“Sow with a view to righteousness, reap in accordance with kindness; break up your fallow ground, for it is time to seek Yahweh, until He comes to rain righteousness on you.” ~Hosea 10:12
“Come look at this,” the Papa of my dream said. The we of my dream crowded around him as he showed us a facebook profile picture of Dathan…and a blue-eyed blond girl. It was definitely not Freckles. Every morning I wake up remembering very normal-seeming dreams. Very convincing normal-seeming dreams. What is this new phenomenon?
My dream wouldn’t be entirely ridiculous, considering what I see every time I do sign into facebook. As Jacinda put it, “Spring is in the air. Early.” It’s not just the young crop, but now I think all the signature singles are finally tying the knot, leaving room for the next generation of signature singles. That would be me and Jacinda, since our friends are rapidly forsaking us. Tsk, tsk.
In other news, Lydia handed me down a pair of shoes and we traded jeans.
My mind is still on vacation. I struggled to recapture it and get in gear as I sat down with Rosa for our ESL lesson. We’re working through the first book, which really is below her. Mostly. She always knows far more vocabulary than we have, but we’re working on pronunciation and learning grammar as we go. I try to get her warmed up with some easy words and exercises, then let her read a bit and work into some conversation last. I’ll ask her questions to step her through a conversation with me and then I write down what she has told me and let her copy it. It’s a fun way to get to know her while working her toward being able to converse with others. I had no idea that she lived on a little farm of sorts. With a cow and a calf. They are going to eat him, she told me. Poor boy. Her sense of humor is charming. She named her sheep dogs Kirby and Kirbina. Next week, she tells me, she wants to work on prepositions. I think I swallowed more air than I could hold before answering, “Okay.” Prepositions?! How will I ever explain and teach prepositions?
Lydia helped me wrestle the furniture back into the clinic counseling rooms Emily and I painted over the break. Big ideas are undoubtedly my specialty, and I have a million of them in mind for “modernizing” the look of the clinic. If only I existed in three persons.
“I have a baby bump,” my regular client beamed, standing up as I entered the waiting room. “Look at you!” Sure enough, she’d bubbled out while I was gone. I learn all the interesting maternity tricks from my clients. Like using a rubber band to allow for more waist room or sucking mint candies first thing in the morning to help with morning sickness.
Our new year regrouping meeting stretched on as we caught up and refocused on a new year and new goals. Sherry bounced ideas and thoughts off of us, encouraging us to think of ways to restructure the Earn While You Learn curriculum to really get single moms on their feet and refocused and to change lives. We’d like to figure out a better way to disciple girls who say they want to follow the Lord. And we’d like to be getting girls off of welfare and preparing them to have healthy families someday. My mind felt like scrambled spaghetti as I listened. I’m there, one hundred percent, on the “we need to” end. But how? How do you help someone change their life if they aren’t interested in changing? And, obviously, only God can truly change lives.
The year has just begun and already I feel numb. Overwhelmed. “How?” echoes down the hallway of my intellect. I see the goal and I see the present. In between lies a yawning chasm of human weakness.
And. Well. God spanned the infinite chasm between God and man. And that is how. He can do whatever He pleases. He will be great and greatly magnified.
Praise Him.
What seems to man a senseless plan
Is wisdom vast and deep
For man must rest his weary head
In God, who does not sleep.
What seems to man a worthless lamb
Is that the Shepherd seeks
Because the cross is for the lost
God’s strength is for the weak.
What seems to man a senseless plan
Is mercy vast and deep
When that same man can understand
That he is Christ’s lost sheep.
Showing posts with label discipleship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label discipleship. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
All I really want right now is an apple. Just a simple, shiny, crunchy apple. Fuji. Or Gala. Or Pink Lady. Even Golden Delicious. I don’t really care, so long as it has a core, a peeling and is roundish.
I thought I’d been grumpy all day long. Hardly felt like myself, I was so exhausted, and weaker than the third brewing of an herbal tea bag. “Was I grumpy?” I quizzed Josiah, as I washed dishes from a jug of water. After supper the well again went on strike. “What? Grumpy?” he looked at me funny. “Just a little quiet maybe.” As queen of the roost for the day, I tried to keep all three of my charges occupied profitably. Lizzy’s not hard to entertain. I handed her “Rachel’s Tears” and zipped around the house, marking things off Mom’s list as I went. Well, actually, I tried to zip, but my feet felt as if they’d discovered a quagmire and decided to stay and search it to the bottom.
(Overheard from the dining/school room)
Lydia: Spell “famous.”
Josiah: A-B-I-G-A-I-L
They told me it was humid down here. I don’t remember who “they” were, but they were right. Chainsaw in hand, Josiah attacked the enormous tree that last lightning storm had shattered, while the rest of us tugged branches, piled logs and tried to keep out of the way of falling limbs. Soon I’d stripped my sweatshirt off and tied it around my waist. In a flash, Lizzy’d followed my example. Still feeling like a head of broccoli in a pressure steamer, I rolled my sleeves up to my shoulders and glanced up to see Lizzy doing the same. “Stand back—way back!” Josiah called, walking up a huge branch that had knelt to the ground and beginning to saw. I stepped into the shade, hands on hips and noticed that Lizzy had assumed an identical posture. I crossed my arms in front of me. A second passed and she did the same. I shoved my hands in my pockets. Soon hers had found her pockets as well. I peeked at her from the corner of my eye to see if she was imitating me on purpose. To be funny. She was watching me intently, as usual, but slyness doesn’t fit her sense of humor. With a shrug, I tugged off my green leather gloves and laid them across the handle of the wheelbarrow. As if it had just occurred to her, she pulled her pink pair off and laid them next to mine. I flopped down on the ground and she flopped down next to me. And then I scratched my nose. Just to see what she’d do. She reached her hand up and scratched her own before a confused look crossed her face and she quickly dropped her hand. That’s when I looked away to hide my smile. And that’s when I missed the excitement. “Oh!” Lydia exclaimed and I turned in time to see Josiah leap off the branch bridge he’d climbed, chainsaw still in tow, and land barely out of reach of the branch that had just crashed to the ground. With his monkey feet and spider instincts, he’s never managed to wind up hurt. Yet. Maybe it’s Someone looking out for him.
Zach must be trying to redeem his “prodigal” status. “I’m too tired to go to Wes and Audrey’s,” he told us. “Can I come spend the night?” “John A’s going to be the next Martin Luther!” he exclaimed for the fiftieth time. “I’m telling you, he’ll reform the church!” Then he turned glum. “If that’s possible.” While I played piano, Zach preached about corruption in the church, in the Bible Belt and in Arkansas, where everyone names the name of Christ, but no one abstains from wickedness. It was almost like our own big tent revival. When he quoted William Booth, that prophet from the last century, he really caught my attention. “I consider that the chief dangers which confront the coming century will be religion without the Holy Ghost, Christianity without Christ, forgiveness without repentance, salvation without regeneration, politics without God, and heaven without hell.” I wish his prediction were not so accurate. “I don’t do Christianity because there are too many hypocrites in the church,” I’ve heard countless times. Usually I mumble something about not imposing the character of “Christians” on Christ. Yesterday my heart was burning, frustrated to think that “Christians” might be keeping the world from Christ. “The hypocrites are headed to hell,” I blurted out. “Do you want to spend eternity with them?” I couldn’t believe I’d said it straight out, but relief flooded over me as I realized I’d finally told the truth. I’ve always been afraid to condemn, to point the finger, to admit that those who don’t live for Jesus don’t live in Him either. How can I even begin to speak of others when my heart is so far from staid on Him? But my fault is not in pretending Christ when I don’t love Him. My fault is not loving Him by preaching His truth—to those who are pretending. I wonder what Jesus thinks of His bride?
Lord, Thy bride is so divided,
She’s taken grace that Thou provided
Turned it into chance for lust,
Forgotten what it means to trust,
Counterfeit the way to heaven,
Mixed Thy holy bread with leaven—
She’s grown not in Thy grace, but size,
Engorged on devastating lies.
I thought I’d been grumpy all day long. Hardly felt like myself, I was so exhausted, and weaker than the third brewing of an herbal tea bag. “Was I grumpy?” I quizzed Josiah, as I washed dishes from a jug of water. After supper the well again went on strike. “What? Grumpy?” he looked at me funny. “Just a little quiet maybe.” As queen of the roost for the day, I tried to keep all three of my charges occupied profitably. Lizzy’s not hard to entertain. I handed her “Rachel’s Tears” and zipped around the house, marking things off Mom’s list as I went. Well, actually, I tried to zip, but my feet felt as if they’d discovered a quagmire and decided to stay and search it to the bottom.
(Overheard from the dining/school room)
Lydia: Spell “famous.”
Josiah: A-B-I-G-A-I-L
They told me it was humid down here. I don’t remember who “they” were, but they were right. Chainsaw in hand, Josiah attacked the enormous tree that last lightning storm had shattered, while the rest of us tugged branches, piled logs and tried to keep out of the way of falling limbs. Soon I’d stripped my sweatshirt off and tied it around my waist. In a flash, Lizzy’d followed my example. Still feeling like a head of broccoli in a pressure steamer, I rolled my sleeves up to my shoulders and glanced up to see Lizzy doing the same. “Stand back—way back!” Josiah called, walking up a huge branch that had knelt to the ground and beginning to saw. I stepped into the shade, hands on hips and noticed that Lizzy had assumed an identical posture. I crossed my arms in front of me. A second passed and she did the same. I shoved my hands in my pockets. Soon hers had found her pockets as well. I peeked at her from the corner of my eye to see if she was imitating me on purpose. To be funny. She was watching me intently, as usual, but slyness doesn’t fit her sense of humor. With a shrug, I tugged off my green leather gloves and laid them across the handle of the wheelbarrow. As if it had just occurred to her, she pulled her pink pair off and laid them next to mine. I flopped down on the ground and she flopped down next to me. And then I scratched my nose. Just to see what she’d do. She reached her hand up and scratched her own before a confused look crossed her face and she quickly dropped her hand. That’s when I looked away to hide my smile. And that’s when I missed the excitement. “Oh!” Lydia exclaimed and I turned in time to see Josiah leap off the branch bridge he’d climbed, chainsaw still in tow, and land barely out of reach of the branch that had just crashed to the ground. With his monkey feet and spider instincts, he’s never managed to wind up hurt. Yet. Maybe it’s Someone looking out for him.
Zach must be trying to redeem his “prodigal” status. “I’m too tired to go to Wes and Audrey’s,” he told us. “Can I come spend the night?” “John A’s going to be the next Martin Luther!” he exclaimed for the fiftieth time. “I’m telling you, he’ll reform the church!” Then he turned glum. “If that’s possible.” While I played piano, Zach preached about corruption in the church, in the Bible Belt and in Arkansas, where everyone names the name of Christ, but no one abstains from wickedness. It was almost like our own big tent revival. When he quoted William Booth, that prophet from the last century, he really caught my attention. “I consider that the chief dangers which confront the coming century will be religion without the Holy Ghost, Christianity without Christ, forgiveness without repentance, salvation without regeneration, politics without God, and heaven without hell.” I wish his prediction were not so accurate. “I don’t do Christianity because there are too many hypocrites in the church,” I’ve heard countless times. Usually I mumble something about not imposing the character of “Christians” on Christ. Yesterday my heart was burning, frustrated to think that “Christians” might be keeping the world from Christ. “The hypocrites are headed to hell,” I blurted out. “Do you want to spend eternity with them?” I couldn’t believe I’d said it straight out, but relief flooded over me as I realized I’d finally told the truth. I’ve always been afraid to condemn, to point the finger, to admit that those who don’t live for Jesus don’t live in Him either. How can I even begin to speak of others when my heart is so far from staid on Him? But my fault is not in pretending Christ when I don’t love Him. My fault is not loving Him by preaching His truth—to those who are pretending. I wonder what Jesus thinks of His bride?
Lord, Thy bride is so divided,
She’s taken grace that Thou provided
Turned it into chance for lust,
Forgotten what it means to trust,
Counterfeit the way to heaven,
Mixed Thy holy bread with leaven—
She’s grown not in Thy grace, but size,
Engorged on devastating lies.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Apparently I’ve become part of the weekly calendar for some people. “Crazy! Is it Wednesday already?” Lauryn yawned, sitting cross-legged on her bed, with her Bible spread across her lap. “No,” I grinned. “I’m off schedule.” My desire to bring the girls a whole field of red clover resulted in only a paltry handful, presented at the door as a peace offering for showing up uninvited at eight o’clock. It’s hard to believe the Sweetest Suite will go the way of the buffalo in less than a month. Sitting on the floor of Lauryn’s room, getting in on her preparation for a Wednesday night teaching from Philippians four. Helping April pick out her outfit or distracting her from homework or getting comfy on the futon as we pray. Or even working alone in the quiet while the three of them are at class.
Ministry lunches are not tops on my menu. Large crowds of noisy students and shallow devotionals from “The Message”, but if that’s what it takes to spend time with Miss Emily, I’m sure I can handle it. Zach resembled a pouting child, waiting for Emily, April and me on the back steps of Wilson, his backpack lying neglected at his feet. “Anybody see the stick yet?” he called, waving us over. Promptly we all shifted gears and headed his direction. Funny how a habit like instant obedience becomes a burden. A million times the light has dawned, “Just because he sounds like he’s in charge doesn’t mean I have to dance to his tune.” Just as we were about to give up on Taylor, he appeared and then we were five. April always voices what I’m thinking. With her it’s not doing whatever she suggests because she suggests it, but because I already wanted to do it. “Let’s walk in the grass” or “I’m going over the top of that pile of dirt”—the things I do when I’m alone…or have a confederate. No wonder people always think we’re up to something when we grin at each other across the room.
