Herein I celebrate the three month anniversary of my segue into Arkansas living.
Curiosity caused me to run a word count on my journal, and I discovered that the enormity of simply living this change spans enough journaling to fill a novel. A rather interesting correlation: were I to spend the same amount of time each day on one of the novels I’ve started, I could expect to finish within three months. Somehow those projects seem a bit more manageable with my newfound knowledge.
Lydia and I moved into Mom and Papa’s room for the day and stoked their small stove as full as it could handle. When the boys joined us a short time later to show off a video they’d shot in the living room, they were amazed how toasty we were. Actually feeling hot seemed such a luxury that I made no effort to delayer. Silly videos shot with Dathan’s puny digital camera set the wheels of creativity spinning, and soon we’d developed a who production team: Josiah and Dathan starring as Li’l JoJo and Dat Udder Dude in the short film “Homely Hobos: Upside down or Rightside Up?” field directed by Mr. Penguin (a.k.a. Nick) and produced and scored by Yours Truly. “Proud of ourselves” hardly even begins to describe our feelings upon viewing the finished short.
Since the move, three months ago, so many things have changed, shifted, become clear or grown more confused. I remember the excitement, the expectancy when we moved, as I waited to see what God would do. Much of that has faded. Some has even tarnished into worry, confusion and doubt. What has He done so far? Only He knows fully. The mystery still remains. What will He do? Only one thing can I say for certain: He will glorify Himself.
Lord, Thy plan is simple, truly:
Thou wilt have the praise that’s due Thee.
Complications come when man
Adds amendments to Thy plan.
My mind can’t grasp the Pleiades tail
And yet I think their Maker fails
And, by my wit, rewrite Thy story
Thinking to bring greater glory.
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Christmas Day, Tuesday, December 25, 2007
My Christmas Day revelation began this morning when I climbed into the shower, and was completed as I packed my bags for the trip home. I am a nerd. Only a nerd would forget to pack enough extra underwear while managing a meticulous book bag—complete with multiple books, Bibles, highlighters, pens, notebooks, laptop and every cord needed for enjoying the same. And the definition of the word “meticulous” leaves the comparative weights of the two bags to the reader’s imagination.
It seems I always write my thorns in the flesh, my struggles, the hard things. It’s true, because I write them to get them out of my system. The good things, the happy things I want to savor, to keep, but not to evaluate, pick apart, weigh out and measure. But I do want to remember them, and for the sake of memorial, I should record them with equal determination.
The trip home was shortened by sleep, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” and lighthearted teasing. Said Mom after switching drivers, “Ooh! I left my keys in the back.” Papa looked up from his book and waited for the punchline. “Do you want to go somewhere right away or should I crawl back there and get them?” Fishing his keys out of his back pocket, Papa wondered, “If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just ask?” Mom shrugged. “I just wanted you to say, ‘Oh here, sweetheart. You can use mine.” The corners of Papa’s mouth twitched as he handed the keys over. “I see,” he said, then added “Sweatheart.”
A few minutes later I heard him clear his voice as he studied the GPS. “I bet you didn’t realize what happens when the sun goes down.” We all perked up, waiting for some nifty, new information his toy would provide. “It gets dark.” Bewildered, Josiah and I looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “Stick around me,” Papa advised, “And you’re likely to learn a lot.”
The heavy cooler banged against my legs as I stopped short on the porch, my mouth dropping open. The first one to the house, I knew the French door standing wide open could mean only one thing: it had been standing open for the past five days. My stomach flip-flopped as I walked into the dark house, but the only obvious intruders were a couple of crinkly leaves.
Before leaving Grandma’s house this morning, we watched “The Nativity Story”, courtesy of Nathaniel and Lauren. I was struck by the picture it painted of Joseph “a righteous man” who also exhibited impressive mercy and instant obedience. Inspired, I searched out everything the Bible had to say about this surrogate father of Christ and found very little. Not a single word. Not one. In spite of having a non-speaking part in the drama of the incarnation, this man’s actions spoke with profound eloquence. As a righteous man, he could not marry Mary and smear his own reputation by acknowledging her child his own. And yet, he would not accuse her, see her stone and free himself to marry another. Instead, sacrificing his own happiness, since he would not be able to marry later, he intended to divorce her quietly and spare her life and that of her child. Joseph was a man of God—unable to live with sin, unwilling to destroy the sinner. In the footsteps of his namesake, Joseph receives three dreams from the Lord, and immediately rises from his bed and obeys—even at risk to himself, his reputation and his business. May I be just, abhorring the presence of sin in my own life, yet merciful to those caught in its snare, and always, instantly, unquestioningly obedient to the Word of the Lord.
