Over the year I collected together the things I feel I am failing...and here they are for me to, by God's grace, grow in this year.
Resolved to try:
To put my whole mind into whatever I am doing, as an act of worship to God. Therefore to be careful that whatever I am doing may be done whole-heartedly as worship to God.
To seek the Lord in quietness and solitude first thing every morning, that being with Him may color my outlook on life.
To refrain from speaking any ill of anyone not present and to confront only that person if there truly is an issue of character or obedience.
To keep a careful account of the Lord’s dealings with me and all that I learn of Him and to share His goodness with all who will listen.
To keep continually in mind God’s grace, truth and beauty in order to keep uglier things from dwelling there.
To learn as much as I can of God’s creation and praise Him for it.
To employ both time and money in seeking souls for the Lord.
To be bold to offer mercy, to speak of God, to speak truth, to love as Christ, but innocent of any evil or selfish ambition.
To be slow to promise, but swift to deliver, slow to speak, but swift to hear, slow to affirm or correct, but swift to love, slow to judge, but swift to forgive.
To consult the Lord and His wisdom constantly and to seek His answer fervently and without giving up.
To praise character, encourage holiness, focus on God’s grace as being the means of true beauty.
To rejoice always, pray unceasingly and always give thanks.
To never regard circumstances except in the light of God’s wisdom and Word.
To never be satisfied with anything less than perfection in myself, yet eager to regard attempt in others.
To never grow weary in doing what is right or compare myself to the world with envy or self-satisfaction.
To offer love and service without regard to “fair treatment,” “personal rights” or return of either.
To keep in mind the cross as my own just end and the picture of God’s wrath from which I am delivered and God’s love which paid the price. And to remember that, in the cross, I am delivered from God’s wrath and God’s justice is satisfied, therefore all that befalls me—even discipline which seems unpleasant for the moement--flows from His mercy, grace and love, lavished on a daughter.
To accept weakness as a tool of God’s strength and to be willing to be wholly dependent on Him.
To do what is right, regardless of results, rumors, rewards, remarks or revilings.
To keep perspective that God, the powerful Creator, Who alone is imperishable and dwells in unapproachable light, has granted me confident access to His throne of grace, that I might receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need, and to make full use of this access.
To never suggest, by my words or actions or thoughts, that I might be more righteous than God. For He does what is right and this is what I must trust, when He does what is different than I expect or wish.
Showing posts with label evangelism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label evangelism. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
I described Freckles to Lauryn as “short, muscular, super cute and hyper.” “Hmm,” she said. “Sounds like the perfect Scott dog.” She’s absolutely insane and irresistibly charming. Impish. Adventuresome. Runs like the Energizer Bunny. I never thought I was a dog person. When I was much younger I loved cats—well, actually kittens. In fact, I so badly wanted one that, in spite of the knowledge that my parents would never approve, I circumvented their authority and had a chat with my Father about it. Lo and behold, a stray cat with a lame leg showed up on our doorstep. Dumped, no doubt. She was a charmer as well. In all honesty, she didn’t behave like a cat with a haughty “I own you, so there” attitude. She lived happily ever after with us until shortly after we moved into the country and she was killed by a neighbor dog. Popcorn was the only pet we’ve had in my entire life. Excluding the beta fish, that is. Fish hardly count. Now we’ve got a wired terrier and all I can say is, “we should have gotten a dog a long time ago.” Funny, though, how the ones that show up turn out to be the best pets. I attempted to teach Freckles to sit, but she seems to have associated the desired action with the pressure on her rump instead of the word. Now whenever I pet her she cheerfully plops her little bottom down and cocks her head to peer up at me with huge puppy-dog eyes.
In lieu of any real snow, Lydia and I sat on Mom’s bedroom floor tonight cutting out snowflakes. Mine turned out to have a rather African flair. If there’s such a thing as African snowflakes. Lydia’s, on the other hand, looked decidedly springish. Somehow it seems that we’re both missing the point. Or perhaps we’re just thinking longingly of warmer days. Our bedroom keeps a constant heat index of perhaps forty-five degrees. When we come out to breakfast in the mornings we can slide our hands up near someone else’s backside and they’ll holler about the cold radiating out. Patrolling the energy usage has been next to impossible. We run the electric fan in our bathroom for dressing and showering, but I still keep shaving off goose bumps. And we sleep under electric blankets with only our noses sticking out the top. In the morning our noses are red. Hale and hearty we both must be, for we’ve still not contracted a cold.
“Who did you want to talk to?” Tabby asked when she answered the phone and apparently couldn’t believe her good fortune when I insisted she was the woman and prepared to drop my explosive. “What do you think? Would you like me to take some engagement pictures for you this weekend?” A gasp. A strangle. An excited yelp. An explosion. “HHHHOW would you do that?” she finally demanded. “Oh,” I answered casually, “I have a super powerful telescoping lens.” It’s still hard to believe she’s really getting married. We’d become so close—always going through the same things, it seemed. Suddenly, no more. Nick wouldn’t even believe me when I tried to share the good news with him. “Cliff?” he asked, incredulously. “I was there all summer. I know Cliff. There was nothing happening there.” “I realized I have no clue what I’m doing or where to start planning a wedding,” Tabby confided. “Can I—well, will you help me?” I embrace my part as wedding planner extraordinaire. It sounds as though I’m supposed to be experienced, or something. I’m delighted. Tabitha Faye has been the best friend and deserves the best guy and the best wedding and the best happily ever after. I only wish I could actually be there to help her out.
I don’t know how Lauren could have ever kept her big secret from me. She’s bursting with new little tidbits all the time. “I figured out today that sleeping in is my worst enemy!” she announced. I could have told her that. Instead I dug out a pleasant assent from my storehouse of appropriate phone conversation pieces. Sadly, my storehouse is very limited. But it’s growing. Surely and steadily. Working at a pregnancy clinic has completely altered my thinking. Who’d have thought I’d somehow or other know so much about pregnancy? This little niece or nephew is another hard-to-believe. Lauren reminded me of the birthday card I'd sent her: “I heard you’re expecting…another birthday! Scared you, didn’t I?” Humorously, that would have been just about exactly in time for the little person’s creation. I should have sent it much sooner.
Fanatical is the perfect word to describe the woman I read about today—from Iran. She began as a fanatical Muslim. Praying until her body was swollen and sore, memorizing the entire Koran, pleading and begging to know Allah personally. Until the day she came face to face with a picture of Jesus and fell to her knees in broken repentance. After that it was one little thing after another, as she was able to learn about Jesus, be changed by Jesus and become fanatical about Jesus. She started sharing Jesus everywhere she went, with everyone she met and the Lord started turning lives upside down. She holds Bible studies in Muslim beauty parlors, disciples prostitutes, distributes tracts and hope in nearby cities, hosts a home church and reads and memorizes the Word every chance she gets. Oh, and she’s twenty. Twenty years old. Tears came to my eyes as I realized her devotion—to the truth. Her search had always been for the Truth. And when she found it, she poured her alabaster jar at the feet of the Master and lives a life of radical worship. I was humbled to be caught up in her simple story and realize how boring she would find mine. I want to be like her. I want to be carried away with the joy of the Lord, the power of His grace and the impact of His truth.
We’re in relatively little danger now, facing relatively little opposition. And still I’m a coward. But tribulation stands veiled on the threshold. Now I have a little time to practice before I may be called to perform this dance of life and death. Lord, strengthen me, empower me, discipline me, overwhelm me to share Your precious truth wherever I go.
Lord, we place a greater value
On that which costs us greater pain.
Yet that which costs us greater pain
Often yields a greater gain.
And so, it seems, I place the value
Of Thy secret now revealed
Much lower than my precious sister
Who, daily praises Thy blood spilled.
Teach me, too, to love so greatly
Recognizing that Thy grace
Is poured as richly on my shoulders
By the Lamb who took my place.
In lieu of any real snow, Lydia and I sat on Mom’s bedroom floor tonight cutting out snowflakes. Mine turned out to have a rather African flair. If there’s such a thing as African snowflakes. Lydia’s, on the other hand, looked decidedly springish. Somehow it seems that we’re both missing the point. Or perhaps we’re just thinking longingly of warmer days. Our bedroom keeps a constant heat index of perhaps forty-five degrees. When we come out to breakfast in the mornings we can slide our hands up near someone else’s backside and they’ll holler about the cold radiating out. Patrolling the energy usage has been next to impossible. We run the electric fan in our bathroom for dressing and showering, but I still keep shaving off goose bumps. And we sleep under electric blankets with only our noses sticking out the top. In the morning our noses are red. Hale and hearty we both must be, for we’ve still not contracted a cold.
“Who did you want to talk to?” Tabby asked when she answered the phone and apparently couldn’t believe her good fortune when I insisted she was the woman and prepared to drop my explosive. “What do you think? Would you like me to take some engagement pictures for you this weekend?” A gasp. A strangle. An excited yelp. An explosion. “HHHHOW would you do that?” she finally demanded. “Oh,” I answered casually, “I have a super powerful telescoping lens.” It’s still hard to believe she’s really getting married. We’d become so close—always going through the same things, it seemed. Suddenly, no more. Nick wouldn’t even believe me when I tried to share the good news with him. “Cliff?” he asked, incredulously. “I was there all summer. I know Cliff. There was nothing happening there.” “I realized I have no clue what I’m doing or where to start planning a wedding,” Tabby confided. “Can I—well, will you help me?” I embrace my part as wedding planner extraordinaire. It sounds as though I’m supposed to be experienced, or something. I’m delighted. Tabitha Faye has been the best friend and deserves the best guy and the best wedding and the best happily ever after. I only wish I could actually be there to help her out.