Buckling on my spider-slaying sword, I entered Amber’s house, prepared for a severe jousting match with the arachnid who’s been terrorizing them for weeks. “See it?” Amber pointed to a corner of the ceiling. I squinted up at the tiny, grey exoskeleton dangling like a hangman on a noose. “I’ll get you a stool,” she offered and vanished from the kitchen. “Where is it?” I asked, peering again at the ceiling as she returned. “I know,” she blushed. “It’s so tiny you can hardly see it.” She bustled past me to point and then stopped. “It’s gone!” One look at my guilty face and she gave me a shove as I opened the trash can and pointed to our eradicated fiend. Ah, but such valor left me bereft of energy and I nearly drifted into dreamland as Amber talked to me. A rude heroine, indeed.
Lizzy was waiting for me outside the gymnastics building when I pulled up. This is her first “for real” visit and I’ll admit to a little nervousness. More than a little I am guilty of, but refuse to admit. I’m still not exactly sure what Eileen is hoping for or expecting. Or what Lizzy herself is expecting. She cheerfully does anything I suggest or request, doesn’t question me as I sit here, busily typing about her, and tells me funny stories in her engaging way. Most teen girls say “like” like all the time. Lizzy’s word is “all.” “Mom called me into her room and I’m all, ‘What do you need?’” We started John tonight—just after Amber and I finished this afternoon. Behold my life as a hamster: forever on the treadmill of John studies. What a great way to keep me thinking about Jesus and what He’s done—and is still doing.
I can’t seem to move on in First Samuel. One verse is eating at my thoughts and won’t permit me to move on until I find a satisfactory answer. Eli, the godly priest of God who raised Samuel, had two sons, Hophni and Phinehas, who were worthless men—stealing meat from the Lord’s sacrifice, profaning the Lord’s name and committing adultery publicly. It’s not so shocking to realize that, even thousands of years ago, the title “priest” did not make a man holy or even make him a servant of Yahweh. When Eli rebuked his sons, they ignored him, which is also not surprising, since wicked men stiffen their necks and harden their hearts against truth. “But they would not listen to the voice of their father, for Yahweh desired to put them to death.” And here I stop and shake my head to clear all my preconceptions, and reread and shake my head again. Did Yahweh prevent them from listening so that He could destroy them? What about His word through Ezekiel, “I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that the wicked turn from his way and live”? Wouldn't He desire to incline their hearts to listen to Eli? Perhaps this is a story like that of Pharaoh, where these men had hardened their own hearts and stiffened their own necks until Yahweh wouldn’t even allow them to make a wise decision in turning from folly? That Yahweh wished to destroy them because their hearts were still wicked, and didn’t allow Eli’s words to bring them to a change of action because there was no change of heart? That the continuance of their sin would render God’s judgment on their hearts righteous and show Him to be just? Had they improved their behavior, the evil in their hearts would have seemed to vanish and men would have wondered at God’s wrath. Is this Yahweh’s sovereignty, not in causing men to be evil or to do evil, but in denying them the ability to bring forth fruits in keeping with a repentance they do not possess—or even seek? And though Yahweh desired to put them to death, that their sin might not spread and defile His people, He must still have taken no pleasure in pouring out His wrath upon these two rebellious men—sons of a man He loved.
Lord, wrath is hard to comprehend;
Thou must, by nature, punish sin,
So even all the grace Thou send
Does not extend to wicked men.
For, though Thou could, by sovereignty
Demand that all should follow Thee,
Thou shows us grace and bids us choose—
Who chooses self, himself will loose.
Ministry lunches are not tops on my menu. Large crowds of noisy students and shallow devotionals from “The Message”, but if that’s what it takes to spend time with Miss Emily, I’m sure I can handle it. Zach resembled a pouting child, waiting for Emily, April and me on the back steps of Wilson, his backpack lying neglected at his feet. “Anybody see the stick yet?” he called, waving us over. Promptly we all shifted gears and headed his direction. Funny how a habit like instant obedience becomes a burden. A million times the light has dawned, “Just because he sounds like he’s in charge doesn’t mean I have to dance to his tune.” Just as we were about to give up on Taylor, he appeared and then we were five. April always voices what I’m thinking. With her it’s not doing whatever she suggests because she suggests it, but because I already wanted to do it. “Let’s walk in the grass” or “I’m going over the top of that pile of dirt”—the things I do when I’m alone…or have a confederate. No wonder people always think we’re up to something when we grin at each other across the room.
Buckling on my spider-slaying sword, I entered Amber’s house, prepared for a severe jousting match with the arachnid who’s been terrorizing them for weeks. “See it?” Amber pointed to a corner of the ceiling. I squinted up at the tiny, grey exoskeleton dangling like a hangman on a noose. “I’ll get you a stool,” she offered and vanished from the kitchen. “Where is it?” I asked, peering again at the ceiling as she returned. “I know,” she blushed. “It’s so tiny you can hardly see it.” She bustled past me to point and then stopped. “It’s gone!” One look at my guilty face and she gave me a shove as I opened the trash can and pointed to our eradicated fiend. Ah, but such valor left me bereft of energy and I nearly drifted into dreamland as Amber talked to me. A rude heroine, indeed.
Lizzy was waiting for me outside the gymnastics building when I pulled up. This is her first “for real” visit and I’ll admit to a little nervousness. More than a little I am guilty of, but refuse to admit. I’m still not exactly sure what Eileen is hoping for or expecting. Or what Lizzy herself is expecting. She cheerfully does anything I suggest or request, doesn’t question me as I sit here, busily typing about her, and tells me funny stories in her engaging way. Most teen girls say “like” like all the time. Lizzy’s word is “all.” “Mom called me into her room and I’m all, ‘What do you need?’” We started John tonight—just after Amber and I finished this afternoon. Behold my life as a hamster: forever on the treadmill of John studies. What a great way to keep me thinking about Jesus and what He’s done—and is still doing.
I can’t seem to move on in First Samuel. One verse is eating at my thoughts and won’t permit me to move on until I find a satisfactory answer. Eli, the godly priest of God who raised Samuel, had two sons, Hophni and Phinehas, who were worthless men—stealing meat from the Lord’s sacrifice, profaning the Lord’s name and committing adultery publicly. It’s not so shocking to realize that, even thousands of years ago, the title “priest” did not make a man holy or even make him a servant of Yahweh. When Eli rebuked his sons, they ignored him, which is also not surprising, since wicked men stiffen their necks and harden their hearts against truth. “But they would not listen to the voice of their father, for Yahweh desired to put them to death.” And here I stop and shake my head to clear all my preconceptions, and reread and shake my head again. Did Yahweh prevent them from listening so that He could destroy them? What about His word through Ezekiel, “I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that the wicked turn from his way and live”? Wouldn't He desire to incline their hearts to listen to Eli? Perhaps this is a story like that of Pharaoh, where these men had hardened their own hearts and stiffened their own necks until Yahweh wouldn’t even allow them to make a wise decision in turning from folly? That Yahweh wished to destroy them because their hearts were still wicked, and didn’t allow Eli’s words to bring them to a change of action because there was no change of heart? That the continuance of their sin would render God’s judgment on their hearts righteous and show Him to be just? Had they improved their behavior, the evil in their hearts would have seemed to vanish and men would have wondered at God’s wrath. Is this Yahweh’s sovereignty, not in causing men to be evil or to do evil, but in denying them the ability to bring forth fruits in keeping with a repentance they do not possess—or even seek? And though Yahweh desired to put them to death, that their sin might not spread and defile His people, He must still have taken no pleasure in pouring out His wrath upon these two rebellious men—sons of a man He loved.
Lord, wrath is hard to comprehend;
Thou must, by nature, punish sin,
So even all the grace Thou send
Does not extend to wicked men.
For, though Thou could, by sovereignty
Demand that all should follow Thee,
Thou shows us grace and bids us choose—
Who chooses self, himself will loose.
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.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Sleep and I had a hard time communicating last night. Just when we’d get settled into a comfortable conversation, my body would wake up like a petulant child whining, “I’m not tired.” So I’d lie in bed, wondering how people actually go about counting sheep, whether they actually jump over fences (because the grass is greener on the other side?) and, most importantly, what do sleepless lambs count? Finally it dawned on me (a little before the sun did) that I could be taking this opportunity to refuel so I’d have no excuse for whining later about never getting any “alone” time. No doubt that was the most logical thought I’ve ever had at four o’clock in the morning.
“Weren’t you just at Lowe’s?” the guy called over from the gas pump next to me. I nodded, slid my credit card and started fueling. “My buddy and I couldn’t believe it when you swung that stack of—what were they?—big ol’ things under your arm and carried them in the store. I was like, ‘Dude! She’s tuff! I wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley.’” I glanced at the construction trailer they were towing and hid a smile. “Actually,” I explained, “Those were just Styrofoam.”
I managed to catch Jacinderella for about half an hour. “Do you want to come up here, or do you want to go somewhere else?” she asked, already expecting my answer: “I wouldn’t mind being outside in the sunshine.” Here’s the scoop: my Jacinderella has been applying to become a missionary to some South American country. Hence the ambiguous note: “Should I live down ‘neath the ‘Quarter, would you come and visit later?” At least she didn’t write it in Spanish. And. Well. I’m excited for her. But I sure will miss my Jacinderella, come May. Looking back, it’s funny. Who’s have thought the friendship would have gone here, simply through an internet prank?
I don’t know how I ever used to go a whole day without eating. After the first class period of “No Apologies” in Lake D Highschool, my stomach was raging like a rabid raccoon. “We only have about twenty minutes lunch break,” Christy announced checking her watch. “I’m not really hungry anyway.” “Me either,” Randi shrugged. “I had a Twix on the way here. A peanut butter Twix.” And the two of them went off into a discussion of the evolution of the Twix candy bar, while I sat, arms pressed across my loudly complaining stomach meditating on all the Wal-mart fresh fruit in the trunk of the Camry I’d left at the dental clinic. “You can wait,” I assured my stomach and started flipping through one of the orange folders belonging to the next class. Sixth period must have eaten Mexican jumping beans for lunch. They were wound tighter than a shelf of music boxes—all playing different tunes. I sat on the sidelines, covertly studying kid’s reactions as Christy and Randi alternated talking about making choices—and encouraged them to choose abstinence, so they would never have to face so many of the other difficult choices that might follow. A pregnant girl sat on the far side of the room, her nose glowing like Rudolf’s, her eyes on her desk. A group of Mexican boys in the middle oohed and ahhed and cuddled the rubber baby models we’d brought. Popular girls clustered next to me, whispering between themselves and occasionally tossing a shy smile my way from a crevice in their armor-like shells. The variation in a high school health class is unbelievable. The guys who giggled as they handed in surveys announcing that the best part of the class was “hot teachers” contrasted strongly with the two who came up to us afterward, commenting that they wished we could have shared more “truth.” “I know you’re not allowed to talk about Biblical stuff,” one said, tugging on his reddish beard, “but it sure would help.” It sure would. It’s hard to swallow that I can teach information about birth control, show pictures of STDs but I dare not even mention God’s word on the issue. Or even that we’ve been banned from showing the abortion video there—because a girl who’d had one became upset after seeing the pictures. Let’s take our girls to get abortions, but don’t let’s show them what happens to that baby! Teach our teens about sex? Oh, sure. Fine. But don’t you dare mention the God who created their bodies! And we whine about the rate of teen pregnancies and STDs.
I never made it back to the Camry for a piece of fruit. Papa had to head home to work with the plumber on the well-house, and Christy dropped me off at Amber’s apartment instead. Feeling guilty for not paying better attention to what she was saying, I tried to sort out my “training” into easily accessible mental files as we picked up laundry from the Laundromat, Lin N’s pictures from the developer, ice from Pilot and Lizzy from DHS before heading for home. Barely in the door, I was assaulted with the aroma of homemade pizza. Posterity need never know how many pieces I consumed before my stomach decided it could survive until morning.
Public speaking is an art—an art which boils down to the ability to educate, motivate and persuade. And it’s an art Lizzy is learning. We spent the evening embroiled in reading the sermon on the mount in search of contrasts between two great public speakers: Jesus and Hitler. Both accomplished the goal of educating, motivating and persuading. But, as in the story Jesus shared of the two men who built houses—only one structure stood. Hitler’s regime collapsed—not for lack of talent or skill on the part of the leader, but because the foundation was not the truth. We had nearly condensed this concept into a one page speech when Josiah called me to his room.
“I have something to ask you about,” he started, slowly. Then he spilled out how he didn’t think he was truly saved when he’d been baptized as a child. “I know trusting is often a process,” he continued, “but…if I wasn’t saved until a year ago, like I think, should I get baptized again?” He went on to explain how he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced true repentance before, and he couldn’t remember the witness of the Holy Spirit in his heart. It’s embarrassing when people ask my opinion as if they expect me to have some wise answer. “If it’s the first step of obedience, and you don’t think you were obedient then, but you want to be now,” I faltered. “I don’t see what it would hurt?” So Miss Lizzy was treated to another hot-tub baptism. If it could be called a hot-tub when the water is barely seventy degrees. And it really doesn’t matter when Josiah was saved, as long as he can bear testimony to the world that he is indeed a child of God and wishes to walk in obedience to Him.
