked a second time. “Like sticktight?”

She made a helpless gesture. “You know. It sounds like ‘sticktight’ but it’s a different word.”

If I only blinked twice in the course of a conversation, my eyes would get very dry, so I blinked again.

“It’s like when a person is stuck in a box.”

And the light came on in the dusty attic of my brain. “Oh, you mean a stereotype?”

Pleasure oozed out every pore in her body and she beamed at me endearingly. “Yes! It’s like a stereotype holiness hairstyle.”

My mind came alive with a mental image—a sticktight decked out in a poofy, holiness hairstyle. “Sticktight, huh?” I said, and we cracked up again.

If you’ve never been a sister, you just wouldn’t understand.

The barn claimed our attention, as Papa attacked the stored lumber with a vengeance, throwing boards down from the rafters which he deemed “old” or “decrepit.” Discrimination at its finest. “We need to saw them up for firewood,” his voice drifted down from ten feet in the air. Dutifully, I trudged off for “my” pathetic corded girl-size chainsaw. Salvaged from a broken pole-saw. Plugging it in, I primed the engine and fired it up. It gave two wheezing moans and sank into a deep slumber out of which I was unable to rouse it. “Try the Skil saw,” Papa suggested, as another board clattered into the dust at my feet. The Skil saw made more promising noises, but after chewing through a couple of pieces, I heard Papa’s whistle far above me, in the world outside my hearing protection. I stopped sawing and looked up. He looked pensive, a dimple peeking out from the corner of his white goatee. “Why don’t you pile those up and I’ll knock ‘em off with the chainsaw in no time.”

A very sensible idea.

“Were you singing while you fixed supper?” Mom’s voice broke into my thoughts as she handed me a sudsy plate. We’ve been hand-washing the dishes most of the winter this year. Short Josiah, we just don’t make enough mess to merit running the dish-washer.

A second was all the time I needed to make a quick reconaissance into recent history for the answer. “Yes.” (“Lamb of God” to be exact. Before I drifted off into a brown study running mental facts and figures to test the wisdom of drop shipping and web-marketing and supposed success rates. This is undoubtedly the reason that food sometimes gets better done than could be desired, when I am cooking.)

She pointed toward the condensation beading up across the window. “Well, you steamed up the windows.”

In other news, I finally have arrived. At my long-awaited goal. From across the dinner table, Mom plaintively commanded Lydia to stop growing. “You just look so grown up these days!” she complained.

Lydia looked pleased.

“That’s because she’s wearing my clothes,” I reminded the family. Only half a joke.

Papa looked over his plate at Lydia, who had discovered how deliciously distracting the potatoes were, their flavor enhanced by too much attention to herself. “It’s true,” he added his opinion. “They make her look sophisticated.”

In retrospect, perhaps it is not I who have arrived at the goal: sophisticated. It could be Lydia. But at least it is because of my clothes.

Jacindarella’s study of First Peter inspired me, and I made a quick read today. This man’s life and legacy stand out to me as a stark contrast in strength and fragility. From a work-man’s standpoint, I see Peter as the strong, brawny, hard-worker. From a religious stand-point, he was unlettered and untrained. He had a Galilean accent. He smelled like fish. But he was humble. Pliable. Passionate. And devoted. Even though his mouth ran ahead of him like a herald, he meekly took rebuke and sought restoration time and again. Once upon a time, he said, “Depart from me for I am a sinful man!” Later he declared, “Where else would we go? You have the words of eternal life.” In this letter, he pleads with believers to keep in mind the precious blood of Christ and live in holiness. Stop and consider how personal were his words, “The precious blood of Christ.” Peter, the fragile stone, who slept while this precious blood dripped from the body of his praying Lord. Who stood beneath the cross of his Beloved Master, agonizing over his denial, as this precious blood dripped away Christ’s life. Who raced to the tomb and found it empty. Who was restored by the never-ending grace of Jesus and charged to “tend my lambs.” I want to take a closer look at it, drawing the parallels between Peter’s admonishions and the lessons Christ taught him.

For isn’t this what Christ told him? “After you have turned, strengthen your brethren?”

The enemy demands to sift,

Yet in this, is God’s gracious gift,

For Satan, fueled by hate for man,

Is still within God’s sovereign plan.

And God, in kindly love and grace

Has granted Satan time and space

To sift the chaff and purify

That man, his God, might glorify.

For when God turns him back from sin

His soul’s a battle God will win.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am lonely. I am pining for Yahweh.

For an answer, I hear profound silence.

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

He has not.

If Thou art silent, God on high

When I cry out for reasons why,

When I weep, lonely, hungry here

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

If Thou art silent, when my heart

Is rent and broken, torn apart,

When understanding flees my breast

And sorrow haunts me in my rest,

If Thou art silent, when I weep

And doubts o’ertake me like the deep

When everywhere Thy smile seems laid

Except the dust of which I’m made,

If Thou art silent, though so strong

When morning seems to tarry long

And joy has fled my heart and mind

And truth seems vagrant, hard to find,

If Thou art silent, as Thou art

And speakest not within my heart

Then teach me, in Thy silent face

To read pursuing, haunting grace.