I don’t know how Lauren could have ever kept her big secret from me. She’s bursting with new little tidbits all the time. “I figured out today that sleeping in is my worst enemy!” she announced. I could have told her that. Instead I dug out a pleasant assent from my storehouse of appropriate phone conversation pieces. Sadly, my storehouse is very limited. But it’s growing. Surely and steadily. Working at a pregnancy clinic has completely altered my thinking. Who’d have thought I’d somehow or other know so much about pregnancy? This little niece or nephew is another hard-to-believe. Lauren reminded me of the birthday card I'd sent her: “I heard you’re expecting…another birthday! Scared you, didn’t I?” Humorously, that would have been just about exactly in time for the little person’s creation. I should have sent it much sooner.
Fanatical is the perfect word to describe the woman I read about today—from Iran. She began as a fanatical Muslim. Praying until her body was swollen and sore, memorizing the entire Koran, pleading and begging to know Allah personally. Until the day she came face to face with a picture of Jesus and fell to her knees in broken repentance. After that it was one little thing after another, as she was able to learn about Jesus, be changed by Jesus and become fanatical about Jesus. She started sharing Jesus everywhere she went, with everyone she met and the Lord started turning lives upside down. She holds Bible studies in Muslim beauty parlors, disciples prostitutes, distributes tracts and hope in nearby cities, hosts a home church and reads and memorizes the Word every chance she gets. Oh, and she’s twenty. Twenty years old. Tears came to my eyes as I realized her devotion—to the truth. Her search had always been for the Truth. And when she found it, she poured her alabaster jar at the feet of the Master and lives a life of radical worship. I was humbled to be caught up in her simple story and realize how boring she would find mine. I want to be like her. I want to be carried away with the joy of the Lord, the power of His grace and the impact of His truth.
We’re in relatively little danger now, facing relatively little opposition. And still I’m a coward. But tribulation stands veiled on the threshold. Now I have a little time to practice before I may be called to perform this dance of life and death. Lord, strengthen me, empower me, discipline me, overwhelm me to share Your precious truth wherever I go.
Lord, we place a greater value
On that which costs us greater pain.
Yet that which costs us greater pain
Often yields a greater gain.
And so, it seems, I place the value
Of Thy secret now revealed
Much lower than my precious sister
Who, daily praises Thy blood spilled.
Teach me, too, to love so greatly
Recognizing that Thy grace
Is poured as richly on my shoulders
By the Lamb who took my place.
About Opportunities
Apparently Nathaniel was inspired by Josiah's account of prank phone-calling Taylor. I walked into the study with a question for Nathaniel to discover him relaying messages via IP relay, reading Taylor's responses on the computer screen. Of course, considering that Taylor was responsible for introducing Nathaniel to the site, it couldn't have taken him long to figure out what was going on and Nathaniel didn't make much effort to maintain a farce. My interest was perked when, after a little friendly conversation, Taylor offered to share a verse he'd found--in 2 Corinthians "God made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him, we might become the righteousness of God." Well. That was an interesting turn to the conversation. Realization dawned on me and Nathaniel at about the same time, and he quickly began typing questions to give Taylor a chance to explain the gospel--for the benefit of the operator relaying messages between them. I'd gotten an answer for my question and left the room without knowing how it ended, but with the distinct impression that I'd just witnessed "every opportunity." I wonder what impression the operator left with?
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
I’ve seen a few eggs in my time. Blue eggs, green eggs, pink eggs, yellow eggs, brown eggs and white eggs, double yokers, no yokers, developing yokers, oops-it’s-a-chick yokers. We’re not talking about Easter Eggs, but the real-live-laid-by-hen eggs. I’ve never seen any so huge. “These are the small ones,” he commented. “The large ones cost fifty cents more.” I peered around the yard for a glimpse of the chickens, but was disappointed in my scrutiny. The best clue I had as to the appearance of the fine-feathered fowl who laid such monster eggs was a fine white feather, delicately clinging to the crate as I carried it out to the Suburban.
Driving through the hills and valleys on a misty, moisty morning brought my thoughts to life. Fog swirls in the valleys, causing me to slow down, watch carefully, and turn on my lights hoping to be seen. From the hills I can see over the mists to the other side—but I have no clue what might lie in the valley. Always, whether I see it or not, the sun is shining, above the clouds. In fact, the mists are caused by the sun as it sends refreshment to the land.
Here in the Bible belt, I ask someone about their spiritual beliefs and they vanish behind a church marquee. Opening up is a breeze. “I noticed you have a lot of religious books,” to the man in the Flea Market. “Do you have any spiritual beliefs?” Quickly he assures me he is Church of Christ—even preached for a few years. The ladies in the bead store explain their membership in the Assembly of God. The Librarians always cheerfully remind me that the invitation to First Baptist is always open. I’ve never had anyone actually share the gospel with me. Usually dragging from them the name Jesus and all it entails feels like wisdom tooth extractions. “You go to the Church of Christ? Really? Neat. So…who is Christ?” It was refreshing to see one man’s eyes light up, “He is the Son of God, the Savior of the world.” Well. Not much else needs said. But how have we become so lost in our denominations that our spiritual beliefs boil down to “I’m Methodist” or “I’m Baptist”. No one is saved by believing in a building or claiming a title. We’re saved through the person and work of Jesus Christ! My heart aches to see how unready we are to give an account for the hope within us—if it is truly a living hope within us.
When the rain started, I hurriedly pulled on my boots and headed out to enjoy the warm shower. Disappointed by the gentleness, I trekked down to the creek instead and fell in. On purpose. The woods grow silent on a rainy day—no one speaking, no one listening. Just the restful drip of God’s fresh filtered rain, sliding from leaf to leaf to water the earth. Really, I was simply enjoying the shifting mists, polishing the woods with vibrant green and red and gold when the urge to jump the creek came on. I jumped it in narrow spots. I skipped over stones through the miniature rapids. I scrambled across fallen logs. A wide, deep pool, clear as crystal, beckoned me. “You can’t jump that,” I whispered to myself. “I know,” I giggled, and backed up for a running start. I hit the bank full speed, threw myself into the air and landed inches from the steep shore on the far side, splattering cold water up to my waist. Sometimes you have to take the risk and fall in to discover it’s no so bad. Thoroughly soggy and thoroughly satisfied, I struck out through the pine trees, headed for home.
“Indescribable, uncontainable...Who has told every lightning bolt where it should go,” crackled over the radio, just before the huge crash shook the house. Like a ball of thunder rolling across the sky and slamming into something—no echo. “Did you see that?” Josiah dashed into my room from outside. “Did you hear that?” I shrugged. “I heard thunder.” Catching his breath, Josiah explained, “This huge bolt of lightning just shot out of the sky and struck one of the trees in the woods. I watched it splinter and fall from the shop. Just when the radio played that song…you know…that one…” We stood by my French door together, staring out into the now pouring rain at the rivulets washing down our yard. Finish the song: You are amazing, Lord.
Lord, Thou art enthroned on high
As King of earth and sea and sky,
And sends as by Thy own decree
Thy storms upon the land or sea.
The power of the elements,
Can only partly represent
The power that is in Thy hand
To make or to destroy all land.
Driving through the hills and valleys on a misty, moisty morning brought my thoughts to life. Fog swirls in the valleys, causing me to slow down, watch carefully, and turn on my lights hoping to be seen. From the hills I can see over the mists to the other side—but I have no clue what might lie in the valley. Always, whether I see it or not, the sun is shining, above the clouds. In fact, the mists are caused by the sun as it sends refreshment to the land.
Here in the Bible belt, I ask someone about their spiritual beliefs and they vanish behind a church marquee. Opening up is a breeze. “I noticed you have a lot of religious books,” to the man in the Flea Market. “Do you have any spiritual beliefs?” Quickly he assures me he is Church of Christ—even preached for a few years. The ladies in the bead store explain their membership in the Assembly of God. The Librarians always cheerfully remind me that the invitation to First Baptist is always open. I’ve never had anyone actually share the gospel with me. Usually dragging from them the name Jesus and all it entails feels like wisdom tooth extractions. “You go to the Church of Christ? Really? Neat. So…who is Christ?” It was refreshing to see one man’s eyes light up, “He is the Son of God, the Savior of the world.” Well. Not much else needs said. But how have we become so lost in our denominations that our spiritual beliefs boil down to “I’m Methodist” or “I’m Baptist”. No one is saved by believing in a building or claiming a title. We’re saved through the person and work of Jesus Christ! My heart aches to see how unready we are to give an account for the hope within us—if it is truly a living hope within us.