So this is me at the end of today:
Yes, I left it blank on purpose. Because I’ve hardly had time to assimilate all the data I’ve taken in and sort it into appropriate emotion crates. But it’s been a good day. Lydia’s sound asleep, tucked into my maroon bag. Lizzy’s scrambling into her pajamas.
I think I’ll try to reopen a conversation with sleep.
Lord, I strive to understand
One single moment of one day,
That Thou, before creation planned,
What then is left for me to say.
But, Lord, Thou art too wonderful.
“Weren’t you just at Lowe’s?” the guy called over from the gas pump next to me. I nodded, slid my credit card and started fueling. “My buddy and I couldn’t believe it when you swung that stack of—what were they?—big ol’ things under your arm and carried them in the store. I was like, ‘Dude! She’s tuff! I wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley.’” I glanced at the construction trailer they were towing and hid a smile. “Actually,” I explained, “Those were just Styrofoam.”
I managed to catch Jacinderella for about half an hour. “Do you want to come up here, or do you want to go somewhere else?” she asked, already expecting my answer: “I wouldn’t mind being outside in the sunshine.” Here’s the scoop: my Jacinderella has been applying to become a missionary to some South American country. Hence the ambiguous note: “Should I live down ‘neath the ‘Quarter, would you come and visit later?” At least she didn’t write it in Spanish. And. Well. I’m excited for her. But I sure will miss my Jacinderella, come May. Looking back, it’s funny. Who’s have thought the friendship would have gone here, simply through an internet prank?
I don’t know how I ever used to go a whole day without eating. After the first class period of “No Apologies” in Lake D Highschool, my stomach was raging like a rabid raccoon. “We only have about twenty minutes lunch break,” Christy announced checking her watch. “I’m not really hungry anyway.” “Me either,” Randi shrugged. “I had a Twix on the way here. A peanut butter Twix.” And the two of them went off into a discussion of the evolution of the Twix candy bar, while I sat, arms pressed across my loudly complaining stomach meditating on all the Wal-mart fresh fruit in the trunk of the Camry I’d left at the dental clinic. “You can wait,” I assured my stomach and started flipping through one of the orange folders belonging to the next class. Sixth period must have eaten Mexican jumping beans for lunch. They were wound tighter than a shelf of music boxes—all playing different tunes. I sat on the sidelines, covertly studying kid’s reactions as Christy and Randi alternated talking about making choices—and encouraged them to choose abstinence, so they would never have to face so many of the other difficult choices that might follow. A pregnant girl sat on the far side of the room, her nose glowing like Rudolf’s, her eyes on her desk. A group of Mexican boys in the middle oohed and ahhed and cuddled the rubber baby models we’d brought. Popular girls clustered next to me, whispering between themselves and occasionally tossing a shy smile my way from a crevice in their armor-like shells. The variation in a high school health class is unbelievable. The guys who giggled as they handed in surveys announcing that the best part of the class was “hot teachers” contrasted strongly with the two who came up to us afterward, commenting that they wished we could have shared more “truth.” “I know you’re not allowed to talk about Biblical stuff,” one said, tugging on his reddish beard, “but it sure would help.” It sure would. It’s hard to swallow that I can teach information about birth control, show pictures of STDs but I dare not even mention God’s word on the issue. Or even that we’ve been banned from showing the abortion video there—because a girl who’d had one became upset after seeing the pictures. Let’s take our girls to get abortions, but don’t let’s show them what happens to that baby! Teach our teens about sex? Oh, sure. Fine. But don’t you dare mention the God who created their bodies! And we whine about the rate of teen pregnancies and STDs.
I never made it back to the Camry for a piece of fruit. Papa had to head home to work with the plumber on the well-house, and Christy dropped me off at Amber’s apartment instead. Feeling guilty for not paying better attention to what she was saying, I tried to sort out my “training” into easily accessible mental files as we picked up laundry from the Laundromat, Lin N’s pictures from the developer, ice from Pilot and Lizzy from DHS before heading for home. Barely in the door, I was assaulted with the aroma of homemade pizza. Posterity need never know how many pieces I consumed before my stomach decided it could survive until morning.
Public speaking is an art—an art which boils down to the ability to educate, motivate and persuade. And it’s an art Lizzy is learning. We spent the evening embroiled in reading the sermon on the mount in search of contrasts between two great public speakers: Jesus and Hitler. Both accomplished the goal of educating, motivating and persuading. But, as in the story Jesus shared of the two men who built houses—only one structure stood. Hitler’s regime collapsed—not for lack of talent or skill on the part of the leader, but because the foundation was not the truth. We had nearly condensed this concept into a one page speech when Josiah called me to his room.
“I have something to ask you about,” he started, slowly. Then he spilled out how he didn’t think he was truly saved when he’d been baptized as a child. “I know trusting is often a process,” he continued, “but…if I wasn’t saved until a year ago, like I think, should I get baptized again?” He went on to explain how he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced true repentance before, and he couldn’t remember the witness of the Holy Spirit in his heart. It’s embarrassing when people ask my opinion as if they expect me to have some wise answer. “If it’s the first step of obedience, and you don’t think you were obedient then, but you want to be now,” I faltered. “I don’t see what it would hurt?” So Miss Lizzy was treated to another hot-tub baptism. If it could be called a hot-tub when the water is barely seventy degrees. And it really doesn’t matter when Josiah was saved, as long as he can bear testimony to the world that he is indeed a child of God and wishes to walk in obedience to Him.
So this is me at the end of today:
Yes, I left it blank on purpose. Because I’ve hardly had time to assimilate all the data I’ve taken in and sort it into appropriate emotion crates. But it’s been a good day. Lydia’s sound asleep, tucked into my maroon bag. Lizzy’s scrambling into her pajamas.
I think I’ll try to reopen a conversation with sleep.
Lord, I strive to understand
One single moment of one day,
That Thou, before creation planned,
What then is left for me to say.
But, Lord, Thou art too wonderful.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Well, well, well. That’s the trigger word in everyone’s mouth today. “We’re out of water again!” “Would you run out to the well-house?” “How do I flip the switch?” “Is it still not pumping?” Somewhere between the sand-filter and the tap our pump seems to have given up the ghost. Each time we try to resurrect it with artificial resuscitation, it drags for a few minutes, unable to build up pressure and then drops to death levels again. We might be content to let it pass in peace, were it not that we still have need of it here in this mortal vale.
“Pull up a chair,” Josiah ordered, waving a nut driver at me. Obediently I dragged a metal folding chair underneath the florescent light fixture and climbed up. “Uh. I still can’t reach it.” As I returned with the six-foot ladder, I heard Josiah yelp. “Didn’t you turn off the breaker?” I demanded, as he ruefully screwed wire nuts back over the exposed ends. “Well, no,” he admitted. “I can’t figure out which breaker it’s on.” I snickered. This house is like some people—on the outside it looks beautiful, but inside it has some serious issues: water problems, terrible wiring, lack of insulation, leaky windows. First it needs some repairs, then it needs some maintenance. I dug out my mental file folder with Tabby’s conversation yesterday—our frustration at how we have to keep recapturing the same thoughts, the same sins, the same weaknesses to surrender to Yahweh. Well. Of course. I don’t put a log on the fire and expect to be warm forever. Or fix a leaky faucet and grow enraged if it starts dripping again. Or wash a shirt and assume it will be clean forever. Well, perhaps I do. But I shouldn’t. Do nothing to a house and it will crumble and deteriorate. Do nothing to a heart and it will do the same.
Lizzy grinned from ear to ear from the time she walked in the doorway behind Eileen and Analiese, through a soupy supper and water-deprived dishes, to the time she climbed back into the SUV for the ride home. She says she’s excited to come spend a day with me each week. Obviously, she doesn’t know me. Me? Well, I’m pretty much terrified. Not because Lizzy’s frightening. She seems like a super sweet fifteen-year-old. And Eileen is strong and opinionated, but kind. “Praise God,” stops up the flow of her conversation frequently, especially as she shared her testimony of God’s work in her life. But, well, sheesh. What in the world am I getting myself into? My eyes would have been as big as saucers by the time they left, had not my eyelids been gaining weight more quickly than a Sumo wrestler. I sit here, reminding myself, “Hush. Just take it one moment at a time. Oh yeah…and lean on Yahweh. Heavily.” But…What do Lizzy and Eileen really expect? What if they are disappointed? Well. What if the polar ice caps melt and flood the whole earth? Oh wait. Didn’t God make a promise about that? Just like everything else—God’s got it covered, under control.
Lord, Thou hung the world in space,
And charted every time and place.
Thou hast never walked away
But over all hast still held sway.
Though Thou let our passions drive us
Thou sent rainbows to remind us
Someday every heart and soul
Will know that Thou art in control.
“Pull up a chair,” Josiah ordered, waving a nut driver at me. Obediently I dragged a metal folding chair underneath the florescent light fixture and climbed up. “Uh. I still can’t reach it.” As I returned with the six-foot ladder, I heard Josiah yelp. “Didn’t you turn off the breaker?” I demanded, as he ruefully screwed wire nuts back over the exposed ends. “Well, no,” he admitted. “I can’t figure out which breaker it’s on.” I snickered. This house is like some people—on the outside it looks beautiful, but inside it has some serious issues: water problems, terrible wiring, lack of insulation, leaky windows. First it needs some repairs, then it needs some maintenance. I dug out my mental file folder with Tabby’s conversation yesterday—our frustration at how we have to keep recapturing the same thoughts, the same sins, the same weaknesses to surrender to Yahweh. Well. Of course. I don’t put a log on the fire and expect to be warm forever. Or fix a leaky faucet and grow enraged if it starts dripping again. Or wash a shirt and assume it will be clean forever. Well, perhaps I do. But I shouldn’t. Do nothing to a house and it will crumble and deteriorate. Do nothing to a heart and it will do the same.
Lizzy grinned from ear to ear from the time she walked in the doorway behind Eileen and Analiese, through a soupy supper and water-deprived dishes, to the time she climbed back into the SUV for the ride home. She says she’s excited to come spend a day with me each week. Obviously, she doesn’t know me. Me? Well, I’m pretty much terrified. Not because Lizzy’s frightening. She seems like a super sweet fifteen-year-old. And Eileen is strong and opinionated, but kind. “Praise God,” stops up the flow of her conversation frequently, especially as she shared her testimony of God’s work in her life. But, well, sheesh. What in the world am I getting myself into? My eyes would have been as big as saucers by the time they left, had not my eyelids been gaining weight more quickly than a Sumo wrestler. I sit here, reminding myself, “Hush. Just take it one moment at a time. Oh yeah…and lean on Yahweh. Heavily.” But…What do Lizzy and Eileen really expect? What if they are disappointed? Well. What if the polar ice caps melt and flood the whole earth? Oh wait. Didn’t God make a promise about that? Just like everything else—God’s got it covered, under control.
Lord, Thou hung the world in space,
And charted every time and place.
Thou hast never walked away
But over all hast still held sway.
Though Thou let our passions drive us
Thou sent rainbows to remind us
Someday every heart and soul
Will know that Thou art in control.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Between dusk and dawn my spirit quieted, like a dove settling into its nest, and I woke this morning knowing again, all will be well. All day long I felt humbled by Yahweh’s goodness, in spite of my fear, doubt and faithlessness. Sometimes I want to crawl out of my own skin and flutter into the air like an invisible butterfly, watching from a distance what God will do next. Emily and I escaped the noisy cafeteria to get some one-on-one in her room and she reminded me how, late one night, shortly after our move, we had made some specific requests to our Lord, how He’d clearly begun an answer the next night and now, looking back over the months, my breath was knocked away by how beautifully He’s been answering that same prayer since. Emily is a faithful prayer warrior, swift to bring everything to her Father’s throne and faithful to remember and recount each answer. I arrived at Amber’s on a Jesus high. “How much sugar have you had today?” she demanded, shaking her head. While she took an important phone call, I filled her camera with hideous faces. I have a decided talent for making hideous faces. I just get tired of trying to be beautiful, and figure I might as well do something I’m actually good at. Silky-coated Baby, who normally vanishes with the arrival of visitors, slinked in to see me, purring slyly to show that she’s accepted me into the family. I threatened Judy with a roll of contact paper and was rather pleased with my ability to inspire fear. “I didn’t do it!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Honest I didn’t! I thought about it, but I didn’t!”
Josh escorted me through the inner maze of DHS to meet Eileen, Lizzy’s mom. I slipped on my best undaunted mask as I sat down across a big desk from her and tried to find a good place to put my hands. First they crept under my crossed legs, but that lasted only as long as the crossed legs. How nice. Here’s the little girl, ma’am, that you’ve never met but wants to steal your daughter for a day every week. She’s a bit odd, ma’am. Wears dresses over her jeans, pulls her hair back in two tails at the back of her neck, refuses to date and she’s short. Oh, excuse me. She’s about your height, ma’am. As she talked with me about her goals for Lizzy, my heart warmed. “We’re not doing the dating thing,” she added. “In fact, there’s not even going to be any of this ‘alone together’ with a guy stuff.” Well. So that’s that. I’d thought she was unsure about the idea. Apparently we’re on. Now I just need to meet Lizzy. Daunting.