Friday, January 7, 2011

“Let the name of God be blessed forever and ever, for wisdom and power belong to Him. And it is He who changes the times and the epochs; He removes kings and establishes kings; He gives wisdom to wise men, and knowledge to men of understanding. It is He who reveals the profound and hidden things; He knows what is in the darkness, and the light dwells with Him.” ~Daniel 2:20-22

“Why don’t you save this for tomorrow breakfast?” Mom was talking about the breakfast I’d fixed this morning--an apple strueselish contraption the looked pretty appetizing. I hid a smile, knowing her reasoning. Josiah is coming home tonight and will be here tomorrow. An emptying nest is hard on this Mamma bird, and she’s excited about his visit.

I forgot how rapidly homeschool moms can talk. I hope I didn’t sign myself up for something I will regret. We've not been involved with the local homeschool group since moving here, but my sparse local connections include some of the “head” ladies. In the past I’d been asked to consider teaching a coop class or two, and was recently reminded of this option. I’m afraid to confess that I just agreed to teach some Creative Writing classes later in the Spring. I’ll be using the curriculum I wrote for past classes, which settles my nerves. I felt like a snowplow, trying to get through details with the lady who heads up the coop. Just press through. When she takes a breath, I get the opportunity to ask another pertinent question or clarify exactly what I AM offering and am NOT. But it takes determination and stamina to get the info I need and be sure she has the info she really needs, too. I'd actually like to do a more serious Public Speaking class--maybe from home, but I'll have to stew a bit more on that. I never would have guessed, ten years ago, just how valuable public speaking skills would prove to be, in so many moments of my life. Even just the aspects of learning to communicate clearly and concisely, controlling eye contact and facial expressions and gaining poise have been invaluable. Especially for an introvert like moi.

“So, guess who won!” Mom sounded pretty tickled over the crackly cell-phone connection. She and Papa had just made their scrap metal deposit at the metal-recycling facility. If I’m not very much mistaken, it was my far-out I-have-no-idea-so-I’m-saying-something-extravagant which came closest to the bull’s eye. Almost $150 for a trailer load of junk.

Damaris messaged me today. “I just read ‘Created to be His Helpmeet’ for single women and I want to talk! When can I call you?” I chuckled and then sighed. Chuckled, because Damaris makes me chuckle. And I’m impressed! She must have devoured the book which, for a girl who doesn’t like to read, is pretty impressive. And I sigh, because I don’t really have anything to say on the subject. I’m tired of talking about marriage. Or singleness, really. I just want to be back in the place I was a year ago, blissfully oblivious, cheerfully racing along, clear-minded and undistracted. But, says the Preacher in Ecclesiastes, “Do not say the former days were better than these, for it is not from wisdom that you say this.”

Daniel yielded me some profound encouragement today as I started over again. Praise from the prophet's lips before he revealed the king's dream. "Let the name of God be blessed forever and ever, for wisdom and power belong to Him. And it is He who changes the times and the epochs; He removes kings and establishes kings; He gives wisdom to wise men, and knowledge to men of understanding. It is He who reveals the profound and hidden things; He knows what is in the darkness and the light dwells with Him. To Thee, O God of my fathers, I give thanks and praise, for Thou hast given me wisdom and power; Even now Thou hast made known to me what we requested of Thee, for Thou hast made known to us the king's matter." I just found it encouraging to be reminded of the power with which God revealed to Daniel and to be reminded that this is the same God of whom James writes "If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God who gives to all men generously and without reproach and it will be given him." My heart is so heavy these days, lost in the weight of a situation that appears irreconcilable. I feel like I've seen a lot of these lately, and it makes me tremble. Because there are times when I am desperately trying to simply do what is right, but when I feel like others will perceive me as deluded and cruel or when it seems I am standing alone. Sometimes we stand alone for what is right. But sometimes we stand alone because we are self-deceived, self-motivated, arrogant and selfish. What if I am the one deceived? And so I've been pleading with the Lord for convictions seasoned with humility. I must stand and do and defend what I believe is right. Yet with grace. Yet with humility. Yet with an open heart. I must be willing to be mistaken. I could be blind.

Oh Yahweh! Give me wisdom’s light

To seek and know and do what’s right.

Give me the strength and desperate need

To pray, and weep, and beg and plead.

Give me a mind that understands

Both waiting and Thy active plans.
Give me a heart of praise for Thee

When Thou reveals Thy ways to me.

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.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

This morning at breakfast Papa announced, “I’m on vacation today. Let’s make silly putty.”

After breakfast, I strapped on a carpenter's belt and followed Josiah outside for a deck-building day. The poor guy has quite the motley crew--mostly me--but he's pulling off an outstanding deck building project. Sometimes I step back and realize that I'm proud of my baby brother. He's turned into a man I respect--for the ability God has blessed him with, and for his heart of service to God. My mind drifts back on the days when I worried and cried for his soul--before Nathaniel called him to repentance. The work God does is profound.

As we worked, we talked, and I vented.

I’m such a negative person.