Lord, Thy mercy overlooked
The sins Thou’d written in Thy book
Until the time that Thou could send
Thy Son to seek and save all men.
May I, too, be quick to see
The need of all humanity
For the mercy Thou would give
That those who judge themselves might live.
It seems I always write my thorns in the flesh, my struggles, the hard things. It’s true, because I write them to get them out of my system. The good things, the happy things I want to savor, to keep, but not to evaluate, pick apart, weigh out and measure. But I do want to remember them, and for the sake of memorial, I should record them with equal determination.
The trip home was shortened by sleep, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” and lighthearted teasing. Said Mom after switching drivers, “Ooh! I left my keys in the back.” Papa looked up from his book and waited for the punchline. “Do you want to go somewhere right away or should I crawl back there and get them?” Fishing his keys out of his back pocket, Papa wondered, “If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just ask?” Mom shrugged. “I just wanted you to say, ‘Oh here, sweetheart. You can use mine.” The corners of Papa’s mouth twitched as he handed the keys over. “I see,” he said, then added “Sweatheart.”
A few minutes later I heard him clear his voice as he studied the GPS. “I bet you didn’t realize what happens when the sun goes down.” We all perked up, waiting for some nifty, new information his toy would provide. “It gets dark.” Bewildered, Josiah and I looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “Stick around me,” Papa advised, “And you’re likely to learn a lot.”
The heavy cooler banged against my legs as I stopped short on the porch, my mouth dropping open. The first one to the house, I knew the French door standing wide open could mean only one thing: it had been standing open for the past five days. My stomach flip-flopped as I walked into the dark house, but the only obvious intruders were a couple of crinkly leaves.
Before leaving Grandma’s house this morning, we watched “The Nativity Story”, courtesy of Nathaniel and Lauren. I was struck by the picture it painted of Joseph “a righteous man” who also exhibited impressive mercy and instant obedience. Inspired, I searched out everything the Bible had to say about this surrogate father of Christ and found very little. Not a single word. Not one. In spite of having a non-speaking part in the drama of the incarnation, this man’s actions spoke with profound eloquence. As a righteous man, he could not marry Mary and smear his own reputation by acknowledging her child his own. And yet, he would not accuse her, see her stone and free himself to marry another. Instead, sacrificing his own happiness, since he would not be able to marry later, he intended to divorce her quietly and spare her life and that of her child. Joseph was a man of God—unable to live with sin, unwilling to destroy the sinner. In the footsteps of his namesake, Joseph receives three dreams from the Lord, and immediately rises from his bed and obeys—even at risk to himself, his reputation and his business. May I be just, abhorring the presence of sin in my own life, yet merciful to those caught in its snare, and always, instantly, unquestioningly obedient to the Word of the Lord.
Lord, Thy mercy overlooked
The sins Thou’d written in Thy book
Until the time that Thou could send
Thy Son to seek and save all men.
May I, too, be quick to see
The need of all humanity
For the mercy Thou would give
That those who judge themselves might live.
Christmas Eve, Monday, December 24, 2007
If I have an addiction, it is embodied in the form of an inconspicuous stick of gum. Gum is the solace I seek before diving into any grueling task: running several miles, sewing a dress, shopping, drumming or peeling potatoes—huge pots full, like today. When I wheedlingly asked Grandma if she had a hidden stash of the needed item, she responded, “Sure. And get me a piece, too. We might as well live dangerously.”
The snow drifted up several inches high under the edge of Grandma’s roof. As I stood at the window, looking longingly out into the brilliant sunshine, I remembered the year, not so long ago, when the drifts mounted up to better than five feet. Josiah and I scrambled up the TV antenna and jumped off the roof, to land safely in the piles of snow beneath. I don’t believe we’ll have enough padding this year for a repeat performance.
About half of the Knox family dropped by, in shifts, to say “hello” and “Merry Christmas”. Kansas still holds some of the most precious people God has made.
By about five o’clock Nathaniel and Lauren had arrived, and the rest of the family followed shortly after. You know how Christmas goes: talk, laugh, reminisce, eat a huge meal, eat tons of dessert, read the Christmas story, open gifts. Grandma threw in a fun twist by adding a game that soon had us all laughing. The house was mostly quiet again by eight-thirty or so.