Gone excavating in my ancient journals, in search of a missing link for something else, I discovered something which had completely vanished from my current memory system: the draft for a letter—the only letter I’ve ever written a guy. At sweet sixteen. Aw. Not. This one was hard core, all rough edges, blunt phrases and no nonsense. The gist of it was “You need to know that you are a flirt and that’s not a fair way to treat your sisters in Christ.” I cringed as I read it, half embarrassed, half amused, half in awe of the fiery little prophetess of yore. “If this letter ruins our friendship, well, I’m sorry,” it finished with a flourish. “But that will tell me something about your heart.” Oh, but the post script. We mustn’t forget the post script. “Don’t bother writing back. I read all my letters to the family, and I’d rather you didn’t anyway.” To his credit, we’re still friends. I’d like to imagine I’ve picked up a little seasonable grace since then.
In the middle of feeling small, overwhelmed and hating Judges, I found myself shamed by the beautiful lessons the Lord had for Gideon. Hiding in a wine press to beat out wheat, Gideon hardly resembled the “Valiant Warrior” Yahweh’s messenger greeted him as. In fact, the title fit him worse than Saul’s armor fit the young David. “I’m a nobody,” Gideon protested Yahweh’s plan for him to save Israel from Midian. “Not only is my family low on the social ladder, but I’m the baby as well!” Afraid of others’ opinions, he followed the Lord’s instructions to destroy the altars to Baal—at night. But Yahweh wasn’t through teaching Gideon that little is more than enough. Obedience is all Yahweh needs for victory. Sometimes I picture Yahweh shrugging. Or shaking His head nonchalantly, as if to say, “I really am bigger than you think.” After Gideon had gathered an army 32,000 strong, Yahweh told him, “You have too many men.” Wave after wave of men were dismissed until only three hundred remained. Three hundred. To fight a battle as odd as any ever fought. The secret to Gideon’s success lay in the message the angel had given him while he beat out the wheat in secret. “Yahweh is with you, O Valiant Warrior.” Not that Yahweh was with him because of his valor, but that he would be valiant because Yahweh was with him. Striking down public idols might have seemed frightening. Driving out the Midianites might have seemed daunting.. Waving torches and shouting might have seemed ridiculous. Don’t you get it, Abigail? That’s the point. Being vulnerable might seem frightening. Discipling a girl I’ve never even met might seem daunting. Living Yahweh’s way certainly seems ridiculous at times. Yahweh is with me. How about that, little nobody? Why don’t you try “Valiant Warrior” on for size?
Lord, the torch Thou gave me smolders,
Thou hast bid me to be bolder!
Thou hast bid me smash my vase
That I might light up Thy face.
Thou art big enough to raise me,
Naught on earth should daunt or phase me.
Thou puts the powers of dark to flight—
Ignite in me Thy holy light.
Josh escorted me through the inner maze of DHS to meet Eileen, Lizzy’s mom. I slipped on my best undaunted mask as I sat down across a big desk from her and tried to find a good place to put my hands. First they crept under my crossed legs, but that lasted only as long as the crossed legs. How nice. Here’s the little girl, ma’am, that you’ve never met but wants to steal your daughter for a day every week. She’s a bit odd, ma’am. Wears dresses over her jeans, pulls her hair back in two tails at the back of her neck, refuses to date and she’s short. Oh, excuse me. She’s about your height, ma’am. As she talked with me about her goals for Lizzy, my heart warmed. “We’re not doing the dating thing,” she added. “In fact, there’s not even going to be any of this ‘alone together’ with a guy stuff.” Well. So that’s that. I’d thought she was unsure about the idea. Apparently we’re on. Now I just need to meet Lizzy. Daunting.
Gone excavating in my ancient journals, in search of a missing link for something else, I discovered something which had completely vanished from my current memory system: the draft for a letter—the only letter I’ve ever written a guy. At sweet sixteen. Aw. Not. This one was hard core, all rough edges, blunt phrases and no nonsense. The gist of it was “You need to know that you are a flirt and that’s not a fair way to treat your sisters in Christ.” I cringed as I read it, half embarrassed, half amused, half in awe of the fiery little prophetess of yore. “If this letter ruins our friendship, well, I’m sorry,” it finished with a flourish. “But that will tell me something about your heart.” Oh, but the post script. We mustn’t forget the post script. “Don’t bother writing back. I read all my letters to the family, and I’d rather you didn’t anyway.” To his credit, we’re still friends. I’d like to imagine I’ve picked up a little seasonable grace since then.
In the middle of feeling small, overwhelmed and hating Judges, I found myself shamed by the beautiful lessons the Lord had for Gideon. Hiding in a wine press to beat out wheat, Gideon hardly resembled the “Valiant Warrior” Yahweh’s messenger greeted him as. In fact, the title fit him worse than Saul’s armor fit the young David. “I’m a nobody,” Gideon protested Yahweh’s plan for him to save Israel from Midian. “Not only is my family low on the social ladder, but I’m the baby as well!” Afraid of others’ opinions, he followed the Lord’s instructions to destroy the altars to Baal—at night. But Yahweh wasn’t through teaching Gideon that little is more than enough. Obedience is all Yahweh needs for victory. Sometimes I picture Yahweh shrugging. Or shaking His head nonchalantly, as if to say, “I really am bigger than you think.” After Gideon had gathered an army 32,000 strong, Yahweh told him, “You have too many men.” Wave after wave of men were dismissed until only three hundred remained. Three hundred. To fight a battle as odd as any ever fought. The secret to Gideon’s success lay in the message the angel had given him while he beat out the wheat in secret. “Yahweh is with you, O Valiant Warrior.” Not that Yahweh was with him because of his valor, but that he would be valiant because Yahweh was with him. Striking down public idols might have seemed frightening. Driving out the Midianites might have seemed daunting.. Waving torches and shouting might have seemed ridiculous. Don’t you get it, Abigail? That’s the point. Being vulnerable might seem frightening. Discipling a girl I’ve never even met might seem daunting. Living Yahweh’s way certainly seems ridiculous at times. Yahweh is with me. How about that, little nobody? Why don’t you try “Valiant Warrior” on for size?
Lord, the torch Thou gave me smolders,
Thou hast bid me to be bolder!
Thou hast bid me smash my vase
That I might light up Thy face.
Thou art big enough to raise me,
Naught on earth should daunt or phase me.
Thou puts the powers of dark to flight—
Ignite in me Thy holy light.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Some things are simply not to be. Apparently my internet connection is one of those things. Following its mysterious death on Friday, I called AT&T today and, wonder of all wonders, got the same technical assistant. With the warranty still good until November, we have a new one on the way. In the mean time, I’m wirelessless again.
I was almost embarrassed when Amber discovered my blog, along with the post about her. “It was a God thing,” she told me over the phone. “It was so encouraging.” Now she’s joined me with a blog of her own, posting notes from her late night Bible study.
Sated with yummy squash casserole, the family dragged out new spiral-bound notebooks and folded them back for the first night listening to our new Bible of MP3. Our task is to listen each night, for half an hour, make notes, scribble questions, comments or thoughts and discuss them the next morning at breakfast. At the rate we’re going, we just might run right over me in my personal study. I’d argue that I’ve search high and low, far and near for some alone time to keep moving through Judges, but since I haven’t found it, I’m forced to conclude I haven’t searched hard enough. Priorities, my dear self. Priorities. I open my Bible, flip to the Psalms and read, then turn to Judges and stare blankly until the words on the page jumble together and slide off into my lap. I hate Judges. I hate relativity. Moral demise. I hate the way my heart turns from fire to ashes as I read, seeing the same apathy in myself and my country as I see in Israel. Which of the Judges can I look to as a hero? Barak was a coward. Gideon couldn’t believe the plain command of the Lord. Jephthah was rash. Samson was a philanderer. Let’s not talk about what I am. But I’m missing the point. The point is not the failed people. People fail. Past, present and future. The point is Yahweh: His faithfulness to the covenant, both to punish and to deliver. The point is the battles He fought, the deeds He did, the miracles He worked—in spite of people.
Lord, Thou art the judge of all!
Hear and answer when I call,
When I beg Thy favor, Lord,
That Thy name might be adored.
Everything Thou dost is good,
Though often I misunderstood,
The world, nor I am not the theme.
Thou art the hero, King of Kings!
I was almost embarrassed when Amber discovered my blog, along with the post about her. “It was a God thing,” she told me over the phone. “It was so encouraging.” Now she’s joined me with a blog of her own, posting notes from her late night Bible study.
Sated with yummy squash casserole, the family dragged out new spiral-bound notebooks and folded them back for the first night listening to our new Bible of MP3. Our task is to listen each night, for half an hour, make notes, scribble questions, comments or thoughts and discuss them the next morning at breakfast. At the rate we’re going, we just might run right over me in my personal study. I’d argue that I’ve search high and low, far and near for some alone time to keep moving through Judges, but since I haven’t found it, I’m forced to conclude I haven’t searched hard enough. Priorities, my dear self. Priorities. I open my Bible, flip to the Psalms and read, then turn to Judges and stare blankly until the words on the page jumble together and slide off into my lap. I hate Judges. I hate relativity. Moral demise. I hate the way my heart turns from fire to ashes as I read, seeing the same apathy in myself and my country as I see in Israel. Which of the Judges can I look to as a hero? Barak was a coward. Gideon couldn’t believe the plain command of the Lord. Jephthah was rash. Samson was a philanderer. Let’s not talk about what I am. But I’m missing the point. The point is not the failed people. People fail. Past, present and future. The point is Yahweh: His faithfulness to the covenant, both to punish and to deliver. The point is the battles He fought, the deeds He did, the miracles He worked—in spite of people.
Lord, Thou art the judge of all!
Hear and answer when I call,
When I beg Thy favor, Lord,
That Thy name might be adored.
Everything Thou dost is good,
Though often I misunderstood,
The world, nor I am not the theme.
Thou art the hero, King of Kings!
Thursday, April 3, 2008
“I tiped here! Oijtn; egldkjg ljgrgg lkgjeit lkrjtle eoitlekg lekrjyo kg”
Behold the mystic words I discovered in my journal after a quick bathroom break. So far, I’ve been unable to find an online translator that could interpret the meaning. I’m going to guess it’s Lydia language for “you should be more careful leaving your journal open.”
Six months ago today we unloaded the U-haul through the back patio doors. Why I make note of that, I’m not sure. Dates and times stand out starkly in my memory. Actually, most things stand out starkly in my memory. It’s part of my chemical make-up, I suppose. A quick check of my lovely electronic journal, began when we moved, revealed a word count of 125,000. In six months I’ve written my life up longer than most novels.
When Amber called tonight, she was bubbling over with excitement—good news on every count. She thanked me profusely for the notes on prayer from John 17, as well as the website for tracts and started pouring out a million other thanksgivings. A few minutes later Jacinderella called. “Did she tell you about Bible study last night?” she quizzed. “Uh…” I answered, unsure. Soon Jacinderella was spilling how encouraging Amber had been, offering valuable insights into others’ questions and even accidentally stealing Wes’ thunder. As those two had talked earlier, Jacinderella had reminded Amber, “You don’t have to live in defeat. The Lord is our redeemer and our Savior!”
Her words harkened back to the story of Deborah and Barak. A woman judge of Israel, as God had said, “When you forsake me, women and children will lead you.” In the dearth of real men, Deborah stepped forward. Even Barak, for whom she had a special message from Yahweh to save His people, shivered and begged her to accompany him. But Yahweh would not allow His people to live in defeat. In an epic battle, Yahweh routed Sisera and his huge army before Barak and won the victory. In the book of Judges I see God’s war on humanism. In the midst of a crumbling society, God raised up weak, frightened person after person to bring about His victories. I find myself raising Ebenezers along the pathway of my life. Tonight I’m looking back on six months of life in Arkansas, wondering what I’ve really accomplished, feeling like I spent the day spinning my wheels, running in circles, dragging my feet. Am I weak and frightened? Well, good. So much the more usable to bring about God’s glory. The story is not about what I’ve accomplished in six months. The story is about what Yahweh has done.
And He has done great things.
Lord, Thou leads not in retreat,
Thy trumpet never sounds defeat,
For Thou hast every battle won.
The serpent might, once, bruise Thy Son,
But Thou hast turned His steps instead
To tread upon the serpent’s head.
When Jesus Christ was crucified,
Satan’s power bled and died.
Behold the mystic words I discovered in my journal after a quick bathroom break. So far, I’ve been unable to find an online translator that could interpret the meaning. I’m going to guess it’s Lydia language for “you should be more careful leaving your journal open.”
Six months ago today we unloaded the U-haul through the back patio doors. Why I make note of that, I’m not sure. Dates and times stand out starkly in my memory. Actually, most things stand out starkly in my memory. It’s part of my chemical make-up, I suppose. A quick check of my lovely electronic journal, began when we moved, revealed a word count of 125,000. In six months I’ve written my life up longer than most novels.
When Amber called tonight, she was bubbling over with excitement—good news on every count. She thanked me profusely for the notes on prayer from John 17, as well as the website for tracts and started pouring out a million other thanksgivings. A few minutes later Jacinderella called. “Did she tell you about Bible study last night?” she quizzed. “Uh…” I answered, unsure. Soon Jacinderella was spilling how encouraging Amber had been, offering valuable insights into others’ questions and even accidentally stealing Wes’ thunder. As those two had talked earlier, Jacinderella had reminded Amber, “You don’t have to live in defeat. The Lord is our redeemer and our Savior!”