I’ve really been encouraged and growing and strengthened so much lately, but the last few days have overwhelmed me with negative thoughts. At night when I sit down to write, suddenly I am so frustrated that if my life were written on a page, I would wad it up and burn it, just to have it all gone. It seems like such a stark failure and so absolutely pointless—like everything I believe and stand for will never be proven to be right and will never bring God glory. And like I will never be perfected. I hate being negative. I want to trust and praise and worship God and to love and serve and forgive others. I know I’ve been raised as a critical thinker, but my heart is critical, too. How can I change it? How can I become someone who focuses on God and His goodness and tries to proclaim His mercy and empowerment to others, instead of just watching and evaluating and thinking hoards of harsh, judgmental and condemning thoughts? This is not what I want to be, yet I feel forever sucked into a garish mud-hole of criticism. I feel the critical influences all around me and I find myself shrinking from them—yet these are also sources from which I have learned so much wisdom. How do I learn wisdom without being negative, cynical and condemning of others?

All afternoon I despised myself for being so negative. Yet, that is negative, as well. Self-condemnation equals defeat. There is no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus. It’s in light of God’s mercy that I can renew my mind and offer myself a living sacrifice.

I need to start where I am, with simple obedience and rejoicing today. Tonight. Tomorrow. I need to quit trying to make what I know is right make sense or look right to others, quit worrying about how I make God look and just obey. He can take care of His own image. I’m just supposed to be seeking to be conformed to His image. Abigail, just obey. Just obey.

Sometimes I think I'm just a lump of silly putty, myself.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

No, I’m not excited about the Health Care bill that just passed.

Sarah and I talked a bit about it this afternoon, as I told her about Aunt Helen and Grandma’s visit. Aunt Helen is the completely good-intentioned and compassionate liberal who wants to see people helped and is, I think mistakenly, trusting in government to offer compassion. But government is a machine and can never offer what is truly needed—it’s not reason, it’s force. And when programmed “mercy” it will soon be short-charging everyone, dealing out merciless “healthcare” and reading out the death sentences of those deemed “unworthy” of the limited resources. Aunt Helen said I might be right, or I might be wrong. “We can’t see what will happen,” she said, “and it doesn’t have to happen that way.” She might be right, but history repeats itself and the history that has repeated itself so far shows exactly what I predict—in Nazi Germany, in Communist China, in Soviet Russia. It’s a strange thing to hear a person that I consider very intelligent and much my elder in experience and knowledge sharing their thoughts and be completely convinced that they are completely deluded. I hate it when the thought whispers through my brain, “That is not the truth because you know the truth...” It seems conceited and disrespectful for me to be so certain of the right when it so opposes those older than I. More and more often these days, I hear what is said, and I judge it and condemn it—in sorrow. It’s one of the most painful things for me to feel certain that someone I love or someone I respect is mistaken. Especially if the issue of mistake is an issue of obedience to God.

My Aunt is what everyone would consider a “good person.” This visit, I tried to think of her as a good, kind person, but when I listened to her speak, it wasn’t “good” things I heard come out. It was the weirdest sensation. She was not talking about evil things or wicked things, but all her words sounded hollow to me. Empty. Lost. Like they were falling from her lips into a black abyss of eternal worthlessness. She stooped a little, seeming weary, yet her eyes and words and heart stirred restless, looking for something new to conquer and to seek for fulfillment. I looked into her bright blue eyes and saw dissatisfaction. No peace.

It bothered her that Nick said that the American people are worshiping their government as a God—looking to the government for “salvation” instead of trusting God. “If that kind of religion demands that people be poor and unhealthy and groveling to worship God, then it’s not right!” she insisted. Ah, God doesn’t demand that we be poor and unhealthy and groveling to worship Him, but He does demand that we worship Him. And often, it is not until we are poor, unhealthy and groveling that we see just how small and helpless we are and fall on our faces and worship Him. For this reason, He is willing to allow us to be poor, unhealthy and groveling.

As I listened, at a loss how to explain to someone who does not love the Lord, how the Lord loves, my heart felt heavy. Someday, my Aunt will worship God, because that is what He has decreed. And all His creation attests to His worthiness of worship. I would to God that she should come to the place of worship before the day when every knee bows and, cruel though it sounds to the ears of flesh, I would even gladly see her poor, unhealthy and groveling if it brought her to that place before the day of judgment.

Do I not love her because I could wish this? I love her, with a small part of the mercy which Christ extends—patiently giving her yet another day, another year, to humble herself and submit to Him. She will one day submit, and oh how much better to do it now, whatever the means which bring that submission may be!

Several times before I have shared the gospel with her, hoping praying that she would turn to the Lord. She is kind and accepts my attempts as love, though I know she disagrees. As I’ve been studying Romans lately, so much of it pressed back on me—the description of how we are all shut up before God because our conscience teaches us from creation to worship Him—yet we seek other fulfillments and other gods. I’m sure my Aunt would say regarding eternity “We can’t really know.” She might feel like I am wasting life opportunities, though I know she is pleased to see people content and enjoying what they do. Yet my heart sinks knowing that she’s wrong, and not only that, but that I believe she does know, yet is resisting the Lord’s grace. I longed to tell her again of His mercy and compassion, waiting for her to turn to Him, yet she seemed more spiritually closed than I have ever before noticed.

Suddenly to me, the things she said that seemed like they were “close to the truth” or even open or tolerant of the truth, became stark lies. “We can’t really know,” is not openness to the possibility of God’s view of eternity. It is rejection of what He has proclaimed as truth—that He will one day judge the earth in righteousness. We could argue that it’s a difference of opinion and each is entitled to her own opinion. God has given us the ability to form opinions. Yet God is absolute and one of us is wrong. And it will separate us for eternity.