When the rain started, I hurriedly pulled on my boots and headed out to enjoy the warm shower. Disappointed by the gentleness, I trekked down to the creek instead and fell in. On purpose. The woods grow silent on a rainy day—no one speaking, no one listening. Just the restful drip of God’s fresh filtered rain, sliding from leaf to leaf to water the earth. Really, I was simply enjoying the shifting mists, polishing the woods with vibrant green and red and gold when the urge to jump the creek came on. I jumped it in narrow spots. I skipped over stones through the miniature rapids. I scrambled across fallen logs. A wide, deep pool, clear as crystal, beckoned me. “You can’t jump that,” I whispered to myself. “I know,” I giggled, and backed up for a running start. I hit the bank full speed, threw myself into the air and landed inches from the steep shore on the far side, splattering cold water up to my waist. Sometimes you have to take the risk and fall in to discover it’s no so bad. Thoroughly soggy and thoroughly satisfied, I struck out through the pine trees, headed for home.
“Indescribable, uncontainable...Who has told every lightning bolt where it should go,” crackled over the radio, just before the huge crash shook the house. Like a ball of thunder rolling across the sky and slamming into something—no echo. “Did you see that?” Josiah dashed into my room from outside. “Did you hear that?” I shrugged. “I heard thunder.” Catching his breath, Josiah explained, “This huge bolt of lightning just shot out of the sky and struck one of the trees in the woods. I watched it splinter and fall from the shop. Just when the radio played that song…you know…that one…” We stood by my French door together, staring out into the now pouring rain at the rivulets washing down our yard. Finish the song: You are amazing, Lord.
Lord, Thou art enthroned on high
As King of earth and sea and sky,
And sends as by Thy own decree
Thy storms upon the land or sea.
The power of the elements,
Can only partly represent
The power that is in Thy hand
To make or to destroy all land.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Quiet time found me perched on the dryer this morning. Not so much to “keep on top” of my laundry as to keep warm by virtue of the mountain I was running through that convenient machine.
My reading was cut short (which ironically, always makes me grumpy) by the entrance of Josiah and the looming importance of buying more firewood. Soon we were at our friendly, neighborhood woodcutter’s house, loading wood in the shivering drizzle, listening to his outlandish tales and watching his hyper antics and well-aimed spitting. He kept coming back to “there ain’t no girls like you around here”, etc, etc, which always leaves me feeling embarrassed and wishing to exhibit the divine attribute of invisibility. Before long it came out that his most recent relationship (not sure if they were even married) had just fallen apart and he was thinking he needed to straighten up his life (it’s pretty crooked) and start going back to church. Awkwardly, I handed him a tract with his check and we talked a bit about “religion” and Jesus and church. I knew I needed to bring it home, ask him if he considered himself a good person and launch out, but I just wanted to leave. Josiah bravely picked up the ball I dropped when I climbed in the truck and pressed him a bit harder, reminding him it’s not church that saves a man’s soul. Papa suggested we invite him out sometime and make an effort to reach out to him, especially now that he’s on his own again and expressing an interest in spiritual things. For some odd reason, the guy likes us.
Afternoon yielded an unexpected visit from Amber and her mom. They’d not been out since Judy slipped down our outside stairs and landed rather painfully on the soggy ground over Christmas break. Slowly and steadily the relationship is growing and I am coming to love and appreciate them both more and more.
Nathaniel and Lauren arrived in the early evening, carefully delivering an exuberant Grandma Lois as well as a bicycle for Lydia. I’ve not seen Grandma so upbeat in years. She laughed and talked and gushed like a completely different person. She’s been so excited about this trip she’d planned, packed and even had her car loaded days in advance. I’m so glad it worked out for her to come. Lauren brought me a couple of boxes of apple dishes—which I will be forced to store indefinitely until I either marry and need them or find someone else who is married and needs them. Why should I complain? She bought them for me, in hope, several years ago and has been patiently storing them since. Now she’s married and doesn’t need them.
As I read through the decorating of the tabernacle I was reminded of some thoughts I’d had on the topic in the past, relating to modesty. As our bodies are temples of God, and His temple was covered in hangings of linen, blue, purple and scarlet, so we should be covered—nicely, tastefully, neatly. I also found myself intrigued by the consecration of the priests: through washings, sacrifice and clothing. As a kingdom of priests, we’ve also been sanctified and set apart through similar symbols: washed of our sins through the sacrifice of God’s Son and clothed in His righteousness! Another item of note: the priests ate of the sacrifices—even as we partake of Jesus through communion in remembering His death. “This is my body—take and eat.” I’m curled up on the couch, swathed in military blankets, the lamp burning dimly as I finish up before tucking in to sleep. My heart is singing, “Behold, bless ye the Lord! All ye servants of Yahweh who serve by night in the house of Yahweh. Lift up your hands in the sanctuary and bless Yahweh!”
Lord, how can I bless Thy name
When ‘tis Thy name that blesses me?
I raise my hands. I raise my voice.
I bubble over. I rejoice!
If I tell to everyone
The wondrous things which Thou has done,
And how Thy grace has so blessed me,
The telling is what blesses Thee.
My reading was cut short (which ironically, always makes me grumpy) by the entrance of Josiah and the looming importance of buying more firewood. Soon we were at our friendly, neighborhood woodcutter’s house, loading wood in the shivering drizzle, listening to his outlandish tales and watching his hyper antics and well-aimed spitting. He kept coming back to “there ain’t no girls like you around here”, etc, etc, which always leaves me feeling embarrassed and wishing to exhibit the divine attribute of invisibility. Before long it came out that his most recent relationship (not sure if they were even married) had just fallen apart and he was thinking he needed to straighten up his life (it’s pretty crooked) and start going back to church. Awkwardly, I handed him a tract with his check and we talked a bit about “religion” and Jesus and church. I knew I needed to bring it home, ask him if he considered himself a good person and launch out, but I just wanted to leave. Josiah bravely picked up the ball I dropped when I climbed in the truck and pressed him a bit harder, reminding him it’s not church that saves a man’s soul. Papa suggested we invite him out sometime and make an effort to reach out to him, especially now that he’s on his own again and expressing an interest in spiritual things. For some odd reason, the guy likes us.
Afternoon yielded an unexpected visit from Amber and her mom. They’d not been out since Judy slipped down our outside stairs and landed rather painfully on the soggy ground over Christmas break. Slowly and steadily the relationship is growing and I am coming to love and appreciate them both more and more.
Nathaniel and Lauren arrived in the early evening, carefully delivering an exuberant Grandma Lois as well as a bicycle for Lydia. I’ve not seen Grandma so upbeat in years. She laughed and talked and gushed like a completely different person. She’s been so excited about this trip she’d planned, packed and even had her car loaded days in advance. I’m so glad it worked out for her to come. Lauren brought me a couple of boxes of apple dishes—which I will be forced to store indefinitely until I either marry and need them or find someone else who is married and needs them. Why should I complain? She bought them for me, in hope, several years ago and has been patiently storing them since. Now she’s married and doesn’t need them.
As I read through the decorating of the tabernacle I was reminded of some thoughts I’d had on the topic in the past, relating to modesty. As our bodies are temples of God, and His temple was covered in hangings of linen, blue, purple and scarlet, so we should be covered—nicely, tastefully, neatly. I also found myself intrigued by the consecration of the priests: through washings, sacrifice and clothing. As a kingdom of priests, we’ve also been sanctified and set apart through similar symbols: washed of our sins through the sacrifice of God’s Son and clothed in His righteousness! Another item of note: the priests ate of the sacrifices—even as we partake of Jesus through communion in remembering His death. “This is my body—take and eat.” I’m curled up on the couch, swathed in military blankets, the lamp burning dimly as I finish up before tucking in to sleep. My heart is singing, “Behold, bless ye the Lord! All ye servants of Yahweh who serve by night in the house of Yahweh. Lift up your hands in the sanctuary and bless Yahweh!”
Lord, how can I bless Thy name
When ‘tis Thy name that blesses me?
I raise my hands. I raise my voice.
I bubble over. I rejoice!
If I tell to everyone
The wondrous things which Thou has done,
And how Thy grace has so blessed me,
The telling is what blesses Thee.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
I have nothing meritorious of my whining today. Well, besides the charming burn blistering my arm, courtesy of the leaky iron in the Sweetest Suite. Even my time with Amber was outstanding as we worked our way through the whole epistle of First John.
My word for the day is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous they way my emotions have turned into a world-class roller-coaster ride. If I keep this up, I’m going to make myself motion sick. Up, down, up, down. Whoops! There’s a loop-da-loop! Don’t lose your soup! I must know: Am I floundering because I am losing focus, or because I am being attacked? Am I being attacked because I am weak…or because I am becoming strong? Or because I am losing focus? Is the intensity with which I feel everything, shall we say, healthy? Natural? Pleasing to the Lord? If not, how in the world can I gain control of my unwieldy feelings? How do I claim the victory and conquer through Christ the minute the temptation strikes?
People talk to me. Maybe because I walk around grinning like the Cheshire Cat, completely oblivious to wise precautions about who to avoiding eye-contact. The sun was shining, the day was warm, yesterday is over, past, gone, done, fine’, kaput and God is good. Ladies in thrifts shops stopped me to ask for fashion advice, an old guy in Wal-mart thought I was talking to myself until I showed him my blue-tooth, a little Japanese girl in the Tech library shuffled over to where I worked, shyly asking for help. “Do you know how I can log into the internet?” She handed me her miniature laptop and I blinked at the desktop. A confusing network of black lines stared at me, interspersed with the few familiar icons with which I managed to successfully pick my way over the dangerous morass of a Japanese computer.