Her words harkened back to the story of Deborah and Barak. A woman judge of Israel, as God had said, “When you forsake me, women and children will lead you.” In the dearth of real men, Deborah stepped forward. Even Barak, for whom she had a special message from Yahweh to save His people, shivered and begged her to accompany him. But Yahweh would not allow His people to live in defeat. In an epic battle, Yahweh routed Sisera and his huge army before Barak and won the victory. In the book of Judges I see God’s war on humanism. In the midst of a crumbling society, God raised up weak, frightened person after person to bring about His victories. I find myself raising Ebenezers along the pathway of my life. Tonight I’m looking back on six months of life in Arkansas, wondering what I’ve really accomplished, feeling like I spent the day spinning my wheels, running in circles, dragging my feet. Am I weak and frightened? Well, good. So much the more usable to bring about God’s glory. The story is not about what I’ve accomplished in six months. The story is about what Yahweh has done.
And He has done great things.
Lord, Thou leads not in retreat,
Thy trumpet never sounds defeat,
For Thou hast every battle won.
The serpent might, once, bruise Thy Son,
But Thou hast turned His steps instead
To tread upon the serpent’s head.
When Jesus Christ was crucified,
Satan’s power bled and died.
Wednesday, March 26, 3008
When you don’t own an Ipod, an Iphone or whatever other Is exist, you’re forced to use your own eyes. And ears. At least, I am. And I notice things like the license plate number: “300 LBS”. Sadly, the car was parked, so I didn’t get a peek at the operator. In the thrift store a father wisely told his son, “Your mother will never let you get that game. She’ll say, ‘Look at all the little bitty pieces! You’ll have them lost in a week! No, we’re not going to get that.’” Determined to find out, the little boy wove through the mazes of used clothes to find his mother. She took one look at his choice of game and said, “Look at all the little bitty pieces! You’ll have them lost in a week! No, we’re not going to get that.”
“Are you enjoying Spring Break?” asked the friendly Wal-mart attendant. I nodded, not seeing fit to correct him. “What school do you go to? You look about my daughters age. What are you, thirteen…fourteen?” My age seems to be slipping backward through a time warp. “Uh, I’m twenty, actually.” His jaw hit the floor with a resounding thud. “Well…well. My daughter’s fourteen. You…eh…you carry your age well. They’ll be asking if you’re twenty-four when you’re thirty-five.” I smiled, and refrained from telling him how “they” asked if I was eighteen when I was twelve. At this rate of regression, I’m figuring I’ll pass for a first grader by the time I’m thirty-five. Instead we were able to pass from age to the Ageless One, while he stickered my return item.
After hours on the phone, navigating through automated phone panels and repeating my plight (this GearRatchet extension is broken—it’s under lifetime warranty—you don’t sell it anymore—can you just replace it with a Craftsman?) to various Sears customer service reps, I wound up back in the local store. The dark-skinned girl at the counter recognized me immediately. “Did they still not help you?” she asked. With a sigh, I told my tale of woe. As soon as I’d finished she vanished into the back, returned with a Craftsman extension, tore of the label and handed it to me. “I don’t know what their problem is. Girl, I don’t need anything else from you. They can handle the paperwork however they want.” Even with the “very much” I tacked on the end of my “thank you”, it hardly expressed my gratitude and relief. I will shop again at that store—we hadn’t even bought the set from them, but she was quick to take care of us.
“Dress for going out,” I told Amber, when I called her. “I’m picking you up and we’re going on a road trip.” Who says a road trip has to be, you know, out of town? We played on the traintracks,
My head was splitting, shooting brightly colored pain stars across my vision as I shifted into reverse, backing up to go pick up Papa. Why am I so privileged? Blessed so greatly with spiritual blessings, as well as physical ones?
Lord, Thy bounty overwhelms me,
Thou hast given every heavenly
Blessing, and bestowed Thy grace
Abundantly. I turn my face
To gaze on Thee, for Thou art kind.
I pray Thou would renew my mind
To be consumed with all Thou dost
And magnify Thee, by my trust.
“Are you enjoying Spring Break?” asked the friendly Wal-mart attendant. I nodded, not seeing fit to correct him. “What school do you go to? You look about my daughters age. What are you, thirteen…fourteen?” My age seems to be slipping backward through a time warp. “Uh, I’m twenty, actually.” His jaw hit the floor with a resounding thud. “Well…well. My daughter’s fourteen. You…eh…you carry your age well. They’ll be asking if you’re twenty-four when you’re thirty-five.” I smiled, and refrained from telling him how “they” asked if I was eighteen when I was twelve. At this rate of regression, I’m figuring I’ll pass for a first grader by the time I’m thirty-five. Instead we were able to pass from age to the Ageless One, while he stickered my return item.
After hours on the phone, navigating through automated phone panels and repeating my plight (this GearRatchet extension is broken—it’s under lifetime warranty—you don’t sell it anymore—can you just replace it with a Craftsman?) to various Sears customer service reps, I wound up back in the local store. The dark-skinned girl at the counter recognized me immediately. “Did they still not help you?” she asked. With a sigh, I told my tale of woe. As soon as I’d finished she vanished into the back, returned with a Craftsman extension, tore of the label and handed it to me. “I don’t know what their problem is. Girl, I don’t need anything else from you. They can handle the paperwork however they want.” Even with the “very much” I tacked on the end of my “thank you”, it hardly expressed my gratitude and relief. I will shop again at that store—we hadn’t even bought the set from them, but she was quick to take care of us.
“Dress for going out,” I told Amber, when I called her. “I’m picking you up and we’re going on a road trip.” Who says a road trip has to be, you know, out of town? We played on the traintracks,
went to the lakeand walked on the pier, played in the sand, waded into the freezing water, kissed turtles, chased geese and followed it up with a trip to the local Goodwill to model terrific outfits, ritzy shoes and stunning hats. As we drove back out to Amber’s apartment she kept thanking me, over and over again. “This has been so much fun! Thank you so much for doing this.” I laughed and commented on her overabundance of enthusiasm. She was quiet for a moment then explained, “I’ve never done this kind of thing before. Just gone out and played. I thought I hated shopping in second hand stores—especially trying things on. This was so much fun. This is the kind of thing of been dreaming of for a year.” I turned my face away a little, so she couldn’t see the tears well up, thinking how often I’ve done nothing with friends just for the fun of it—just like today. Wasting time. No. Not wasting time. Not today, at least. I’d enjoyed every single moment. We finished up the day in John, reading about the last supper, and I bounced off the sagging couch to the floor to demonstrate “reclining at table”, lying on the left side, up on one elbow, feet out from the table, eating with the right hand. Light bulbs appeared above Judy and Amber’s heads as the visual suddenly brought the story of life. I forget just how grateful I should be for my father’s faithful study and diligent instruction.
My head was splitting, shooting brightly colored pain stars across my vision as I shifted into reverse, backing up to go pick up Papa. Why am I so privileged? Blessed so greatly with spiritual blessings, as well as physical ones?
Lord, Thy bounty overwhelms me,
Thou hast given every heavenly
Blessing, and bestowed Thy grace
Abundantly. I turn my face
To gaze on Thee, for Thou art kind.
I pray Thou would renew my mind
To be consumed with all Thou dost
And magnify Thee, by my trust.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
I was sure the weatherman was mistaken for predicting sunshine by noon. The rain pelted me from every side and I huddled under my umbrella, sloshing through puddles and spitting windblown hair out of my mouth. Around me, campus bloomed with colorful mushrooms, milling toward classrooms and dormrooms, sporting neon rainboots or soggy tennis shoes. At the library entrance, the mushrooms were suddenly transformed into students, collapsing umbrellas and shaking off boots before entering.
Tip for the day: a smile can buy you almost any assistance. Perhaps it helps a bit to be a girl. In the past I’ve tested out the possibilities on a whole host of personalities—smile, innocent eyes, ask dumb questions with an apologetic laugh. Whether out of pity, kindness or simple inability to be cruel to a smiling face, folks will almost always cheerfully answer every stupid question. Alternately, you can pretend you know what you’re doing and ask intelligent questions—only if you run into a snag—always with a smile. I settled on the second tactic for the library. My task: check out a DVD Papa’s been wanting for months. Step one: renew my library card. After an excruciating few minutes digging up the information needed for an application, I was handed back my library card and stated my business. “The Internet said pick it up in the music lab?” I questioned. The dear librarian nodded. “You’ll only be able to check it out for four hours though, so you’ll probably just want to watch it in one of the rooms upstairs.” My satisfaction melted into discouragement and puddled up around my toes. Time for an intelligent question. “Can I get a Tech friend to check it out for me?” Affirmative. Behold my reasons for calling Nick and begging to borrow both his person and his ID. Then I dashed up the stairs to the music lab, stated my business and was received with a host of questions. “Is it for a class?” Smile. “No sir.” “I need your ID.” Oh! We check it out here, do we? Smile. “Um…actually, a friend is checking it out for me.” Interject another intelligent question. “Can you hold it for me until he gets here?” Soon Nick arrived, hunkering under his parka like a soggy leprechaun, and I presented both his person and his ID and received a green slip, a white slip and a DVD in return. “Thank you,” with another smile before we made our way downstairs and out the door. That’s when the alarm went off. Somewhere I forgot to ask the intelligent question, “Is that all we have to do?” The answer would have been negative. The green slip was meant for the folks at the front desk. Somehow I muddled my way through the intricate system of checking out a DVD at the college library and survived with movie in tow. I should feel accomplished. At least I smiled.
My parking escapade proved better results. Walk into the campus police office. Smile. Pretend I know what I’m talking about. “Can I get a temporary parking permit?” The officer and the lady at the desk exchanged glances. “Honey,” said the robust lady, “It’s raining today. I can’t give you a permit. Don’t tell anyone, but the computers don’t work when it rains.” My eyebrows conferred together in confusion. “So…um?” We won’t try to pass that off as an intelligent question. The officer chimed in. “Just park wherever you want, darlin’. Ain’t nobody gonna do anything about it today.” That’s a statement even I could understand and I left the office grinning from ear to ear and found a spot by the cafeteria, in the center of campus. Perhaps it will rain more often.
I’ve nearly decided to petition the BCM to install gender signs on the bathroom doors. Emily’s directions of “all the way back to the left” sent me walking into the men’s bathroom. And back out with as much speed as I could muster. By the time I dropped Zach and Emily back off at campus after lunch at the BCM, the weatherman had convinced the sun to peek out from behind his hidey-hole of clouds.
Amber and I tripped out of the apartment for a walk in the warming sunshine and snagged flowers off of a budding tree as we passed, recalling the days of “He loves me, he loves me not.” It’s nice to be reminded that I’ve grown-up at least a little. All afternoon my strength ebbed like the tide. “I’d better go,” I said, an hour earlier than usual, “I’ve got some things to do yet.” “Things” meant a bench at the head of Bona Dea, reading the Psalms for the day. How perfect they were! In spite of laughter, of fun, of joy, I’d been lost in a cloud of confusion, unable to be alone and sort out my thoughts. “Lord, Thou hast searched me and known me, Thou dost understand my thoughts from afar. Search me, O God, and know my heart, try me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there be any wicked way in me and lead me in the everlasting way.” Quiet. At last. Knowing that God understands what even I can’t fathom. Unafraid of His gentle searching, His loving scrutiny, I poured out my heart to Him and then left the empty shell in His hands, to be refilled.
Lord, Thou art my very essence--
To live is to be in Thy presence.
I lay aside all that’s confused
And sit down at Thy feet to muse.
The Lover that I seek is Thee,
Because Thou sought and first loved me.
The only truth that I possess
Is Thou, my King of Righteousness.
Tip for the day: a smile can buy you almost any assistance. Perhaps it helps a bit to be a girl. In the past I’ve tested out the possibilities on a whole host of personalities—smile, innocent eyes, ask dumb questions with an apologetic laugh. Whether out of pity, kindness or simple inability to be cruel to a smiling face, folks will almost always cheerfully answer every stupid question. Alternately, you can pretend you know what you’re doing and ask intelligent questions—only if you run into a snag—always with a smile. I settled on the second tactic for the library. My task: check out a DVD Papa’s been wanting for months. Step one: renew my library card. After an excruciating few minutes digging up the information needed for an application, I was handed back my library card and stated my business. “The Internet said pick it up in the music lab?” I questioned. The dear librarian nodded. “You’ll only be able to check it out for four hours though, so you’ll probably just want to watch it in one of the rooms upstairs.” My satisfaction melted into discouragement and puddled up around my toes. Time for an intelligent question. “Can I get a Tech friend to check it out for me?” Affirmative. Behold my reasons for calling Nick and begging to borrow both his person and his ID. Then I dashed up the stairs to the music lab, stated my business and was received with a host of questions. “Is it for a class?” Smile. “No sir.” “I need your ID.” Oh! We check it out here, do we? Smile. “Um…actually, a friend is checking it out for me.” Interject another intelligent question. “Can you hold it for me until he gets here?” Soon Nick arrived, hunkering under his parka like a soggy leprechaun, and I presented both his person and his ID and received a green slip, a white slip and a DVD in return. “Thank you,” with another smile before we made our way downstairs and out the door. That’s when the alarm went off. Somewhere I forgot to ask the intelligent question, “Is that all we have to do?” The answer would have been negative. The green slip was meant for the folks at the front desk. Somehow I muddled my way through the intricate system of checking out a DVD at the college library and survived with movie in tow. I should feel accomplished. At least I smiled.