So I weep.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Miss Lydia and I signed in to the Sequoyah grade school at about one forty-five and navigated the hallway to find the second grade room of Mrs. Underwood. Our mission? Visiting Emily’s classroom and telling stories! We started off with the version of Little Red Riding Hood I’d pulled out for the homeschool talent show so many years ago—the year I called up the parents and made them perform for the rest of us. Which they did admirably. This time the kids were so delighted they asked to keep their masks. Then we followed it up with the Three Billy Goats Gruff, Puss in Boots and Little Red Riding Hood. Lydia played a delightful Little Red Riding Hood, carrying her basket of goodies around the room to distribute marigold seeds. So there went last night’s hasty preparation. The kids begged us not to leave. Perhaps I’m ridiculous, but the whole time I was reading Puss in Boots, my mind kept nagging me miserably—Puss was a blatant liar. No matter what kind of a hero we’ve made of him and how funny his antics are, he’s a liar—something God’s word speaks very strongly against. How inconsistent I am to decry lying in life only to glorify it before a classroom of second graders because it is performed in a fairy tale by a clever kitty sporting boots. I’m at a loss what to do…apologize to Emily for endorsing such a story? My mind wants to argue that it is so trivial, but my conscience insists that if lying lips are an abomination to God and the liar has his place in the lake of fire, how could even a joking lie be trivial to the Lord?

Which turns my stomach with guilt and dread because, even though others often say I “speak truth”, I know the truth and it is far from their opinion of me. I know how deceitful I am, how willing to skew truth in my favor, how at ease in telling partial truths, how comfortable withholding information or pretending ignorance. Tonight on the phone I was nearly brought to tears as Lauryn prayed for me and coupled my name with truth. I only wish it were true, but my heart is wicked and deceitful above all things, who can know it? Sometimes I'm not even sure in my own mind what is true--how can I tell it?

Always I am brought back to the Way, the Truth, the Life and humbled in His presence--no deceit was found in Him.

Father, lead me in the truth. Thy word is truth.

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.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Empty nest syndrome is technically supposed to be limited to homing pigeons, right? Call me bird-brained, if you like, but I’m feeling rather lonely without many of the regulars. Zach seems to have vanished up the flue like a reverse Santa, and when Taylor called this evening to say that he and Nathan were going to dinner with Tim, who is back for a visit, I knew we’d be alone tonight, with no one to give Nick a ride out. We whipped up a sort of jam session regardless, and I contented myself with bongos since my voice has gone the way of the buffalo. On the heels of our attempted singing, we cracked open Pilgrim’s Progress and continued our own progress alongside Christian and Faithful as they met up with Talkative and bandied words with him a while.

Through the haze of distant English and confusing conversation, Bunyan made a fascinating point regarding the laws of clean and unclean. “Animals that both chew cud and split the hoof.” It’s not enough, he held, to chew cud, to talk of God and the work and word of God, of salvation, of holiness and of the walk. The hoof must also be cloven, the pathway walked, in order to be clean and a fit sacrifice for God.

Lord, I chew upon Thy word
But has my heart both heard and heard?
Or has the power of Thy text
Been lost upon my intellect?

Teach me to seek out Thy truth,
Not as a psychologic proof
But, that I would both chew and eat
And, reading, motivate my feet.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

In the darkness of the deserted hallway, but a few moments ago, a shapeless apparition reached out a cold, clammy hand and grabbed me. I yelped (simply because I have forever lost the ability to scream, due to my father’s careful training in the proper usage of decibals). The next instant I realized it was only Lydia, groping her way from the opposite direction with her hands outstretched to prevent bumping into hard blockages—like me.

There’s a first time for everything, they say. Whoever “they” are. I was in and out of the campus library several times today without every so much as catching a glimpse of Taylor. And I never once saw Zach on campus, though we passed him on the way into town. We weren’t positive it was him, though the evidence stacked up--pink scribbles on the back window, beat up truck with a toolbox, hulking shape with no hair (to speak of)—until Papa’s phone went off and he was demanding to know why we weren’t waving back. After an hour with Jacinda in the library, winking over the tops of our respective computers, we immerged into the daylight, away from the annoyingly immature gaggle of girls and silly, stalking boys. “Is it just me,” I asked, “Or do all the students…” “…look like babies?” she finished before answering a resounding “yes”. It’s hard to believe that, had I gone to college, I’d probably have been slated for graduation in May. Another surprise awaited me at lunch when I discovered I am even older than Oly—by an outstanding twenty-two days.

The day itself seemed rather inside-out and upside down. I barely saw Lauryn in passing, work-worn and headed to donate the gift of life—blood. The majority of the day was spent with April, catching lunch, scrambling around campus to run errands and finally flopping onto the pink and green futon in the Sweetest Suite for some heart-to-heart. She asked about Amber and I started to answer before she interrupted hurriedly with “If she wouldn’t mind you telling me this.” Impressed by her desire not to be a gossip, I’ve been meditating on my “sharing” habits. Things charged to me in secrecy remain with me. But what about those things mentioned to me in simple private conversation? How much of that am I at liberty to divulge? Does what I share honor the Lord or His son or daughter? I need to evaluate my motives and my words. I need to protect my brothers and sisters in the Lord from embarrassment or dishonor and so protect His name.