Every single chance I missed today. The farthest I managed with the lady in the thrift shop was some lame comment about God making a gorgeous day. The old guy in Wal-mart, well, he probably went to church somewhere anyway. The Japanese girl? Eee. I have such a hard time talking to them! I can barely understand anyone who doesn’t speak perfect English—meaning, my version of English. Worst of all, this morning I got down on my knees and prayed that the Lord would send me opportunities. Even in the moment, I knew He was answering my prayer. Why did I disobey? If I lived in the wild, wild west they’d brand me a yellow-bellied coward. I can talk about wanting to see those mansions filled, but what am I actually doing?
I’m such a wimp. Excuse me while I go beat myself up.
Lord, how patient You must be.
You answer each specific plea
Tied up in paper, with a bow
And I pretend I didn’t know.
I push aside Your giving hand
Insisting, “You don’t understand!”
I scorn the gift You’ve heaven sent.
Please spank me, so I will repent.
My word for the day is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous they way my emotions have turned into a world-class roller-coaster ride. If I keep this up, I’m going to make myself motion sick. Up, down, up, down. Whoops! There’s a loop-da-loop! Don’t lose your soup! I must know: Am I floundering because I am losing focus, or because I am being attacked? Am I being attacked because I am weak…or because I am becoming strong? Or because I am losing focus? Is the intensity with which I feel everything, shall we say, healthy? Natural? Pleasing to the Lord? If not, how in the world can I gain control of my unwieldy feelings? How do I claim the victory and conquer through Christ the minute the temptation strikes?
People talk to me. Maybe because I walk around grinning like the Cheshire Cat, completely oblivious to wise precautions about who to avoiding eye-contact. The sun was shining, the day was warm, yesterday is over, past, gone, done, fine’, kaput and God is good. Ladies in thrifts shops stopped me to ask for fashion advice, an old guy in Wal-mart thought I was talking to myself until I showed him my blue-tooth, a little Japanese girl in the Tech library shuffled over to where I worked, shyly asking for help. “Do you know how I can log into the internet?” She handed me her miniature laptop and I blinked at the desktop. A confusing network of black lines stared at me, interspersed with the few familiar icons with which I managed to successfully pick my way over the dangerous morass of a Japanese computer.
Every single chance I missed today. The farthest I managed with the lady in the thrift shop was some lame comment about God making a gorgeous day. The old guy in Wal-mart, well, he probably went to church somewhere anyway. The Japanese girl? Eee. I have such a hard time talking to them! I can barely understand anyone who doesn’t speak perfect English—meaning, my version of English. Worst of all, this morning I got down on my knees and prayed that the Lord would send me opportunities. Even in the moment, I knew He was answering my prayer. Why did I disobey? If I lived in the wild, wild west they’d brand me a yellow-bellied coward. I can talk about wanting to see those mansions filled, but what am I actually doing?
I’m such a wimp. Excuse me while I go beat myself up.
Lord, how patient You must be.
You answer each specific plea
Tied up in paper, with a bow
And I pretend I didn’t know.
I push aside Your giving hand
Insisting, “You don’t understand!”
I scorn the gift You’ve heaven sent.
Please spank me, so I will repent.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
As we pulled into the driveway and prepared mentally for a dip in the hot tub, Lauryn and I listened to Reliant K’s song about emotional girls—we should get them all mood rings. Once upon a time I prided myself on my stoicism. If I ever cried it was for a very good reason, which still holds true, no doubt, if only I could figure out what my good reason is. At the moment I think I want most to crawl into bed and curl up in a ball and cry my soul into the gates of paradise. Which does, believe me, feel possible at times. Why bed is the chosen haven, I have no clue, but some things are simply facts because they are.
To pin myself to one emotion at the moment would be more cruel than pinning a living butterfly to the Styrofoam wall of a bug collection. Today spanned more lives than those of a cat, so I think I must be at least as old as Methuselah now.
It began with something as simple as driving the poor, skeleton of a Tempo into town to the mechanic and then hitching a ride with Papa to the dental clinic, where I swiped millions of dollars (in gospel tracts, courtesy of Living Waters) and headed out for a shopping spree of my own, since Mom had given me no shopping list.
Dashing through the early sprinkles of rain toward Wal-Mart I spied a couple standing under the eaves—the girl on the phone, the guy standing patiently by. Quickly I approached them and began talking with the guy, sharing the gospel with him. They were living together, but seemed to be new believers and were very interested in our churching situation—even were asking to come visit. After we parted, the guy came running back to me asking for a couple more million dollar bill tracts to show to his mom and another person. As I was making a return, the tornado sirens began screaming overhead and a voice came on over the loudspeaker: “This is a code black warning! All associates and customers, please go to the back of the store by the toys.” Early morning doesn’t yield a hefty crop of customers, and we were soon all crowded in the back rooms near the bathrooms, waiting for word that the tornado watch was over. The moment seemed simply too opportune, as the Lord had gathered the whole store together in one place with nothing to do. I didn’t have the guts to just stand up and preach to all of them, or the peace with feeling that was appropriate, but as I moved from person to person sharing, the Lord allowed me to speak at least briefly with several ladies. After that, the Holy Spirit had me on a roll, and I moseyed around town, poking into stores, walking through the open doors of opportunity. Sharing the gospel through the midst of a fast-paced society is nothing like the easy chatting that leads into depth in a clinic room while a dental patient waits to see the doctor, and I must confess it’s often less promising. Folks are in a rush and their happy to take a tract and even visit with you for a short time, but while moving through check-out lines and grocery aisles it’s hard to do much more than plant seeds. I also must confess that the south must surely be one of the most evangelized regions I’ve been in. Nearly everyone can spout out “Jesus died on the cross for our sins.” I just pray that He died on the cross for their sins in such a way as to cause them to repent and trust Him.
I ordered Miss Judy up an egg mcmuffin meal on the way to see her and Amber, and was so busy thinking about other things I drove past the second window without pausing to pick up the food. I remedied the mistake, of course, but I must admit I’m finding it harder and harder to concentrate on simple, little, temporal tasks. Three hours passed pretty quickly with Amber and her mom. We studied through Ruth, since Audrey’d been recommending it for some time, and I felt strange explaining Jewish customs and laws to fill in the background for the story. Sometimes I find it hard to remember that others haven’t sat under the same thorough Bible teaching as I. The life stories unfolded innocently at first, from the vignette Judy shared about stealing corn when she lived in a children’s home at age eight. The picture became more sinister as the years passed and she was adopted by a family who turned out to be abusive, struggled to make her way the in the world, married a man who proved to be a jerk and passed her LPN test the day Amber was molested at the home of the babysitter. I sat spellbound, not by details, which they kindly spared me, but by the sheer horror of the facts—the shock that the people with whom I was laughing and joking had seen the evil face of Satan with such reality. Just the other night Amber shared with me how she had witnessed a fifteen year old boy drowned. It’s just Amber and Judy against the world. They have no one else. My stomach tied up in knots, hating the horrible tangle of events that has finally landed them where they are, suddenly understanding so much more than before. Now, more than ever before, I love them, deeply, painfully for the suffering they have endured because of the sin of all history and because of the redemption God would love to bring about in their lives—and has already begun. At the same moment, I felt intensely humbled. Unworthy to be sitting with them pretending to sympathize when there is simply no way in the world I could ever understand the pain they have been through. Only Jesus will ever fully know the extent of the devastation wrecked on them, and only He can know the extent of the beauty He can bring from it. I hope I may be privileged to be a witness to His work.
The rising chill, in spite of the sun, didn’t daunt Lauryn and I. We met up at her church downtown, planning to work out but became adventuresome and ran a couple of miles instead—outside, against the shivering wind. We finalized the experience with a trip back to my home and a dip in the hot tub, where we girl talked about frustrating things like emotions—who needs them anyway? What purpose do they serve? “If we’re made in the image of God,” Lauryn pondered, “Why do we have these crazy emotions? And what are we supposed to do with them? How in the world do they glorify God?” Should those who love the Lord be always cheerful? Jesus wept. Weeping with sorrow, repentance or sympathy is encouraged in the Bible. How about weeping for no reason—just to clear one’s mind? We both confessed we are guilty of this one, whether we wish to or not. It simply happens. About once a month. Sometimes more often.
Tears are coursing down my cheeks now. Try as I might, I can’t deny them their duty of staining my cheeks, swelling my eyes and calming my spirit. Why? How can I tack such a simple question to such a complicated day? Why am I crying? Because I don’t know what else to do. I am utterly incapable of mending such enormous brokenness.
In the secret recesses of my bedroom, in the quiet hours of the night, alone with my thoughts, memories and emotions, I crawl into bed and weep. My heart breaks and splits wide open. Purged of the poison of the horrors of this world, bleeding and in pieces, I cuddle in the arms of my Redeemer knowing beyond argument that He can and will bind the gaping wounds and renew life.
Lord, bottle up my tears before Thee
Count the tears I weep before Thee
Promise me that Thou wilt hear me,
Keep Thy presence ever near me.
Hold me in Thy arms and still me
By Thy perfect pleasure will me
To be restful, trust no other
Like a child against its mother.