My parking escapade proved better results. Walk into the campus police office. Smile. Pretend I know what I’m talking about. “Can I get a temporary parking permit?” The officer and the lady at the desk exchanged glances. “Honey,” said the robust lady, “It’s raining today. I can’t give you a permit. Don’t tell anyone, but the computers don’t work when it rains.” My eyebrows conferred together in confusion. “So…um?” We won’t try to pass that off as an intelligent question. The officer chimed in. “Just park wherever you want, darlin’. Ain’t nobody gonna do anything about it today.” That’s a statement even I could understand and I left the office grinning from ear to ear and found a spot by the cafeteria, in the center of campus. Perhaps it will rain more often.
I’ve nearly decided to petition the BCM to install gender signs on the bathroom doors. Emily’s directions of “all the way back to the left” sent me walking into the men’s bathroom. And back out with as much speed as I could muster. By the time I dropped Zach and Emily back off at campus after lunch at the BCM, the weatherman had convinced the sun to peek out from behind his hidey-hole of clouds.
Amber and I tripped out of the apartment for a walk in the warming sunshine and snagged flowers off of a budding tree as we passed, recalling the days of “He loves me, he loves me not.” It’s nice to be reminded that I’ve grown-up at least a little. All afternoon my strength ebbed like the tide. “I’d better go,” I said, an hour earlier than usual, “I’ve got some things to do yet.” “Things” meant a bench at the head of Bona Dea, reading the Psalms for the day. How perfect they were! In spite of laughter, of fun, of joy, I’d been lost in a cloud of confusion, unable to be alone and sort out my thoughts. “Lord, Thou hast searched me and known me, Thou dost understand my thoughts from afar. Search me, O God, and know my heart, try me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there be any wicked way in me and lead me in the everlasting way.” Quiet. At last. Knowing that God understands what even I can’t fathom. Unafraid of His gentle searching, His loving scrutiny, I poured out my heart to Him and then left the empty shell in His hands, to be refilled.
Lord, Thou art my very essence--
To live is to be in Thy presence.
I lay aside all that’s confused
And sit down at Thy feet to muse.
The Lover that I seek is Thee,
Because Thou sought and first loved me.
The only truth that I possess
Is Thou, my King of Righteousness.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Amber told me I’m hyper. Hyper for me or hyper for Amber or just hyper in general? Hyper because I called her talking in a weird voice, and when she knew who it was, offered to hang up and try again? Hyper because I followed every comment she made with some wise crack? Hyper because I gave her an elaborate description of my day, complete with endless details on the glories of budgeting? “Together Mom and I labored over the reconciliation.” She misunderstood me. “Reconciliation? Wait. Did you and your mom fight? I don’t believe it.”
So much for the valley. Instead the Lord has been leading me alongside a rim, close enough that sometimes my feet dislodge a pebble and send it clattering to the floor far below, but He has my hand and I am safe on high. I feel as if I’ve been walking on air, gazing down into the valley, but never falling, gazing up into His face and seeing His love spelled out there in great tenderness. Every fear that rises in my heart, every worry or doubt that springs up is melted by His goodness. Each time I think I’ve lost His hold and might tumble, I’ve called His name and He’s been there, upholding me with His righteous right hand.
I finished Numbers. (“Can you count now?” Amber demanded, in her best Abigail imitation.) As He sent them into the promised land under the leadership of Moses’ prodigy, Joshua, God warned His people that if they failed to completely destroy the wicked nations living in the land and wipe out their heathen religions, He would have to rain down their punishment on the Israelites. I see that in our homes and our churches—if we embrace the idols of the world, we are likely to bear their shame and consequences with them. “Come out and be separate,” says Yahweh. “Touch no unclean thing.”
When Israel conquered a foreign kingdom, Yahweh told them how to redeem the plunder. “Pass everything that can stand fire through fire, then purify it with water, and whatever cannot stand fire, pass through the water, and it shall be purified.” Later, Yahweh spoke through the prophet Isaiah, using the same beautiful symbolism to describe how He would buy back His people from captivity. “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you, I have called you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you. For I am Yahweh, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” To me, the words ring out with hope—I have been redeemed from the world, bought by the Savior and made holy through His precious blood. When He leads through testing or trials—fire and water—He will be with me, as He leads me in the path to purification. I will never be overwhelmed. Only cleansed. Made holy. Like Yahweh.
Lord, when fiery ways I trod,
Beside me, Thou, the Son of God,
The fiery furnace Thou wilt bear
And always show me Thou art there.
And when my way lies through the water,
Thou reminds this frightened daughter,
Once Thou parted such a sea
And safely o’er Thou’ll carry me.
So much for the valley. Instead the Lord has been leading me alongside a rim, close enough that sometimes my feet dislodge a pebble and send it clattering to the floor far below, but He has my hand and I am safe on high. I feel as if I’ve been walking on air, gazing down into the valley, but never falling, gazing up into His face and seeing His love spelled out there in great tenderness. Every fear that rises in my heart, every worry or doubt that springs up is melted by His goodness. Each time I think I’ve lost His hold and might tumble, I’ve called His name and He’s been there, upholding me with His righteous right hand.
I finished Numbers. (“Can you count now?” Amber demanded, in her best Abigail imitation.) As He sent them into the promised land under the leadership of Moses’ prodigy, Joshua, God warned His people that if they failed to completely destroy the wicked nations living in the land and wipe out their heathen religions, He would have to rain down their punishment on the Israelites. I see that in our homes and our churches—if we embrace the idols of the world, we are likely to bear their shame and consequences with them. “Come out and be separate,” says Yahweh. “Touch no unclean thing.”
When Israel conquered a foreign kingdom, Yahweh told them how to redeem the plunder. “Pass everything that can stand fire through fire, then purify it with water, and whatever cannot stand fire, pass through the water, and it shall be purified.” Later, Yahweh spoke through the prophet Isaiah, using the same beautiful symbolism to describe how He would buy back His people from captivity. “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you, I have called you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you. For I am Yahweh, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” To me, the words ring out with hope—I have been redeemed from the world, bought by the Savior and made holy through His precious blood. When He leads through testing or trials—fire and water—He will be with me, as He leads me in the path to purification. I will never be overwhelmed. Only cleansed. Made holy. Like Yahweh.
Lord, when fiery ways I trod,
Beside me, Thou, the Son of God,
The fiery furnace Thou wilt bear
And always show me Thou art there.
And when my way lies through the water,
Thou reminds this frightened daughter,
Once Thou parted such a sea
And safely o’er Thou’ll carry me.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
“It must be Wednesday,” Jacinderella always sings when she sees my number on her phone. Muffins comprised my special delivery for her today, much to her amusement. Muffins from Josiah. I’d promised Emily I would wait and eat with her and Jacinderella, devoid of class for the day, lingered with us. She refused to believe my pudding was more than edible. “Whenever anyone says something in the Caf is good, I’m always spectacle.” Too much Spanish has mixed up her English vocabulary. I’ve yet to see Jacinderella make much of a spectacle—unless we’re counting that one. Roving over campus in the tingling sunshine, after lunch, sent us all into waves of nostalgia, remembering how different it was last year in the Spring when I assumed I’d never be back. Now Jacinda’s the one leaving. In two months.
Amber’s house turned out to be a hubbub of activity. When I arrived, the maintenance men were putting in a new outlet. Or trying to. My mind raced back to all the outlets I’d wired in, under Tabitha’s careful supervision, trying to remember which wire matched with each connection. Hopeless, I’m afraid. When an older preacher-man and his wife arrived, I was embarrassed to suddenly become the center of attention when Amber began explaining why I carry such a huge purse. I suppose refusing to be without my Bible, headcovering or knife marks me as peculiar, as does not dating, homeschooling and meeting at home, which she added as a bonus. But gracious Dave had no intention of challenging or disdaining and turned out to be an encouraging man of God. I dragged Amber outside to the picnic table to read and pray. John eleven—in which Jesus loved Martha, Mary and Lazarus so much that He stayed away instead of coming and healing Lazarus. Why? Because He wanted to reveal to them the glory of God—if they believed. When God seems to tarry in His actions, perhaps it is for a similar purpose—out of love He would reveal to me the glory of God, if I believe.
“Now the man Moses was very humble, more humble than any man who was on the face of the earth.” I think I just lost my identifying connection with Moses. It was this humility that prompted him to say, completely devoid of jealousy, “Would that all Yahweh’s people were prophets that Yahweh would put His Spirit upon them!” The same humility prevented him from offering resistance when his brother and sister complained that God had also spoken through them—what was so special about him? In his silence, God defended him. “Prophets,” Yahweh said, “I speak to them in dreams and visions. My servant Moses, I speak with mouth to mouth.” Forgiving and merciful, Moses pleaded with Yahweh to heal Miriam’s leprosy and reminded the Lord that wiping out the nation of Israel would bring a reproach on His Holy name. Moses thought not of himself—but only of Yahweh. It was all about God.
Lord, when I feel lost and dazed,
Remind me it is Thou Who saves.
When my quill falls from my hand
'Tis Thou who fillest my inkstand.
When I want to run and hide
Remind me of Thy power inside.
Remind me Thou art ever near:
Thy perfect love casts out my fear.
Amber’s house turned out to be a hubbub of activity. When I arrived, the maintenance men were putting in a new outlet. Or trying to. My mind raced back to all the outlets I’d wired in, under Tabitha’s careful supervision, trying to remember which wire matched with each connection. Hopeless, I’m afraid. When an older preacher-man and his wife arrived, I was embarrassed to suddenly become the center of attention when Amber began explaining why I carry such a huge purse. I suppose refusing to be without my Bible, headcovering or knife marks me as peculiar, as does not dating, homeschooling and meeting at home, which she added as a bonus. But gracious Dave had no intention of challenging or disdaining and turned out to be an encouraging man of God. I dragged Amber outside to the picnic table to read and pray. John eleven—in which Jesus loved Martha, Mary and Lazarus so much that He stayed away instead of coming and healing Lazarus. Why? Because He wanted to reveal to them the glory of God—if they believed. When God seems to tarry in His actions, perhaps it is for a similar purpose—out of love He would reveal to me the glory of God, if I believe.
“Now the man Moses was very humble, more humble than any man who was on the face of the earth.” I think I just lost my identifying connection with Moses. It was this humility that prompted him to say, completely devoid of jealousy, “Would that all Yahweh’s people were prophets that Yahweh would put His Spirit upon them!” The same humility prevented him from offering resistance when his brother and sister complained that God had also spoken through them—what was so special about him? In his silence, God defended him. “Prophets,” Yahweh said, “I speak to them in dreams and visions. My servant Moses, I speak with mouth to mouth.” Forgiving and merciful, Moses pleaded with Yahweh to heal Miriam’s leprosy and reminded the Lord that wiping out the nation of Israel would bring a reproach on His Holy name. Moses thought not of himself—but only of Yahweh. It was all about God.
Lord, when I feel lost and dazed,
Remind me it is Thou Who saves.
When my quill falls from my hand
'Tis Thou who fillest my inkstand.
When I want to run and hide
Remind me of Thy power inside.
Remind me Thou art ever near:
Thy perfect love casts out my fear.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Walking through the dining room just before six this morning on my way to fix breakfast, I stopped in my tracks and stared outside at a layer of snow. Not a measly Arkansas powdered sugar dusting, either, but a serious birthday cake layer of pure, white, cold, wet snow. Eleven inches, the news channels all insisted, though I don’t believe I saw more than half that amount. With a little friendly persuasion from Zach, we all abandoned our regular activities to tromp through this winter wonderland in search of Narnia or the North Pole. Josiah and I got the bright idea to deck ourselves in summer outfits and discard our shoes for a “white” themed picture. By the time we made the mad dash back to the house, I couldn’t even feel my toes, but a few minutes inside soon left them burning with the heat of returning circulation.
Mom delivered the phone to me and I mouthed, “Who is it?” She shrugged. “Maybe a Japanese girl?” Quickly I greeted the caller. A familiar voice, but I couldn’t quite seem to place it. Finally I said, “I have no clue who you are,” and she alleviated my confusion with her name: Sarahlita. That certainly put a different spin on matters and soon we were chatting away again like the childhood bosom companions that we are. Funny how it is: no matter how long we’ve been apart, we always come back together able to pick up where we left off and always finding that the Lord is teaching us the same things. Even though she’s married now with a six-month-old son. As we talked, she kept probing, “So…nothing else you need to tell me?...Anything else big going on?...What exciting things are happening with you?...Anything specific you need prayer for?” and finally wrapping up with, “Well, if anything important does happen, do call me, or e-mail—or even if there’s something important you need me to pray about.” I enjoyed a giggling spell after we hung up without even a hint of guilt. There’s honestly nothing to tell.
“Tonight is going to be fun,” Lydia informed me, as she tucked her Bible onto her bookshelf. I raised my eyebrows. “What’s happening tonight?” She grinned. “I just finished John chapter two and I have tons of questions for you!”
At the supper table, I nudged her and whisper-asked if she was ready to tell Mom and Papa. She reached under the table and held my hand so tightly that my ring left indents on the insides of my fingers before she finally nodded. We launched out together on the story and watched our parent’s delighted faces. When Josiah came in a few minutes later, Lydia had to go through the retelling—by herself this time. The rest of the evening we all gushed, she called Nathaniel and Lauren, both grandmas and Josh Potts (since his testimony Sunday had driven her to want salvation for sure). Then the family met outside while Papa baptized her in the hot tub. I must admit, a hot tub does make the perfect baptismal on a snowy evening.
Every single day seems to get sweeter and better, and I know the Lord’s lovingkindnesses are new every day, for His compassions never cease. But I’m bracing myself—every mountaintop overlooks a valley. Soon I will have to make the treacherous descent. I find myself clinging to every single second, each one seeming a precious blessing, especially those with my family. I want to have each moment treasured in my heart for the day when a sword may pierce my soul. I want to cling to what God is doing now for the day when darkness and discouragement become too friendly, or when change looms up as a frightening obstacle.