Lord, guard my heart and mouth and mind
From thoughts and words and deeds unkind
From telling secrets not my own
That rumor weeds may not be sown.

May I bring before Thy feet
The whispers I would fain repeat
And speak of none to aught but Thee
That I might guard their dignity.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

“Abigail,” Mom called from the other room where she was talking with the milkman. “Are you twenty-one?” I think my heart slammed through my ribs and hit the floor with a bounce, about the same time my jaw did. Sheesh, I thought. I’m not old.

Also of note, I devised labels for my newest business venture—selling Grinola: “cereal that makes you smile”. Cheesy, I know. Sadly, my poor mind is overtaken by marketing schemes—the slogan “mares eat oats and does eat oats and you each oats” marches neatly across the backdrop of my creativity. Unless I can control and limit myself to a very simple style, I’ll soon have erected a website with the same background, my Grinola logo splashed across the top, nutrition fact panels, arguments for the consumption of oats and an e-mail contact form. That’s a rough draft, at least. By the way, oats are super good for you: full of fiber, great for your heart, low on carbohydrates and tasty to boot.

The book of Genesis has given way to the Exodus from Egypt—or at least the prelude to it. Moses has been born a “good” baby, rescued and finally run off into the wilderness where God called to him from a burning bush. It being the middle of winter I can imagine Moses’ surprise when the bush burns…and burns…and burns. Here’s what claimed most of my thoughts for today: Moses’ repeated begging that Yahweh send someone else. “Who am I to go?” he objected first. Did it really matter? He whom God sends is empowered of God—it is God who is worthy, not Moses or anyone else. And it is God who chooses and sends. Three more objections follow, which God patiently works with, providing Moses with adequate equipage for the task. “I made your mouth,” says Yahweh, “I’ll teach it what to say.” Finally, fresh out of excuses, Moses says, “Please Lord, send the message by whoever You will—whoever else, that is.” I read it and shook my head, rolling my eyes toward heaven. He just doesn’t get it, does he? Then the Holy Spirit stirred in my heart. Only Moses? How often does the Lord give me a message and I make excuses. I don’t know what to say, Lord! I’m no good at talking! I hardly know them! They’ve already rejected me! As surely as God took a wandering shepherd, not quite belonging to Egypt, Israel or Midian, to command Pharaoh to release the captives, He can use me to demand that Satan release those in slavery to sin. I need only say, “Here am I.”

Lord, the message that I have is Thine.
The words are truth, the power divine.
Thou, my mouth has formed and filled
May my anxious heart be stilled

To trust in Thee to speak and move
To fill me with Thy perfect love.
On holy ground, I stand, unshod,
Be Thou my strength, Almighty God.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

When the weather station says there’s a thirty percent chance of precipitation today and it’s currently raining outside, does that mean there’s a thirty percent chance that it will continue to rain or am I simply a victim of outdated news services?

And when my muse digresses into discussion of the weather, does that mean the weather has become intensely interesting or that absolutely nothing of great interest has taken place today?

“There were tears when Lydia and I arrived without you,” Mom informed me over the phone from the S Family’s house. “Here’s someone who would like to talk to you.” “Hi Agigail,” comes the sweet, little voice from the other end. “Hello Miss S…this is S, isn’t it?” Silence. Then I hear voices in the background. “She’s vigorously nodding,” I hear Miss J giggle. S’s voice again, “You doin’ good?” I could see her earnest little eyes as she talked over play phones to me the last time I babysat and feel her warm little hand tug at my sleeve when she handed me a picture. Plain and simple it goes like this: I miss the them.

I’ve come to an important revelation. I don’t pray enough. Pray without ceasing is the command I’ve received. I pray intermittently. Infrequently. Once in a while. When something bothers me. Usually for myself. In God’s Word I keep coming across instances of intercession. God reveals something He is about to do to one of His friends—we’ll say it’s Abraham and the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, this time. And what is His friend’s reaction? Immediately to plead with God, according to His character and will. God has revealed so much to me, through the pages of His Word. Soon He will destroy the whole world and judge righteousness. How often do I pray for those who still live in rebellion to Him? Every day, you think? Perhaps if I did, I might be esteemed of God, even as Daniel was.

Lord, Thou sit as King of all
Thy ears are open to my call,
The curtain has been torn asunder
It must cause Thy soul to wonder

Why I linger long without
And keep myself busied about
So that my thoughts are never free
To waft as prayers up to Thee.

Saturday, January 12, 2008

My consciousness reached awareness by five in the morning, but hardly passed that point the rest of the day. I wish being tired were simply an emotion I could wrap up inside one enormous rejoice in the Lord and tuck away under my pillow. Like the restlessness I am busily coating with contentment. It’s a never-ending cycle. Clawing its way through my shroud of contentment, this unnamed restlessness is bound and determined to gnaw my bones and set my teeth on edge. What do I want? I don’t know. An adventure of some sort. A mountain to climb. A wall to scale. A river to ford. So that I can quit with the drama and focus on simply surviving.

I accomplished to find success empty. I pursued recreation to find boredom. I slept to waken tired. I walked the house as in a dream—a forgotten dream.