To pin myself to one emotion at the moment would be more cruel than pinning a living butterfly to the Styrofoam wall of a bug collection. Today spanned more lives than those of a cat, so I think I must be at least as old as Methuselah now.
It began with something as simple as driving the poor, skeleton of a Tempo into town to the mechanic and then hitching a ride with Papa to the dental clinic, where I swiped millions of dollars (in gospel tracts, courtesy of Living Waters) and headed out for a shopping spree of my own, since Mom had given me no shopping list.
Dashing through the early sprinkles of rain toward Wal-Mart I spied a couple standing under the eaves—the girl on the phone, the guy standing patiently by. Quickly I approached them and began talking with the guy, sharing the gospel with him. They were living together, but seemed to be new believers and were very interested in our churching situation—even were asking to come visit. After we parted, the guy came running back to me asking for a couple more million dollar bill tracts to show to his mom and another person. As I was making a return, the tornado sirens began screaming overhead and a voice came on over the loudspeaker: “This is a code black warning! All associates and customers, please go to the back of the store by the toys.” Early morning doesn’t yield a hefty crop of customers, and we were soon all crowded in the back rooms near the bathrooms, waiting for word that the tornado watch was over. The moment seemed simply too opportune, as the Lord had gathered the whole store together in one place with nothing to do. I didn’t have the guts to just stand up and preach to all of them, or the peace with feeling that was appropriate, but as I moved from person to person sharing, the Lord allowed me to speak at least briefly with several ladies. After that, the Holy Spirit had me on a roll, and I moseyed around town, poking into stores, walking through the open doors of opportunity. Sharing the gospel through the midst of a fast-paced society is nothing like the easy chatting that leads into depth in a clinic room while a dental patient waits to see the doctor, and I must confess it’s often less promising. Folks are in a rush and their happy to take a tract and even visit with you for a short time, but while moving through check-out lines and grocery aisles it’s hard to do much more than plant seeds. I also must confess that the south must surely be one of the most evangelized regions I’ve been in. Nearly everyone can spout out “Jesus died on the cross for our sins.” I just pray that He died on the cross for their sins in such a way as to cause them to repent and trust Him.
I ordered Miss Judy up an egg mcmuffin meal on the way to see her and Amber, and was so busy thinking about other things I drove past the second window without pausing to pick up the food. I remedied the mistake, of course, but I must admit I’m finding it harder and harder to concentrate on simple, little, temporal tasks. Three hours passed pretty quickly with Amber and her mom. We studied through Ruth, since Audrey’d been recommending it for some time, and I felt strange explaining Jewish customs and laws to fill in the background for the story. Sometimes I find it hard to remember that others haven’t sat under the same thorough Bible teaching as I. The life stories unfolded innocently at first, from the vignette Judy shared about stealing corn when she lived in a children’s home at age eight. The picture became more sinister as the years passed and she was adopted by a family who turned out to be abusive, struggled to make her way the in the world, married a man who proved to be a jerk and passed her LPN test the day Amber was molested at the home of the babysitter. I sat spellbound, not by details, which they kindly spared me, but by the sheer horror of the facts—the shock that the people with whom I was laughing and joking had seen the evil face of Satan with such reality. Just the other night Amber shared with me how she had witnessed a fifteen year old boy drowned. It’s just Amber and Judy against the world. They have no one else. My stomach tied up in knots, hating the horrible tangle of events that has finally landed them where they are, suddenly understanding so much more than before. Now, more than ever before, I love them, deeply, painfully for the suffering they have endured because of the sin of all history and because of the redemption God would love to bring about in their lives—and has already begun. At the same moment, I felt intensely humbled. Unworthy to be sitting with them pretending to sympathize when there is simply no way in the world I could ever understand the pain they have been through. Only Jesus will ever fully know the extent of the devastation wrecked on them, and only He can know the extent of the beauty He can bring from it. I hope I may be privileged to be a witness to His work.
The rising chill, in spite of the sun, didn’t daunt Lauryn and I. We met up at her church downtown, planning to work out but became adventuresome and ran a couple of miles instead—outside, against the shivering wind. We finalized the experience with a trip back to my home and a dip in the hot tub, where we girl talked about frustrating things like emotions—who needs them anyway? What purpose do they serve? “If we’re made in the image of God,” Lauryn pondered, “Why do we have these crazy emotions? And what are we supposed to do with them? How in the world do they glorify God?” Should those who love the Lord be always cheerful? Jesus wept. Weeping with sorrow, repentance or sympathy is encouraged in the Bible. How about weeping for no reason—just to clear one’s mind? We both confessed we are guilty of this one, whether we wish to or not. It simply happens. About once a month. Sometimes more often.
Tears are coursing down my cheeks now. Try as I might, I can’t deny them their duty of staining my cheeks, swelling my eyes and calming my spirit. Why? How can I tack such a simple question to such a complicated day? Why am I crying? Because I don’t know what else to do. I am utterly incapable of mending such enormous brokenness.
In the secret recesses of my bedroom, in the quiet hours of the night, alone with my thoughts, memories and emotions, I crawl into bed and weep. My heart breaks and splits wide open. Purged of the poison of the horrors of this world, bleeding and in pieces, I cuddle in the arms of my Redeemer knowing beyond argument that He can and will bind the gaping wounds and renew life.
Lord, bottle up my tears before Thee
Count the tears I weep before Thee
Promise me that Thou wilt hear me,
Keep Thy presence ever near me.
Hold me in Thy arms and still me
By Thy perfect pleasure will me
To be restful, trust no other
Like a child against its mother.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Here’s a little math problem: if the living room, where the fireplace is, was fifty-five degrees this morning, then the dining room, several hallways away was probably at least five degrees colder, making it somewhere around fifty degrees. When Lydia and I walked out of our room into the dining room, it seemed warm and cozy to us, meaning the temperature difference between our room and the dining room was significant. Let’s say it was between five and ten degrees. This means our bedroom, when we dragged ourselves out of bed this morning, was somewhere around forty to forty-five degrees. It’s amazing just how chilly a little math can make one feel. I envy the early Americans and Eskimos—at least they didn’t know how cold they were.
Doorbells are a modern convenience that we would do well to integrate into our life. Something past four I heard a soft knock on the front door and paused in my work to run inventory on the inhabitants of this house. Mom was in her room, working away and Lydia and Josiah were out sawing logs—for real. I jumped up, overturning my desk stool and dashed down my hallway, dodged the great table in the dining room, skirted the kitchen island and flung the front door open just in time to see Dathan slowly descending the front stairs. “We’re here!” I called after him. “We’re actually here!” After receiving a detailed tour he commented, “No wonder it took you a little while to answer the door.” Within a few minutes, the months since we’d last seen him had dropped away and he seemed as much at home here as he ever did when he used to drop by on his way home from school in Kansas.
“You look like a child of the ‘70s,” a passing fellow grocery-shopper commented, admiring the sari I’d wrapped over layers of jeans, tights, turtlenecks and under armor. We’ll just say my personal style is unique. But she liked it. I mentioned the sari came from India, via a friend’s mission trip and the door of opportunity swung wide open until she one-upped me. “Do you have any religious beliefs?” She smiled, “Well yes. I believe God made us all, loves us and sent his Son, Jesus, to pay the penalty for our sins and that’s really something for me to smile about.” Being one-upped in that manner is not so bad, after all.
We’ve been reading through Acts over breakfast, and I’m struck by Paul’s boldness. Everywhere he went he stood up and preached the gospel, never worrying about whether or not he was interrupting anything. The prophets of old did the same. Jonah walked into Ninevah and upset the whole culture with his shocking revelation: God will destroy you if you don’t repent! The message hasn’t changed. Why has the method?
Lord, I know Thou spoke of old
Thy words are precious, more than gold.
When Thou would speak again, today—
O may we hear the words Thou’d say—
Please see me fit, though less than scum
To be Thy mouth, to be Thy tongue
To tell the world the words from Thee
That they might praise Thy diety.
Doorbells are a modern convenience that we would do well to integrate into our life. Something past four I heard a soft knock on the front door and paused in my work to run inventory on the inhabitants of this house. Mom was in her room, working away and Lydia and Josiah were out sawing logs—for real. I jumped up, overturning my desk stool and dashed down my hallway, dodged the great table in the dining room, skirted the kitchen island and flung the front door open just in time to see Dathan slowly descending the front stairs. “We’re here!” I called after him. “We’re actually here!” After receiving a detailed tour he commented, “No wonder it took you a little while to answer the door.” Within a few minutes, the months since we’d last seen him had dropped away and he seemed as much at home here as he ever did when he used to drop by on his way home from school in Kansas.
“You look like a child of the ‘70s,” a passing fellow grocery-shopper commented, admiring the sari I’d wrapped over layers of jeans, tights, turtlenecks and under armor. We’ll just say my personal style is unique. But she liked it. I mentioned the sari came from India, via a friend’s mission trip and the door of opportunity swung wide open until she one-upped me. “Do you have any religious beliefs?” She smiled, “Well yes. I believe God made us all, loves us and sent his Son, Jesus, to pay the penalty for our sins and that’s really something for me to smile about.” Being one-upped in that manner is not so bad, after all.
We’ve been reading through Acts over breakfast, and I’m struck by Paul’s boldness. Everywhere he went he stood up and preached the gospel, never worrying about whether or not he was interrupting anything. The prophets of old did the same. Jonah walked into Ninevah and upset the whole culture with his shocking revelation: God will destroy you if you don’t repent! The message hasn’t changed. Why has the method?