I want to store up the seven fat years for the years of famine that are as sure to come as the spring rain.
Lord, Thy blessings always prove
The vast unmeasured of Thy love,
But teach my heart to yet discern
The mountain world-view I should learn.
For though some days are filled with pleasure,
Thou alone are my true treasure.
Happenstance may turn appalling
Still Thou art Love—my Love--enthralling.
Mom delivered the phone to me and I mouthed, “Who is it?” She shrugged. “Maybe a Japanese girl?” Quickly I greeted the caller. A familiar voice, but I couldn’t quite seem to place it. Finally I said, “I have no clue who you are,” and she alleviated my confusion with her name: Sarahlita. That certainly put a different spin on matters and soon we were chatting away again like the childhood bosom companions that we are. Funny how it is: no matter how long we’ve been apart, we always come back together able to pick up where we left off and always finding that the Lord is teaching us the same things. Even though she’s married now with a six-month-old son. As we talked, she kept probing, “So…nothing else you need to tell me?...Anything else big going on?...What exciting things are happening with you?...Anything specific you need prayer for?” and finally wrapping up with, “Well, if anything important does happen, do call me, or e-mail—or even if there’s something important you need me to pray about.” I enjoyed a giggling spell after we hung up without even a hint of guilt. There’s honestly nothing to tell.
“Tonight is going to be fun,” Lydia informed me, as she tucked her Bible onto her bookshelf. I raised my eyebrows. “What’s happening tonight?” She grinned. “I just finished John chapter two and I have tons of questions for you!”
At the supper table, I nudged her and whisper-asked if she was ready to tell Mom and Papa. She reached under the table and held my hand so tightly that my ring left indents on the insides of my fingers before she finally nodded. We launched out together on the story and watched our parent’s delighted faces. When Josiah came in a few minutes later, Lydia had to go through the retelling—by herself this time. The rest of the evening we all gushed, she called Nathaniel and Lauren, both grandmas and Josh Potts (since his testimony Sunday had driven her to want salvation for sure). Then the family met outside while Papa baptized her in the hot tub. I must admit, a hot tub does make the perfect baptismal on a snowy evening.
Every single day seems to get sweeter and better, and I know the Lord’s lovingkindnesses are new every day, for His compassions never cease. But I’m bracing myself—every mountaintop overlooks a valley. Soon I will have to make the treacherous descent. I find myself clinging to every single second, each one seeming a precious blessing, especially those with my family. I want to have each moment treasured in my heart for the day when a sword may pierce my soul. I want to cling to what God is doing now for the day when darkness and discouragement become too friendly, or when change looms up as a frightening obstacle.
I want to store up the seven fat years for the years of famine that are as sure to come as the spring rain.
Lord, Thy blessings always prove
The vast unmeasured of Thy love,
But teach my heart to yet discern
The mountain world-view I should learn.
For though some days are filled with pleasure,
Thou alone are my true treasure.
Happenstance may turn appalling
Still Thou art Love—my Love--enthralling.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Every day He outdoes Himself. I can’t even imagine what tomorrow might hold.
When I sat down to write, it seemed as if it had been a rough day—nearly heartbreaking. Overwhelmed with to-dos and a noisy household, I found myself abbreviating my time with the Lord. Then I dove right into all the hard e-mails I’d needed to write for the last several weeks. Tough love, some call it. Isn’t all love tough? I’d barely finished when the mail produced a wedding invitation—from a friend to whom I’d already written explaining why I couldn’t support her marriage. I staggered, recoiling from this slap in the face. Then the Lord began to lift me back up, starting with a phone call to Amber, who proved very encouraging.
I’d just begun to reminisce on the day when Lydia emerged from the shower, steamed and cleaned and I looked up. “Don’t look at me like that,” she giggled. “It feels like you can look right through me.” Playing back, I began to explain how I could see through her to the wall beyond. “I meant that sometimes I think you can see right into my heart,” she said, softly.
Silence. “What is in there that I might see?”
“A lot of things.”
“Good or bad?.”
She turned her face away from me. “Some of both.”
“Is Jesus in there?” I asked, the Lord reminding me how I’d been wanting to talk to her for a while, to probe her spiritually.
She hesitated. “Um, yes.” Then she sat down at the foot of the bed. I began to question her about the gospel, salvation and herself. Jesus died on a cross for her sins, she told me. “Because I am wicked and unworthy.” How did that help her? It should have been her, she affirmed. “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved,” she quoted the verse, with a little prompting and John three sixteen followed. Then we both grew quiet.
“Go over to her,” the Holy Spirit whispered to my spirit, and for one of the few times in my entire life of mistakes, I obeyed. I slithered down onto the floor beside her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. Immediately she buried her head in my lap. Amid muffled sobs she whispered, “Abigail, I don’t think I’m saved, but I don’t know how to be. I’ve been wanting to ask you about this for a long time, but I was too afraid.”
How do you tell your precious little sister how to believe?
Slowly, feeling lost and dazed, I went back over the gospel with her. She was broken over her sinfulness—I didn’t even need to convict. “I’ve done so many bad things,” she admitted, easily.
“The Bible says you must believe that Jesus is the Son of God and that He died in your place so you could be with Him forever. Is that something you want to do?”
Still hiding in my lap, she answered “yes.”
Where could I go from there? She held the key. She stood before the gate. Helplessly, I began to pray that the Lord would open her heart. I poured out to Him how she was standing at His gate, pleading admittance. “Please reach down Your hand and open the way to her.” I only remember those words, because when I finished, she lifted her head and whispered, “When you said those words, ‘Reach down Your hand and open the way,’ He did. I know He did it.”
We sat still again for a while. “Do you want to thank Him?” I prompted and she nodded her head. What made her seem so small and fragile, helpless and weak?
Then she began to pray. “Dear Lord, thank You for being good. Thank You for sending Jesus to die. Thank you for all the people You’ve saved—especially me. I love you.” She looked up at me through her tears. “Why are you crying?”
I snorted. “Because I’m happy.”
We sat quietly for a while before she asked, all in a rush. “What should I read?”
Eleven years she’s lived in a home, inundated by the Word, but suddenly she wants to know it herself. I could read hunger in her eyes as I answered, “John. About Jesus. Want me to read it with you?”
“Please,” she answered. “I started reading it the other day and am a couple of chapters in. But I’d like to start over.”
So we made a date. Eight fifteen every night, we’ll read together and she can ask all the questions she wants. She’s full of them. Eight fifteen because she said, “I want it in my head so I can sleep over it all night.” All evening her hands were shaking and she seemed nervous until we vanished into our room to read and pray. So fragile. Trembling. Eager. Like a newborn baby.
Once upon a time, when I was younger than she is now, I prayed for a baby sister, and the Lord heard my prayer and was pleased to answer—far above all that I could ask or think.
Lord, I come before Thy altar,
Words, aloud and thought, both falter.
Once I asked, and Thou once gave,
Now I begged that Thou wouldst save.
And Lord, I trust Thou wilt complete.
I linger at Thy mercy seat,
To offer worship, prayer and praise
To Thee, Thou Ancient One of Days.
When I sat down to write, it seemed as if it had been a rough day—nearly heartbreaking. Overwhelmed with to-dos and a noisy household, I found myself abbreviating my time with the Lord. Then I dove right into all the hard e-mails I’d needed to write for the last several weeks. Tough love, some call it. Isn’t all love tough? I’d barely finished when the mail produced a wedding invitation—from a friend to whom I’d already written explaining why I couldn’t support her marriage. I staggered, recoiling from this slap in the face. Then the Lord began to lift me back up, starting with a phone call to Amber, who proved very encouraging.
I’d just begun to reminisce on the day when Lydia emerged from the shower, steamed and cleaned and I looked up. “Don’t look at me like that,” she giggled. “It feels like you can look right through me.” Playing back, I began to explain how I could see through her to the wall beyond. “I meant that sometimes I think you can see right into my heart,” she said, softly.
Silence. “What is in there that I might see?”
“A lot of things.”
“Good or bad?.”
She turned her face away from me. “Some of both.”
“Is Jesus in there?” I asked, the Lord reminding me how I’d been wanting to talk to her for a while, to probe her spiritually.
She hesitated. “Um, yes.” Then she sat down at the foot of the bed. I began to question her about the gospel, salvation and herself. Jesus died on a cross for her sins, she told me. “Because I am wicked and unworthy.” How did that help her? It should have been her, she affirmed. “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved,” she quoted the verse, with a little prompting and John three sixteen followed. Then we both grew quiet.
“Go over to her,” the Holy Spirit whispered to my spirit, and for one of the few times in my entire life of mistakes, I obeyed. I slithered down onto the floor beside her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. Immediately she buried her head in my lap. Amid muffled sobs she whispered, “Abigail, I don’t think I’m saved, but I don’t know how to be. I’ve been wanting to ask you about this for a long time, but I was too afraid.”
How do you tell your precious little sister how to believe?
Slowly, feeling lost and dazed, I went back over the gospel with her. She was broken over her sinfulness—I didn’t even need to convict. “I’ve done so many bad things,” she admitted, easily.
“The Bible says you must believe that Jesus is the Son of God and that He died in your place so you could be with Him forever. Is that something you want to do?”
Still hiding in my lap, she answered “yes.”
Where could I go from there? She held the key. She stood before the gate. Helplessly, I began to pray that the Lord would open her heart. I poured out to Him how she was standing at His gate, pleading admittance. “Please reach down Your hand and open the way to her.” I only remember those words, because when I finished, she lifted her head and whispered, “When you said those words, ‘Reach down Your hand and open the way,’ He did. I know He did it.”
We sat still again for a while. “Do you want to thank Him?” I prompted and she nodded her head. What made her seem so small and fragile, helpless and weak?
Then she began to pray. “Dear Lord, thank You for being good. Thank You for sending Jesus to die. Thank you for all the people You’ve saved—especially me. I love you.” She looked up at me through her tears. “Why are you crying?”
I snorted. “Because I’m happy.”
We sat quietly for a while before she asked, all in a rush. “What should I read?”
Eleven years she’s lived in a home, inundated by the Word, but suddenly she wants to know it herself. I could read hunger in her eyes as I answered, “John. About Jesus. Want me to read it with you?”
“Please,” she answered. “I started reading it the other day and am a couple of chapters in. But I’d like to start over.”
So we made a date. Eight fifteen every night, we’ll read together and she can ask all the questions she wants. She’s full of them. Eight fifteen because she said, “I want it in my head so I can sleep over it all night.” All evening her hands were shaking and she seemed nervous until we vanished into our room to read and pray. So fragile. Trembling. Eager. Like a newborn baby.
Once upon a time, when I was younger than she is now, I prayed for a baby sister, and the Lord heard my prayer and was pleased to answer—far above all that I could ask or think.
Lord, I come before Thy altar,
Words, aloud and thought, both falter.
Once I asked, and Thou once gave,
Now I begged that Thou wouldst save.
And Lord, I trust Thou wilt complete.
I linger at Thy mercy seat,
To offer worship, prayer and praise
To Thee, Thou Ancient One of Days.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Josiah is acting insanely goofy and, get this, blaming it on me. As if I could ever make anyone goofy. Besides, I’ve been gone all day. That’s right, the whole entire day. First, I had an important consultation with a BeautiControl agent, and she helped me define a hopeful path for controlling my beauty. It’s getting rather out of hand. (Beauty a.k.a. acne.) I also finally activated my debit card, after three months, and made the largest purchase yet this year: eleven whole dollars on eleven whole yards of fabric to finish my bedroom décor. And five young ladies managed to turn into veritable messes in an effort to wish Jacinderella and Lauryn happy birthdays. Those are all accomplishments, no doubt, but the greatest of all was attacking Amber’s room with her and making some headway in the clean-up process: we managed to hang stuffed animal nets, and stuff them with animals, as well as put together and make her bed. Painfully slow, it seems, at time, but I’m reminded “not to grow weary in well-doing, for in due season we will reap, if we don’t lose heart.” The Lord’s lovingkindness was overwhelming today, through every minute, every tiny detail, every single, small thing, reminding me He is a God of small things and not just of big deals. Reminding me to be faithful in the small things and trust Him to work. Reminding me that books are written in chapters, chapters in pages, pages in sentences, sentences in words and even the most perfect words are spelled out in the same, simple letters.
During a ten minute gap between errands, I pulled into a sunny byroad to read over the set of Psalms for the day and found a gem worth stowing away. “Yahweh favors those who fear Him, Those who wait for His lovingkindness.” Gabriel greeted Mary as a favored one and Daniel as a man of high esteem and Job was one in whom God boasted. Here was their secret: they feared God and waited for His lovingkindness. What a beautiful promise at a time when it seems like I’m forever waiting…and waiting…and waiting on the Lord.
Just as I’d finished writing, Mom shared that Audrey called today—specifically asking two things: if I’d teach a creative writing class for the homeschool group next fall and if I’d pray about discipling a fourteen-year-old girl she knows. Okay, Lord. Now what do You have in mind?
Lord, I seek for things so great,
But Thou gives small things while I wait
Reminding me that small things must
Be used to teach my heart to trust.
Lord, I want to see the whole,
Thy goal, Thy will, Thy plan in full.
Thou reminds my faltering heart:
Thy word was writ in little parts.