My discontentment stems, not from a lack, but from an overabundance. Distractions. Temptations. Hindrances. Other things. I have enough of everything but the Lord.

Lord, Thy bounty is increased
And yet my want is not released
But wanders, restless, by Thy stream
And feeds a wild, elusive dream.

But everything I seek is dry
And can not please my lustful eye.
Naught in this world can seek or save,
Thou art the One my spirit craves.

Saturday, January 5, 2008

Our enormous table was full for breakfast this morning. Seeing it full makes me smile. So many extras—and yet they belong. Hospitality, we call it, and it is highly praised in scripture—from the time of Abraham, who begged three strangers to allow him to prepare a feast for them to the time of Lydia, who prevailed upon Paul and his companions to bless her home with their presence. God opens our hearts and homes to His people.

Following a war against unwanted timber and green briar, which left us scathed but triumphant, and a conflagration in which we burned the bodies of the enemy, we leapt back into the filming mode and created another “Homely Hobos” video, this one titled, “Wheel Work 4 Food”.


The Lord brought home to me a foolishness in which I'd been indulging: that somehow, those who have suffered a disappointment, an emotional wound, a sorrow, a loss, are less able to love fully. What an immature and ungodly sentiment! Here I sit, a testimony to the fact that what God has healed is healed. What God has restored is restored. What God rebuilds is rebuilt. What God plans is better. Am I any less able to give, through God’s strength, the same sacrificial love? It is only through His power I can offer it in the first place. And who am I to look down on someone else, judging them as having not guarded their heart or having run ahead of the Lord and so unworthy of His blessings? None of us are worthy of His blessings. None of us are untainted, unscarred, without disappointment. It is healed wounds, perfected disappointments, rebuilt dreams that make our ashes something beautiful and notable as God’s work.

Lord, I find I judge my brothers,
Take note of the wounds of others,
Seeing them as somehow weak
Forgetting it’s the sick Thou seeks.

And have I no wounds of my own
That are treasure to be shown?
For what Thou heals are healed, Lord,
And strengthened by Thy saving word.

Friday, January, 4, 2008

Midafternoon and I returned from a walk and sat down to grade Josiah’s math, suddenly aware of an intense headache. As I tried to push it out of my mind and concentrate on checking over his problems, it slowly began to dawn on me that my head had hurt before I went for a walk. In fact, the longer I tried to remember when it had started, the farther back I could remember it simply being there. After reaching as far back as remembering an ache before Dathan arrived on Wednesday, I gave up.

With the extra effort of a few phone call reminders, we wound up with a neat little crowd for the evening. After some singing, Papa began to share the Biblical view of fellowship: who we should and shouldn’t fellowship with, and how we maintain fellowship--fellowship being defined as a sharing in Christ. It boils down to three basic rules:

*I fellowship with those in fellowship with Christ.
*I do not fellowship with those not in fellowship with Christ.
*To maintain fellowship, I will walk with Christ and imitate Him.

Undoubtedly the study has been inspired by the (at least temporary) separation between us and the S Family over “doctrinal” issues. As we searched the scripture, we could find no grounds for this being a division. If the others are feeling as I am, they are wondering who will be kind enough to pull this sword from their hearts. I might pretend to be wise. I might pretend to be possessed of understanding, but there are many things in this life, in this Christian walk, which I do not understand. One of the greatest being how it is possible for people who love the Lord and His word, to come to such differing persuasions about Him and His word. Secondly, how these differing persuasions can so hinder fellowship between those who live their lives with the same purpose. Honestly, I am tired of talking about the differences. Inwardly I cringe when the subject comes up and we take note of disagreements—why widen the gap? Suppose God does create people for the sole purpose of destruction? If He is God, and I know He is just and good, then whatever He does is just and good. It’s a truth He’s been hammering in to me lately with such force that to ignore it would be worse than ignoring a sledgehammer to my head. Do I need answers to the universe packaged up in neat little theological packages? I need only a few simple truths. God is God. He does what He pleases. Who am I to answer back? Will the faultfinder contend with God? Not I.

Lord, if Thou should show Thy plans
I’m vain to think I’d understand.
If I had counseled at time’s dawn
The end of time would there be drawn.

And man would not have passed the floor
To claim Thy perfect Son’s life blood.
I dare not press Thee to reply
Because Thou art my God, not I.

Sunday, December 30, 2007

I failed to mention that I am now the proud possessor of a blow dryer—a very nice one, with nifty attachments for curls, for which I thank my dear, kind mother. I will no longer have to drag my sopping head from bathroom to bathroom begging for the use of a hair dryer.

Also of note: two weeks have passed and I am still drumming and, wonder of all wonders, improving.

Sunshine warmed the afternoon and we all ventured outside in various directions. I snagged Mom’s phone and dialed Susanna, home from Kenya and recovering from Malaria. We talked for over an hour as she shared her experiences, how the disease (for which she had been inoculated) seemed to be a direct spiritual attack leveled at her by a “mad woman”. She shared her clearest memories of her hallucinations, and admitted the doctor their didn’t think she’d ever make it home. How she miraculously became well enough to fly home with her friends, only to have a severe attack in Detroit and wind up in a little hospital where no one understood Malaria at all. The Lord has been merciful, though, and she is nearly well.