Lord, I know Thou spoke of old
Thy words are precious, more than gold.
When Thou would speak again, today—
O may we hear the words Thou’d say—
Please see me fit, though less than scum
To be Thy mouth, to be Thy tongue
To tell the world the words from Thee
That they might praise Thy diety.
Monday, December 31, 2007
I woke up on the last day of two-thousand and seven and said to myself, “Bangs wouldn’t be a bad look on you just now.” Myself chewed on that for a minute and responded, “True. In fact, they might help soften the effect of the perm that is growing out.” Together we went to the bathroom, peered in the mirror, dug out a pair of scissors and snip-snip. Ta-da! Having pleased myself, I continued on my merry way to finish out the old year with a flourish.
Mom announced with an air of grand finality that she would like to teach me to do the budget. Her surprise was all but audible when I eagerly agreed and we met together shortly before lunch to sort out mile long receipts, organize date and input credits, debits, check numbers and memos. Housewives may gather rotten tomatoes, spoiled eggs and the slimiest leftover cabbage leaves they can find to punctuate my next statement: I enjoyed nearly every minute. The one “task” I’d been stewing over, realizing I had no experience in, and dreading. I’d pictured it so hair-pulling, nail-biting dreadful that I think even having to dance on tables with apple-crates tied to my feet would have seemed pleasant. Reconciling made such perfect sense that my dear, little brain heaved a happy sigh.
Having the laundry room right off of my bedroom has its negative drawbacks: in the form of my secret penguin friend. Following a quick knock, which I had barely digested and certainly not responded to, Nick came shuffling in, laden with an enormous bag of dirty laundry. “Just passing through on my way to the washing machine,” he beamed. I grunted, without taking my nose of my deskwork, but a moment later he was standing at my elbow, “I’ve been going through Lydia’s piano books like you suggested. Would you be willing to, maybe, give me a lesson over lunch?” I assented, desperately clutching my train of thought by the caboose as he talked on about notes, timing and hand positions. It seemed like he had hardly left before the door slid open again, “Knock, knock,” he said, cheerfully, “Just coming through to move my laundry along.” This time he showed up at my elbow with a “What are you doing?” Just a general note for future reference: if what I am doing is any of your business, I will let you know. Grumpy Abigail moment lengthens due to Nick’s incessant cheerfulness. I have to hand it to that guy: he is one of the most cheerful people I know. From the moment he rises in the morning and comes shining out to the breakfast table to the instant he bids me goodnight he is one perpetual grin. Considered by most to be a sanguine myself, I am forced to admit that I could take rejoice in the Lord lessons from Nicholas Perry. The third time he interrupts my pushup routine. For some odd reason I always feel guilty when I am caught doing pushups. Perhaps the illegality of my concealed carry—my guns—my arms? At any rate, when I headed for the shower I made sure to close both doors and put up my little sign with the “Don’t bother me I’m: Showering” emblazoned in green AND I carried all my clothes with me to the bathroom. What a selfish creature I am when little “intrusions” into my protected domain leave me feeling stripped of my dignity and privacy. Graciousness is what I’ll work on at the moment. After all, a gracious woman attains honor.
Crowding together into my parent’s room to listen to The Way of the Master’s witnessing encounters with Todd Friel is how we chose to spend our New Year’s Eve—until shortly after ten, that is, when we all retired. Several of the last people with whom Todd spoke simply baffled me: a woman who chewed him out for believing that God could be anything but all loving. “What a negative message you’re preaching,” she chided, even after her ignorance was displayed for all to see. The last was his interview with a leading atheist woman, famed for being suave, cool, collected, pleasant and a “good person”. When she came up against the “good person” test from scripture she fumed and fussed and refused to even “play that stupid, little game”.
Ezekiel brought it all together for me. After struggling to the end of the book several days ago, I picked it up again today and made a mad dash through the entire book and it suddenly made sense, boiling down to two repeated verses. God said, “You keep saying the way of the Lord is not right, when it is your own way that is not right.” The foolish atheist kept reiterating her arrogance, “IF I stand before your God on judgment day He’s going to have to do some answering to me!” She was mocking God, spitting in His face, but He is such a God of compassion that He says “I take no delight in the death of the wicked, but rather that the wicked should repent and live.” In a book I’d found boring and gruesome I found a glimpse of the beauty of God: So holy and righteous, and yet so full of mercy and longsuffering, not wishing that any should perish. For this reason He waits to send judgment.
Lord, the fools might spurn Thy name
But Thou remains, eternal, same
And though they try to smear Thy fame
They only bring themselves to shame.
The darkness which they seek to live
Is what Thou will most freely give
One day when they, before Thee, stand
And Thou at last withdraws Thy hand.
Mom announced with an air of grand finality that she would like to teach me to do the budget. Her surprise was all but audible when I eagerly agreed and we met together shortly before lunch to sort out mile long receipts, organize date and input credits, debits, check numbers and memos. Housewives may gather rotten tomatoes, spoiled eggs and the slimiest leftover cabbage leaves they can find to punctuate my next statement: I enjoyed nearly every minute. The one “task” I’d been stewing over, realizing I had no experience in, and dreading. I’d pictured it so hair-pulling, nail-biting dreadful that I think even having to dance on tables with apple-crates tied to my feet would have seemed pleasant. Reconciling made such perfect sense that my dear, little brain heaved a happy sigh.
Having the laundry room right off of my bedroom has its negative drawbacks: in the form of my secret penguin friend. Following a quick knock, which I had barely digested and certainly not responded to, Nick came shuffling in, laden with an enormous bag of dirty laundry. “Just passing through on my way to the washing machine,” he beamed. I grunted, without taking my nose of my deskwork, but a moment later he was standing at my elbow, “I’ve been going through Lydia’s piano books like you suggested. Would you be willing to, maybe, give me a lesson over lunch?” I assented, desperately clutching my train of thought by the caboose as he talked on about notes, timing and hand positions. It seemed like he had hardly left before the door slid open again, “Knock, knock,” he said, cheerfully, “Just coming through to move my laundry along.” This time he showed up at my elbow with a “What are you doing?” Just a general note for future reference: if what I am doing is any of your business, I will let you know. Grumpy Abigail moment lengthens due to Nick’s incessant cheerfulness. I have to hand it to that guy: he is one of the most cheerful people I know. From the moment he rises in the morning and comes shining out to the breakfast table to the instant he bids me goodnight he is one perpetual grin. Considered by most to be a sanguine myself, I am forced to admit that I could take rejoice in the Lord lessons from Nicholas Perry. The third time he interrupts my pushup routine. For some odd reason I always feel guilty when I am caught doing pushups. Perhaps the illegality of my concealed carry—my guns—my arms? At any rate, when I headed for the shower I made sure to close both doors and put up my little sign with the “Don’t bother me I’m: Showering” emblazoned in green AND I carried all my clothes with me to the bathroom. What a selfish creature I am when little “intrusions” into my protected domain leave me feeling stripped of my dignity and privacy. Graciousness is what I’ll work on at the moment. After all, a gracious woman attains honor.
Crowding together into my parent’s room to listen to The Way of the Master’s witnessing encounters with Todd Friel is how we chose to spend our New Year’s Eve—until shortly after ten, that is, when we all retired. Several of the last people with whom Todd spoke simply baffled me: a woman who chewed him out for believing that God could be anything but all loving. “What a negative message you’re preaching,” she chided, even after her ignorance was displayed for all to see. The last was his interview with a leading atheist woman, famed for being suave, cool, collected, pleasant and a “good person”. When she came up against the “good person” test from scripture she fumed and fussed and refused to even “play that stupid, little game”.
Ezekiel brought it all together for me. After struggling to the end of the book several days ago, I picked it up again today and made a mad dash through the entire book and it suddenly made sense, boiling down to two repeated verses. God said, “You keep saying the way of the Lord is not right, when it is your own way that is not right.” The foolish atheist kept reiterating her arrogance, “IF I stand before your God on judgment day He’s going to have to do some answering to me!” She was mocking God, spitting in His face, but He is such a God of compassion that He says “I take no delight in the death of the wicked, but rather that the wicked should repent and live.” In a book I’d found boring and gruesome I found a glimpse of the beauty of God: So holy and righteous, and yet so full of mercy and longsuffering, not wishing that any should perish. For this reason He waits to send judgment.
Lord, the fools might spurn Thy name
But Thou remains, eternal, same
And though they try to smear Thy fame
They only bring themselves to shame.
The darkness which they seek to live
Is what Thou will most freely give
One day when they, before Thee, stand
And Thou at last withdraws Thy hand.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
It’s been raining now for nearly a week. Days on end without rain still fill my stomach with little, anxious butterflies. The flood is still too recent in my memory, even though I know the concept of flooding where we are, or even being flooded in, is pretty far-fetched.
Shopping in D-town has taken on a very distinct pattern. Adventure is not a word I would normally use to label my outings. Today was no exception. I returned my book to the library, unread. I just can’t seem to sit down and read a book these days—unless it’s my Bible. Restlessness is certainly not conducive to reading. I also made a daring excursion into the bead store—and spent far too long picking out supplies for the Christmas gifts I made for the girls who are headed home this weekend. They turned out pretty decently—necklace and earring sets for three of them, and a curly-headed key-chain for Emily.