During a ten minute gap between errands, I pulled into a sunny byroad to read over the set of Psalms for the day and found a gem worth stowing away. “Yahweh favors those who fear Him, Those who wait for His lovingkindness.” Gabriel greeted Mary as a favored one and Daniel as a man of high esteem and Job was one in whom God boasted. Here was their secret: they feared God and waited for His lovingkindness. What a beautiful promise at a time when it seems like I’m forever waiting…and waiting…and waiting on the Lord.
Just as I’d finished writing, Mom shared that Audrey called today—specifically asking two things: if I’d teach a creative writing class for the homeschool group next fall and if I’d pray about discipling a fourteen-year-old girl she knows. Okay, Lord. Now what do You have in mind?
Lord, I seek for things so great,
But Thou gives small things while I wait
Reminding me that small things must
Be used to teach my heart to trust.
Lord, I want to see the whole,
Thy goal, Thy will, Thy plan in full.
Thou reminds my faltering heart:
Thy word was writ in little parts.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
I’ve discovered the best way to get through Lowe’s in a timely manner. The only way, probably. I call this new game plan: Find Zach. I picked up Miss Emily for a companion in running Mom’s errands. Arrived at Lowe’s we were greeted by none other than Welchy himself, who made sure we found the person we needed, the caulking we needed and even opened another register just to check us out. “Young lady, I need to see your ID,” he quipped as I slid Mom’s debit card. “Are you Lane or Marcia?”
The Lord’s lovingkindness was new and overwhelming today. It would seem strange and unbelievable that always, when I come to the end of my rope and cry out to Him, He answers--almost immediately—if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been told to expect that. Jacinda and I were conversing as I pulled up to Amber’s. “I’ve been praying for you,” she told me. “Really? Thanks! Mind praying a bit more? I’m here.” After knocking, I made a characteristic dash behind the stairwell. It’s tradition now, that I knock and then hide. Amber would be disappointed if she ever opened the door and found me standing there like any normal person. By the time I left the house I was floating and clouds of puffy whiteness and strumming a harp while singing God's praises. At lunch Jacinda asked me how it went. “Great!” was my fervent response. A grin broke out across her face. “I was praying for you,” she said. “First I was praying that God would just let you get through it, and that it didn’t have to be the best time ever, but just better than last week. Then I stopped myself. What was I thinking? I started praying that He would be present and that it would be an amazing time of encouragement. I figured I ought to pray for what I really hoped.” Lauryn and April joined us for lunch, and I found myself reveling at last in some “girl time”.
“You probably don’t remember us,” Jim and Gloria made excuses for me, after arriving at our house tonight. We knew them from the days of my infancy—the Gospel Chapel in Hutchinson, Kansas. “Yes, I do,” I defended myself, and began describing to them the breathing treatments they’d give Rachel, James’ piano playing, their dog Muffin and the house they lived in, right down to the wood flooring in the upstairs where we played hide-and-seek. I easily grasp and recall images—faces, moments in time, outfits, scenes—like snapshots in an interminable mental album. Oh, but those little tasks my Papa gives me slip through the cracks and fall neglected in my memory.
As a final touch to the day, Nathaniel called to chat with me on his way home from Kansas. A chat is defined as a two-hour conversation on every topic in the books—with a definite focus on recording and music. Soon I was caught up in pleasant memories of the days before his marriage, even the night before he arrived in Texas when I talked to him until the wee hours of the morning to keep him awake as he drove, having sent his sickly bride on to bed. Sometimes six months feels as if it were six years. And sometimes I get overwhelmed with sentimentality. Sometimes being defined as very occasionally.
If I were a truly talented writer, I’d be able to sum the whole day up in one word. As a talented-writer-wannabe, I’ll make an attempt: encouraging. Uplifting. Amazing! That was three. I guess I’ll never be a truly talented writer. But I’m something better. I’m alive with the joy of the Lord.
Lord, I often hesitate
To batter down Thy temple gate
With praise and worship for Thy deeds,
Yet this is what my spirit needs.
Today, I’ll take Thy court by storm,
And magnify Thy perfect form
Thy mighty works, Thy priceless words.
Today Thy praises will be heard!
The Lord’s lovingkindness was new and overwhelming today. It would seem strange and unbelievable that always, when I come to the end of my rope and cry out to Him, He answers--almost immediately—if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been told to expect that. Jacinda and I were conversing as I pulled up to Amber’s. “I’ve been praying for you,” she told me. “Really? Thanks! Mind praying a bit more? I’m here.” After knocking, I made a characteristic dash behind the stairwell. It’s tradition now, that I knock and then hide. Amber would be disappointed if she ever opened the door and found me standing there like any normal person. By the time I left the house I was floating and clouds of puffy whiteness and strumming a harp while singing God's praises. At lunch Jacinda asked me how it went. “Great!” was my fervent response. A grin broke out across her face. “I was praying for you,” she said. “First I was praying that God would just let you get through it, and that it didn’t have to be the best time ever, but just better than last week. Then I stopped myself. What was I thinking? I started praying that He would be present and that it would be an amazing time of encouragement. I figured I ought to pray for what I really hoped.” Lauryn and April joined us for lunch, and I found myself reveling at last in some “girl time”.
“You probably don’t remember us,” Jim and Gloria made excuses for me, after arriving at our house tonight. We knew them from the days of my infancy—the Gospel Chapel in Hutchinson, Kansas. “Yes, I do,” I defended myself, and began describing to them the breathing treatments they’d give Rachel, James’ piano playing, their dog Muffin and the house they lived in, right down to the wood flooring in the upstairs where we played hide-and-seek. I easily grasp and recall images—faces, moments in time, outfits, scenes—like snapshots in an interminable mental album. Oh, but those little tasks my Papa gives me slip through the cracks and fall neglected in my memory.
As a final touch to the day, Nathaniel called to chat with me on his way home from Kansas. A chat is defined as a two-hour conversation on every topic in the books—with a definite focus on recording and music. Soon I was caught up in pleasant memories of the days before his marriage, even the night before he arrived in Texas when I talked to him until the wee hours of the morning to keep him awake as he drove, having sent his sickly bride on to bed. Sometimes six months feels as if it were six years. And sometimes I get overwhelmed with sentimentality. Sometimes being defined as very occasionally.
If I were a truly talented writer, I’d be able to sum the whole day up in one word. As a talented-writer-wannabe, I’ll make an attempt: encouraging. Uplifting. Amazing! That was three. I guess I’ll never be a truly talented writer. But I’m something better. I’m alive with the joy of the Lord.
Lord, I often hesitate
To batter down Thy temple gate
With praise and worship for Thy deeds,
Yet this is what my spirit needs.
Today, I’ll take Thy court by storm,
And magnify Thy perfect form
Thy mighty works, Thy priceless words.
Today Thy praises will be heard!
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Discussion around the supper table turned to matters of behavior. “You can dress a chimpanzee in a three piece suit,” Papa adamantly insisted, “But it won’t make a gentleman out of him.” I held my face straight for as long as possible—approximately two minutes before my breath wheezed out in a sort of giggle snort. Thankfully, Mom and Josiah had done the same. Mastering our giggles, we continued listening intently for another couple of minutes before the humorous mental images overtook us a second time, resulting in a second round of laughter. “Are you getting a picture of that?” Papa asked, a distant twinkle in his eye. “The worst part is,” I said, “That it keeps popping up—in different ways!” We all melted into laughter, each of us imagining a hairy chimp sporting a three piece suit and waltzing about pretending to be a gentleman. Perhaps it was one of those things you had to be their to appreciate.
I rode into RussVegas with Papa today for a very important occasion. The poor, beat-up Tempo is finally being replaced with a suave ’98 Toyota Camry. To copy the words of the oh-so-important voicemail I left Lauryn: It drives beautifully, but it sure stinks. Probably the previous owner was a smoker and somehow we managed to forget the smell-tests while test driving it.
Several interesting “nevers” to note: First, I’ve never been on campus a single day that I didn’t see Zach. This morning, walking from the parking lot behind the library to Summit and back again I managed to run into him. Second, I’ve never gone into the library without passing Taylor on his way out. He must spend his days going in an out of Ross Pendergraft’s special building. Third, I’ve never received a parking ticket, although I’ve never successfully located any visitor parking and simply park in one of the large parking lots regardless. Fourth, I’ve never called for an escort in Summit, always managing to tag a resident in and ride the elevator up to the fifth floor where I waltz into the Sweetest Suite. This morning I arrived early enough to catch the girls in their PJs and took a mental walk down memory lane, chatting with them as they got dressed and each headed out to class.
Amber begged to take me to lunch at Whattaburger. Just hearing that name sends my mind scurrying through an interesting host of memories. Amber’s not been very faithful to finish the Bible study notes I gave her, and I’ve not been very faithful to check up on her. She asked if we not continue them now that school’s started, “so that I won’t feel pressured to do it.” I’m really struggling. I know I really need to lay it out straight for her and talk to her about how vital it is that she be in the word daily. We’ve talked about it, and she knows it. I’m just so tired. So worn-out. So faithless when it comes to keeping her accountable. But I love her and I want to see her walking with the Lord. She’s just got so far to go—even the basics seem to elude her—and I simply don’t know how to get her from point A to point B. How do I make someone read God’s word? After lunch I took her to class and when I came back out of the library to leave campus several hours later I found a sweet note from her. I decided to drop by to see Dr. Roberts, the history professor whose class I so cheerfully disrupted a year ago with Lauren. He was gone to lunch, but I left a sticky note, signed “Girl”. “Do you think he’ll remember you?” Amber demanded. “By name?” I just grinned. “He’ll know.” She read my note over my shoulder. “Girl?! How in the world is he supposed to know who that is?” “He’ll know,” I said again.
Moving on to things of more eternal benefit. Along with behavior, we were discussing “a gentle and quiet spirit” and all the ins and outs of being gentle and quiet—whether it means lowering the decibals, making a habit of mumbling or simply rolling over and playing dead. What adorns a godly woman? Perhaps the secret is in the Holy Spirit and His fruit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness and self-control. It is the characteristics that will make me beautiful before men and God long after my youth and health have faded. When I am old and weathered, the lines creasing my forehead, crinkling me eyes and hugging my mouth should not be lines of worry, wastefulness, anger or despondency.
Lord, teach me to be beautiful
In Thy Spirit, heart and soul
For Thou can set the plainest face
Aglow with Thy own saving grace.
May my face a mirror be
Of Thou, my glorious deity
That Thou might look on me, perfected
Because Thou sees Thyself reflected.
I rode into RussVegas with Papa today for a very important occasion. The poor, beat-up Tempo is finally being replaced with a suave ’98 Toyota Camry. To copy the words of the oh-so-important voicemail I left Lauryn: It drives beautifully, but it sure stinks. Probably the previous owner was a smoker and somehow we managed to forget the smell-tests while test driving it.
Several interesting “nevers” to note: First, I’ve never been on campus a single day that I didn’t see Zach. This morning, walking from the parking lot behind the library to Summit and back again I managed to run into him. Second, I’ve never gone into the library without passing Taylor on his way out. He must spend his days going in an out of Ross Pendergraft’s special building. Third, I’ve never received a parking ticket, although I’ve never successfully located any visitor parking and simply park in one of the large parking lots regardless. Fourth, I’ve never called for an escort in Summit, always managing to tag a resident in and ride the elevator up to the fifth floor where I waltz into the Sweetest Suite. This morning I arrived early enough to catch the girls in their PJs and took a mental walk down memory lane, chatting with them as they got dressed and each headed out to class.
Amber begged to take me to lunch at Whattaburger. Just hearing that name sends my mind scurrying through an interesting host of memories. Amber’s not been very faithful to finish the Bible study notes I gave her, and I’ve not been very faithful to check up on her. She asked if we not continue them now that school’s started, “so that I won’t feel pressured to do it.” I’m really struggling. I know I really need to lay it out straight for her and talk to her about how vital it is that she be in the word daily. We’ve talked about it, and she knows it. I’m just so tired. So worn-out. So faithless when it comes to keeping her accountable. But I love her and I want to see her walking with the Lord. She’s just got so far to go—even the basics seem to elude her—and I simply don’t know how to get her from point A to point B. How do I make someone read God’s word? After lunch I took her to class and when I came back out of the library to leave campus several hours later I found a sweet note from her. I decided to drop by to see Dr. Roberts, the history professor whose class I so cheerfully disrupted a year ago with Lauren. He was gone to lunch, but I left a sticky note, signed “Girl”. “Do you think he’ll remember you?” Amber demanded. “By name?” I just grinned. “He’ll know.” She read my note over my shoulder. “Girl?! How in the world is he supposed to know who that is?” “He’ll know,” I said again.
Moving on to things of more eternal benefit. Along with behavior, we were discussing “a gentle and quiet spirit” and all the ins and outs of being gentle and quiet—whether it means lowering the decibals, making a habit of mumbling or simply rolling over and playing dead. What adorns a godly woman? Perhaps the secret is in the Holy Spirit and His fruit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness and self-control. It is the characteristics that will make me beautiful before men and God long after my youth and health have faded. When I am old and weathered, the lines creasing my forehead, crinkling me eyes and hugging my mouth should not be lines of worry, wastefulness, anger or despondency.
Lord, teach me to be beautiful
In Thy Spirit, heart and soul
For Thou can set the plainest face
Aglow with Thy own saving grace.
May my face a mirror be
Of Thou, my glorious deity
That Thou might look on me, perfected
Because Thou sees Thyself reflected.