Faithful Tabitha called after supper and we quoted our scriptures and chatted for a while before she finally mentioned that she’s just not very open—that she never really shares much. She’s afraid it won’t come out right. “Start sharing” the Lord prompted me, but confusion overwhelmed. “Share what?” Instead I tried to encourage her, “You’ve shared quite a bit with me,” I offered. Then I told her how I’d been so closed off once upon a time, such a long time ago, secreting everything to myself, afraid to be vulnerable for fear I’d be hurt. “Share,” the insistence became stronger. I hesitated a moment, walked into the laundry room and closed the door and opened my mouth. All of the things I’d be wanting to share with her since we moved came tumbling out, jumbled into a confusing heap of past, present, future. I poured out my frustrations, my heartaches, my joys, my confusion, my doubts about the Lord’s leading and then I shared about “no”. How Jesus told the healed demoniac “no”—not as a punishment, but because He had something better in mind. My mouth worked faster than my mind could process, pouring out the contents of my heart. Before I had finished we were both crying. “Abigail,” she whispered. “I need to share something with you.” It was ten o’clock before we hung up, having emptied ourselves of every secret, fear and doubt and carried them together to the foot of the mercy seat. Perhaps with so much weight off her heart, her broken back will heal.

Lord, the weight of living here
Amid the doubt, the pain, the fear
Could not be born by anyone
Were they not yoked with Thy own Son.

And Thou hast bid that we, like Thee
Should seek to set each other free
By sharing loads to make them light
And thus fulfill the law of Christ.

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Thursday, my routine mail check produced a Victoria’s Secret magazine—still coming to us though we’ve tried and tried to shake them. I smuggled it into my bedroom, out of sight of the men in the family and stuffed it into my trashcan to await an opportune moment for me to send it to a fiery end. Today, I dug it out to wreck my vengeance on it. It all began when I ordered something for my sister-in-law, and checked the "Do not send me e-mail or magazines" option. Magazines began arriving a short time later, anyway. I called, demanding that they stop sending the advertisements. We moved, and again they found us.

Viciously I ripped the offending magazine to shreds. Why did they have to make this kind of “soft-core” pornography, anyway, and slip it into our homes under the pretense of selling us ladies’ items? There’s no doubt in my mind what the true purpose of such marketing can be. Are we marketing lingerie or women’s bodies? A woman can evaluate lingerie just as well on a manikin. There's no special appeal to her through the sexy poses. How many men and boys pick up a Victoria’s Secret magazine, never to buy a bra or bikini, but to be forever ensnared by the demons who inspire pornography? Overwhelmed by the truth of this marketing scheme, I fed the shreds to a dying fire, crying from sorrow and smoke. With the ashes of ruined women before me I vowed never to order from Victoria's Secret again.

After finishing the day’s work, I found myself flying down the woodland trail Josiah and I built. Out of condition, I was surprised to find myself not out of breath. In spite of jeans, work boots and a denim jacket I ran full out, nearly sprinting for over half a mile, until I came to the clearing and spied Josiah hunched over his Bible. Quickly I turned around and returned home.

I hold in my hand a note signed “The Sinner”--as if there were only one. It is an apology, simple, straightforward and humble and I know who the author is, in spite of the apparent anonymity. At this moment, with tears chasing each other down my cheeks, I am overwhelmed by one simple truth: I am equally worthy of the signature. How could I deserve an apology?

Lord, if I am grieved by sin
How more art Thou, so pure within?
And if a sin fills me with sorrow,
How much more must be Thy horror?

A miracle it is that I,
Who caused Thy perfect Son to die,
Should by His death be so forgiven
As to dwell with Thee in heaven.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

I have not a blow dryer to my name. Mom very generously gave me the one from Josiah’s bathroom, but he showed up demanding its immediate return. I can’t quite visualize the necessity of a blow dryer for ½ inch long hair, but I returned the item in question to its rightful owner and added a blow dryer to my rather lengthy wish-list. My wish-list being defined as the running list of items I think, “Oh, that would be nice to have”, but never get around to buying. Buying things is such a waste of time and money, anyway.

Josiah informed me of an interesting conversation he had with Zach, after the Bible study last night. A very lengthy discussion of being careful around girls led Zach to comment: “But I never worry about Abigail. Dude, she’s just like a sister. No,” a pause. “Worse. She’s like a mom.” The concept of such filial affection from a twenty-two-year-old is rather novel, but I suppose it’s better than the alternatives.

We reported a jail-break today. Our sticky, spotted salamander escaped his cage sometime this afternoon and is now at large in our house. He is armed and extremely dangerous, and it will be a pity should he be squished.

The price of produce these days is almost steep enough for a black diamond ski slope. My grocery list vanished somewhere between Dollar General and the Supermarket. In this world of modern conveniences, I called home and strolled the store, stocking up as Mom relayed the list over the phone. When I think of the inventions of my lifetime, I am struck with awe: cell phones, internet, computers not to mention electronic gadgets like mp3 players, CD players, DVD players, ipods, iphones, PDAs and all the ridiculous sorts of toys that have complicatedly simplified our lives. At any given moment, the average person could erupt with multiple alarms. Once upon a time, people lived tranquil, quiet lives, and had good excuses for not keeping in better touch.