I wish I could say I’d made a point of sharing my faith. I offered the bank clerk a million dollar bill, which she said she’d seen before, so I desisted. I asked the bead store lady about the Christmas Carols she was playing, and then fell silent. That was the extent of my eternal shopping. Why is it that D-town seems to be such a formidable harvest to me? The excuse “I don’t want to keep them from their job” isn’t coinciding with an eternal perspective. Why am I so slow to do this one thing I can’t do in heaven?
Lord, I get so caught up in
Myself, which is a grievous sin
And use excuses for my sin:
“I just can’t inconvenience them.”
To inconvenience them or me
Could purchase their eternity.
With my secure eternity,
The truth? I think too much of me.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Papa and Josiah fixed the wiring to my outlets, so after a few days without electricity in my room, I can flip a switch again and say, “Let there be light!”
But my heart is elsewhere. I called Caitydid a few minutes ago, just to chat. I know she’s been drifting her own way, turning a deaf ear to the Lord, and I honestly couldn’t help it. I just had to start asking questions. I can’t bear to see her caught in the lies of the enemy. I’ve shared with her before, but the Lord wouldn’t let me make small talk. I had to share again. It was like wringing out my soul to press her for answers, to hear her say she just couldn’t humble herself to repent, to know that she is making a choice that will separate her from me for eternity. Even more terrifying, that will separate her from God for eternity. Why are we so proud? Why do we seek to accomplish on our own what we know we can never succeed in, to the eternal torment of our souls? Why do we risk eternal regret to resist momentary humiliation? Lord God, I don’t understand! How do You reach the soul that is convicted of sin, but refuses forgiveness? What a terrible, miserable existence that must be, choked by the murderous fingers of pride. And yet, how often do I also turn my back on my God, the God I claim to serve, and tarry in the arms of pride, drinking deeply of self-love.
Lord, my tears, my bleeding heart
Can never even fill a part
Of all the agony Thou tasted.
Let not Thy precious gift be wasted!
Her decision, God on High,
Is hers alone to make, but I
Must let my thoughts and actions prove
That I am purchased by Thy love.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Five o’clock found me already awake, drifting in and out of coherent thought. I bounced out of bed, showered and started collecting things for a day in RussVegas with Papa. It started out slowly, trying to get the shopping done and I wound up on the Tech Campus shortly after eleven. I tried to call Emily, but couldn’t get through for some odd reason, and resorted to Miss Lauryn. “Hey!” she greeted me. “Are you on campus?” I answered in the affirmative and she went on, “Do you want to get lunch now or at one?” Inside I was laughing so hard. I tailed a Summit resident through the high security doors, rode the elevator up and entered her room in a bounce. She called Emily to invite her to lunch with us, and texted Zach “Lunch with me and my sis at one?” His response: “In the Café? Sure!”
I struck out for the library where I planted myself at a table and searched, unsuccessfully for offline e-mail for the Willis clan. Before long a tall, dark-headed guy came in, located me and set up camp at a table across from me, where he had a perfect angle of my face. He accomplished very little. I truly wished for Josiah’s recommended sign: “Study Something Else”.
My phone vibrated showing Zach’s name. Why is he calling me? Answer it or not, I deliberated. He knows better than to just call me, so maybe it’s legitimate. “Why are you calling me?” I demanded. “Uh…” his response. “Is this Abigail? Why are you whispering?” My turn to stutter. “Uh…I’m the library.” Realization dawned for us both at the same time. “You’re on campus? So I don’t suppose Josiah’s anywhere handy?” Quickly I forgave him for calling me and quickly we hung up.
Lauryn was printing out a John Piper article on hearing God’s voice—through His word— in the 21st century when I emerged from the upper stories of the Library. She showed me Zach’s most recent text message: “I can’t wait to have lunch with my hero.” Obviously he mistakenly believed Lauryn meant her birth sister—amazing Emyleigh, whom he adores. As we walked out of the library, he joined us and suspiciously demanded, “Is it really you Lauryn was talking about?” His chagrin was quite apparent.
Tedd and Emily L. joined us halfway through lunch and Emily asked me, “Who was it that called me?” I shrugged. “When?” She said, “Earlier. She said, ‘Do you want to have lunch with Abigail and I at one?’” And then I started laughing. Lauryn is so funny! She called the wrong Emily and got us a double date. But poor Emily W. doesn’t even know I was present and accounted for today.
Here’s where it gets good. I met Amber at Hastings and wound up with a free drink. I rarely buy coffee because it’s so expensive and has no redeeming qualities, but when the clerk came over to me asking if I wanted an iced coconut mocha, I didn’t turn him down. We dove into John and read the first two chapters. Amber and her mom were very busy today, but she didn’t want to miss it. We're both really enjoying spending time together. We discussed how we need to fill our jars with the water of the Word so Jesus can turn them into sweet wine. Also how we should cleanse our temples so that we may be houses of prayer. We talked and prayed and stood up to leave.
As Amber paid for her drink, I noticed that the woman behind us had a shaved head, and I complimented her on her hat. She responded eagerly and took off her hat to show me her head. She was on her fourth ovarian cancer bout, but didn’t seem bothered by it. “I’ve already outlived what my gynecologist thought,” she said with pleasure. The opening was too perfect. I asked her about life after death. “I’ll go to heaven,” she responded with conviction. “Does everyone go to heaven?” I asked. “No, sadly,” she responded and began to tell me how only those who believe and trust the Lord will reach heaven. A little more conversation proved her faith was placed in the person and work of Jesus and we’d found a sister.
Papa and I arrived home safe and sound and we all enjoyed a splendid meal, seasoned by grace. After swapping stories the whole family joined hands and prayed. We prayed for Amber and her mom.
About an hour ago the phone rang and Amber’s excited voice came over the line. “I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour!” She then related how she and her mom had gone to the Laundromat, and she’d been inspired to strike up a conversation with a lady there. That target proved to be a believer, but a bystander was listening intently. Amber turned to her and asked, “What about you?” Soon she was embroiled in a discussion with a woman obviously embroiled in a cult. At a loss, she gave up. It was then that her mom stepped in, quoting verse after verse of scripture. Later she was surprised at herself and could only give all the glory to the Lord.
Amber excitedly recognized two things—that the Lord could work through anyone, and also that her mother’s diligent study of scripture as a young woman had paid off. It was still hidden in her heart. Excited again about the Word of the Lord, she and her mother were looking up scriptures together. “I wonder if my Bible’s forgotten what I look like?” Amber said over the phone. Then she giggled. “I’m so excited!”
The Lord is so powerful! Praise Him!
Lord, Thou art a God who’s near
Not far, Thou art a God who hears
And answers, Thou wilt always prove
The power of Thy matchless love.
And Lord, Thy word is such a light
A lamp, that grows forever bright
And clear, when we trust and obey
The Word Thou spoke that matchless day.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
April is as refreshing as the month whose name she bears. God has been merciful to me in His choice of friends for me. She stayed until noon, and we caught up on the Lord’s work in each of us—sharing, listening and confirming or conversing. I’ve been missing her. It’s amazing the bond we have, for as little time as we get to spend together. Somehow, when we are together, we just click—I can be completely honest with her, transparent and vulnerable and she is the same with me. The bond between the Lord’s people is truly a great mystery.
Miss Bethany Day has a knack for playing the drums. Josiah sat her down on his stool and she went at it with both sticks, an eager bass peddle foot and a rhythm that embarrasses me. Five years old, and if she had a drum set, she’d be beating up the neighborhood.
I called Ashley to invite her over tomorrow afternoon—with her boyfriend and son if they would like to come. I’ve gotten some good counsel from Papa and Jon Day and think I’ve got some good direction how to proceed with her. First she needs to bear fruit in keeping with repentance by ceasing her fornication. Next, she needs to be baptized and get into some church fellowship. It sounds simple, easy and straight-forward on paper. I can only pray it will be as simple and clear. I’ve had no answer.
Juana answered her phone, but she was eating dinner, and I offered to call her back later. I couldn’t detect any particular enthusiasm in her voice—wouldn’t she be eager to hear from me? When I called again, she didn’t answer, and apparently has a new phone with no answering service yet.
Another woman answered at Ellen’s house and told me she was gone taking her daughter to the hospital. She took the message that I’d called and asked me to call another time.
Now I’m left to myself, wondering if these were true or false conversions. They heard the true gospel. Was it just fire insurance? Something they thought they could do once and be saved from hell? I shared the meaning of repentance. I explained the need to read their Bibles and obey what they read. I left Ellen and Ashley both eagerly devouring the gospel of John. What’s wrong? Is it me? Is it them? Is it just the enemy? How do I pray down this phone block? What in the world am I supposed to do? I’ve cried and prayed, and prayed and cried. I’ve asked for prayer. I’ve begged the Lord for help. I can’t do this on my own. I’ve told Him over and over again. I didn’t get myself here, I didn’t get them here. He did it all. He’s got control over this, somehow, some way that I can’t understand. I’m trying to be obedient. I’m scared to death to call them—scared I’ll figure out it wasn’t for real, or that they don’t want to serve the Lord. But I’ve done it. Over and over and over and over and over again. Why is there no answer?
My mind repeats like a broken record: You didn’t read your Bible enough today. You didn’t pray enough today. You’ve failed today. You’ve not been perfect today. You didn’t read your Bible enough today.
I know it’s the enemy. It’s probably true. Satan puts some truth in every lie. It’s true that I wasn’t perfect. It’s true that I didn’t read my Bible or pray enough today. I never do. It’s not possible to read my Bible or pray enough, because that’s a legalistic view of a relationship. I can’t quantify my devotion, but more importantly, it doesn’t matter. It’s an overvalue of my works—as if I could make things happen through my piety.
It’s the same enemy who whispers, “Don’t call her yet. You’ve not prepared enough. You’d better go pray and read your Bible some more. You won’t have any answers for her.” I know I need to pray and study, but I’ve also got to act. I’ve got to be a doer of the Word, not merely a hearer who deludes herself.
But now, when I’ve obeyed, now what? Now that she’s not answered.
Now I should go read my Bible and pray some more.
Lord, I dare no more delay
What Thou hast bid, that I obey.
Excuses are deception’s wiles
That bid me tarry yet awhile.
Then, when I’ve done what Thou hast bid
Lord, though Thy purpose still be hid,
And though the answer be not clear
What can I do, but bend Thy ear?
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Meagan came with me as my lovely assistant, and was great moral support and has some great scriptures to add multiple times. The first five people I talked with were already believers—really and truly healthy Christians. They passed all the tests with which I grilled them. Disappointment began to wrap it’s cold fingers around my heart, but the Lord encouraged me to reach out to them as His children—whom He had brought there that day for whatever purpose. The next lady was also a believer, but was not in her Bible like she should be. She mentioned several of her favorite stories, all conveniently from the gospel of John, so I just opened the Word and began reading with her until the doctor came in.
After that we talked to a nineteen-year-old girl about to have her wisdom teeth removed. She claimed to be Baptist, professed a deep love for Jesus and believed that when she died she would come back around as something else—a panther, she hoped. I launched in with the ten commandments and finally worked her around to admission that she deserved hell. Then she took refuge in two things—a false belief that Jesus loved everyone and forgave everyone because that’s what her preacher Grandpa told her, and a stubborn unwillingness to allow Jesus to “pay her fine”. She felt like she should pay the penalty for her own sins. Sadly, if she continues in them, she will.
We talked with her for over an hour before coming back out into the daylight to catch our breath. The office manager told us she thought all the rest of the patients on that wing had been spoken to, so when Nick asked me to talk to a lady in one of the rooms, I very nearly told him “no”. He pointed out that she had no blue bag (the goodie bags we gave each patient, complete with a Bible, “Hell’s Best Kept Secret”, a tract and another booklet), so I dutifully entered and inquired if anyone had spoken with her.
Ellen was her name, her face and figure bore traces of at least fifty hard years and no one had yet visited with her. I asked about her religious background. She, too, was Baptist. I asked her who Jesus was. She responded that He was her best friend and she prayed to Him all the time—even that He was the one who had gotten her there today. Seeking a confession of His deity, I questioned why she would pray to Him. From there I launched into the good person gospel message. She was almost too compliant. After going through a few of the ten commandments, she proclaimed herself guilty, headed for hell and concerned about it. So I shared God’s beautiful story—who Jesus really was and why He is worthy of our worship. I wound up with the need for repentance and trust in Jesus and asked, “Is that something you’d like to do?”
I’ve gotten this far with people in the past. Some had even been receptive until this question, when they’d immediately discovered some convenient excuse to delay.
The simple word startled me. “Yes.”
My heart leaped and lodged in my throat. “You would?”
“Yes!” she said, determination in her voice.
I asked her just to pray to the Lord, and she did, the poured out soul of the penitent. I knelt beside her and held her hand as we both cried and prayed.
When I opened my eyes to look at her the light of Christ had filled her eyes and face. And sketched across her features was hunger—for more. “Give me a hug,” she pleaded. I showed her the Bible in her pack, found and marked the gospel of John for her, exchanged phone numbers, and gave her a highlighter for her reading. Immediately she began reading, urging me to go on so I could share the good news with others.
I squeezed her shoulder and whispered, “I love you.”
She echoed the words and added, “Thank you.”
When I brought the others in to meet her later, by their request, she had already read and marked up the first couple of chapters in John. “It’s good so far!” she smiled, and at that moment she seemed the most beautiful woman God has ever made. I understand, now, why a mother always thinks her baby the most beautiful.
Ellen was the last person any of us spoke to today. And she was very nearly missed. But she was right. Jesus had brought her there on purpose—even as the last person to be seen, the last person to be spoken to—the only one who made the immediate decision to make Him Lord. I was awestruck, watching the Lord work in a heart He had already prepared. I did so little, said so little—yet His Holy Spirit quickened her spirit to respond and all the glory was His.
Praise His name!
Lord, I’ve watched Thy word give birth
And measured out it’s perfect worth
To close the mouths of all in sin
Revitalize the soul within.
I praise Thee for the chance to see
Thy grace across eternity
To know that Thou art three times holy
And that this work comes from Thee only.
Friday, November 9, 2007
The first: a pretty pathetic attempt at boldness, when I handed the cashier in the Goodwill a million dollar bill and told her to turn it over and read the million dollar question on the back. “It’s a gospel tract” I said. “Neat,” she answered, tucking it into her cash drawer. “I’ll show it to my boss.”
The second: over lunch in the Caf, a friend of April’s named Justin who sat across from me—a nervous, little art student who actually spoke to me first. I launched in mercilessly over the din and dinner, but when I wound up by asking him if he wanted to do something about his eternal welfare he said softly, “I—I think I’m fine. Thanks.” After he’d confessed that he was damned and headed to hell and that concerned him, I couldn’t help blurting out, “You think you’re fine heading for hell?” Quiet for a long time. Obviously, he didn’t hold it against me, since he struck up a conversation in a different thread after a while and we parted company amiably.
The third: arrived at the dental clinic, folks were signing up for Free Day tomorrow, and a Latino man was discussing with Papa about making his last payment on his bill. He needed some change, and when Papa went inside to retrieve it, I handed him a million dollar bill and engaged him in some conversation about it. He said he used to believe, but now there is anger in his heart. He’s been waiting for the Lord to do something to show him that he ought to serve Him. When Papa returned with the change, he held up the bill, “Look! I just became a millionaire.” Ricardo was his name, and he struggled with not understanding when he read the Bible. Papa gave him his telephone number and asked him to call sometime.
I know three is a start. In retrospect, I can only dwell on all those missed opportunities—those promptings I ignored. The multiple guys who hung around trying to help me in Lowe’s, no doubt because at eight o’clock in the morning, there’s very little else to do. Or the ladies at the counter who engaged me in friendly conversation. How many people did I walk right past in Wal-Mart? There were students everywhere on campus, relaxing and having fun because class was out for the week. I carried the message of Life Eternal in my purse and heart and I walked right past them.
Why am I so hesitant to obey? I’m pumped about tomorrow—an easy chance to share the gospel—but I pass up easy chances nearly every day. And I ignore the spiritual darkness in some of those I love the most.
Lord, today I ached for three
While millions more were lost to Thee.
The weight of few is such a load
How could Thou bear Golgotha’s road?
And Lord, so few ache for a few,
If only Thou would raise anew
A horde of harvesters to toil
And spread the word on fruitful soil.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
We went out on the town today and Mom and I got our licenses, as well as my much longed-for paint. The rumors I’ve heard of spelunking in Leonard’s are true. That place is like the mazes of Greek mythology, but at least the workers are nice. As in, nicer than is necessary. The guy who mixed my paint for me gave us the contractors price—on one can of paint—which saved us about twenty-five percent. I can accept that as a gift from the Lord, though I certainly wouldn’t consider myself deserving of any gifts at the moment.
Lauryn and Emily allowed me to intrude upon their lunch date at Quizzno’s and I got to catch up with Lauryn and her prayer requests. “Those girls are precious” will probably be a most commonly used phrase in this journal, and I need to learn more creative ways to get across the same concept. “She makes my heart swell like a pregnant kitty.” Somehow, that’s just not cutting it.
The Lord gave me an extra nudge. When I logged into my facebook, courtesy of Emily’s computer, I was reminded of two of the people the Lord had laid on my heart yesterday. He’s answering my prayer to pester me about them. I feel so lost and helpless. All I know is that I want to do this thing for the Lord, and I want to see these girls brought to repentance and new life in Him, even as I’ve witnessed in myself and others. Why am I so timid?
Paul told Timothy to fan into flame his gift—apparently evangelism. And he said, “God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of POWER, LOVE and DISCIPLINE.” No one ever quotes that verse with the last two, but they really struck me. God’s given us His power to speak out in boldness. He’s also given us His love for the lost to speak out in boldness. And He’s given us His discipline—after all, we are His disciples. It’s not easy. It takes effort and practice—even for someone with the gift of evangelism, as Timothy had. But it’s something God’s given us, and we’d better be using it.
Lord, I’ve got the power inside
Which formed the moon to rule the tide.
I’ve got the love which sent Thy Son
To give His life for everyone.
I’ve got Thy holy discipline
Now freeing me from self and sin.
Why do I fear the broken soul
When Thou hast made my own heart whole?