D-town is a town of trust. So many of the shops are so careless—it would be so easy to lift something. Strangely, the thought has entered my head on multiple occasions lately. Not actually to steal something, I don’t believe, since there’s no struggle or deliberation involved, but almost more of a shock at how easily I could pocket something and continue on my merry way. Only, I would be rather less than merry. I remember the only time I ever took something from a store—it was a fake flower, lying forlornly on the cold, tile floor, and my four-year-old mind reasoned that it would never be missed or cared about. Surely the Hobby-Lobbyists would just sweep it up and throw it away anyway. So I rescued the poor blossom from an untimely demise. Mom discovered my heroic effort halfway out to the car and turned me around, marched me back inside and made me return the flower with an elaborate apology. Something like, “Sniffle…I’m sorry I took this…sniffle…it was on the floor…sniffle, sniffle…I’ll never do it again. SNORT.” Why do I do what is right? Why do I shudder at the thought of taking something that is not mine? Is it a fear of punishment that keeps the thought spinning through my mind, polishing it like a stone in a tumbler, but never allowing it to hatch? Is it my conscience that would never allow me to enjoy something taken through deceit? Is it a fear of disappointing my parents? A horror of displeasing my Heavenly Father? All these facets are in place to keep me from sin—like a hedge of thorns around me, keeping me on a path of purity. It’s the same way with many sins—lying, sexual sins, sins of excess, rebellion. But how often I forget that these same hedges guard the pathway to keep me from secret sins? I trample my conscience, I push away fears of punishment from the One Who sees what is done in secret, and I indulge in sins that stain my heart—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life. I shrink in horror from breaking the commandments against lying, murdering, stealing and fornication and glibly go my way, trampling underfoot the two greatest commands: to love God first, and my neighbor as myself. Oh, that I would shrink from impurity of heart as quickly as I shudder at impurity of actions.

Lord, Thou art a perfect Master,
Which would seem a huge disaster,
Had Thou not been born of dust
So as to sympathize with us.

May my life not be a lie
As studied to please human eye
But lived in perfect purity
To bring delight to even Thee.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Perhaps drums are my “thing” after all. The sunshine today left me full of a weird, super-energy which defied wearing out. A walk, a run, push-ups, rough-housing with Josiah all left me still feeling a violent urge to hit something. For the protection of his stomach, Josiah volunteered his drums. I’d never managed to make the sticks bounce before, or work my hands with separate beats or even simply hold the sticks correctly. Today, everything came together for me: bounces, rhythms, timing. Most of the afternoon passed loudly for my poor family and our guests, but I think I’ve found a new passion. Notice I said “passion”, not “talent”. I’ve swiped Josiah’s ancient green drumsticks, he built me a drum pad from an ice cream bucket filled with beads, and I’ll likely be making a racket for the next, oh, week or so, before the fancy fades, like most others. Including the guitar, which I picked up again today and strummed out the song I wrote on it a year ago when I was trying to learn. I would like to believe that it’s a mark of genius when the only song I can play on guitar is one I wrote, but my conscience won’t allow such fibbing. Playing guitar was something I really made a concentrated effort at, but the neck of Papa’s steel-string was simply too wide for my shrimpy-woman hands. Someday I will snag someone’s electric and learn it all. Of course, the real goal is bass. That’s right, this woman here is the dreamer who would like to master piano, harp and bass guitar. Well, and drums, cello, violin, flute and regular guitar. Musical talent would have been a convenient gift once upon a time.

I never even cracked my Bible in private today. It’s a horrible thing to have to record, but I get some sort of penance satisfaction from pointing the finger at myself. Perhaps it’s my personality that demands someone to reprimand, and when no one else is available, I pounce on myself. Honestly, though, it is pitiful that I’ve not read the Word today. I cuddled by my parent’s fire, Bible in hand this morning, and promptly drifted to sleep. Sure, I got fed during church by Papa, Don and Nick, all sharing good stuff—about the gifts we have in Christ Jesus. And sure, I played and sang praise songs with Josiah and Zach this afternoon. But I didn’t gather my Bread from Heaven first thing in the morning and I’m sure my spirit has been ill-fed today on account of it. “Tomorrow,” I promise myself, and my Bible, and the Lord. “Tonight I want to finish up my journal, climb into bed and cuddle in to sleep, sleep, sleep. After all, doesn’t the Lord give His loved one’s sleep?” Sure, He does. And He says to meditate on my bed and be still. What better way to meditate than after a hearty spiritual meal? Sadly, I don’t feel hungry. When fasting, you know, the longer you go, the less you desire food. I can’t bear for my spiritual system to go into starvation mode, no longer demanding sustenance. I can’t make up the tomorrow for not eating today. I think of the famine for God’s word—in other countries where believers stay awake all night to read as much as they can, never sure when a Bible will be again available to them. Never sure when they will have time again to sit and read the precious Word of God. Tonight before I go to sleep, I will take the time to read God’s word, in case I never have another chance.

Lord, because it seems less filling,

See my hardened heart, unwilling

To get up and gather early,

Taste Thy bread so pure and holy.

But Thy precious bread from heaven,

Free from sin’s pervading leaven,

Unlike manna in the desert

May be gathered now and ever.