I drummed for a little while, until Grandma protested. As I sat quietly, listening to Papa and Grandma discuss people, places and events, my drumsticks clicked and Grandma exclaimed, “Well, Abigail!” Instantly Papa commanded, “Abigail, shut your eyes.” I always feel so humiliated when he treats me like a five-year-old. He didn’t even know what Grandma had exclaimed about, and she was only teasing. Perhaps he only wants to keep me a little child, and so treats me like one—sometimes. Later, after an explanation of the affair, he said, simply, “Well, it never hurts you to close your eyes.” If he only knew. My imagination is powerful, and, if I concentrate hard enough I can remember the tiniest glimmer of repentance. Grandma made amends, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
It’s past eleven now, and Nathaniel and Papa show no promise of quitting the living room, where I am to bed down after being booted out of the guest room by my brother and sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall bid them Merry Christmas at the same time I wish them a good night.
I wish I could claim some beautiful spiritual revelation for Christmas Eve. Quite frankly, I hardly had a thought to myself, and my Bible reading was barely long-enough to support a spiritual midget. How could Christmas have become so distorted that the day I should celebrate my Lord and Savior the most is so wrapped up in “other things” that I give little more than a nod in His general direction?
Lord, I claim to celebrate,
But tell Thee Thou wilt have to wait
For many things of many hues
Are claiming what, to Thee, is due.
God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,
When finally we cease this din,
I pray before we seek our rest
We’d thank Thee for Thy gift—the best.
The snow drifted up several inches high under the edge of Grandma’s roof. As I stood at the window, looking longingly out into the brilliant sunshine, I remembered the year, not so long ago, when the drifts mounted up to better than five feet. Josiah and I scrambled up the TV antenna and jumped off the roof, to land safely in the piles of snow beneath. I don’t believe we’ll have enough padding this year for a repeat performance.
About half of the Knox family dropped by, in shifts, to say “hello” and “Merry Christmas”. Kansas still holds some of the most precious people God has made.
By about five o’clock Nathaniel and Lauren had arrived, and the rest of the family followed shortly after. You know how Christmas goes: talk, laugh, reminisce, eat a huge meal, eat tons of dessert, read the Christmas story, open gifts. Grandma threw in a fun twist by adding a game that soon had us all laughing. The house was mostly quiet again by eight-thirty or so.
I drummed for a little while, until Grandma protested. As I sat quietly, listening to Papa and Grandma discuss people, places and events, my drumsticks clicked and Grandma exclaimed, “Well, Abigail!” Instantly Papa commanded, “Abigail, shut your eyes.” I always feel so humiliated when he treats me like a five-year-old. He didn’t even know what Grandma had exclaimed about, and she was only teasing. Perhaps he only wants to keep me a little child, and so treats me like one—sometimes. Later, after an explanation of the affair, he said, simply, “Well, it never hurts you to close your eyes.” If he only knew. My imagination is powerful, and, if I concentrate hard enough I can remember the tiniest glimmer of repentance. Grandma made amends, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
It’s past eleven now, and Nathaniel and Papa show no promise of quitting the living room, where I am to bed down after being booted out of the guest room by my brother and sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall bid them Merry Christmas at the same time I wish them a good night.
I wish I could claim some beautiful spiritual revelation for Christmas Eve. Quite frankly, I hardly had a thought to myself, and my Bible reading was barely long-enough to support a spiritual midget. How could Christmas have become so distorted that the day I should celebrate my Lord and Savior the most is so wrapped up in “other things” that I give little more than a nod in His general direction?
Lord, I claim to celebrate,
But tell Thee Thou wilt have to wait
For many things of many hues
Are claiming what, to Thee, is due.
God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,
When finally we cease this din,
I pray before we seek our rest
We’d thank Thee for Thy gift—the best.
Friday, December 21, 2007
One thing I don’t miss about Kansas: the wind. I woke to the world, in time to take over the wheel and navigate Highway 400. A wave of nostalgia swept over me as I scanned the horizon—something I’d not done since we moved from the land of the big sky in October. But I was soon reminded, during a walk with Damaris, that wide open spaces come with wind—in abundance. Hair that was long and curly when I headed out resembled something of a discarded bird’s nest when I returned.
Road trips have evolved enormously from the days when I was a youngster. Imagine me, pointing my cane and muttering, “When I was a youngster, we listened to cassette tapes and colored in coloring books, and kept plenty of quarters around for payphones on trips home for Christmas.” I spent most of this trip, busily catching up on e-mails connected on my laptop through an AT&T wireless device. Papa read out our speed, elevation, time, longitude and latitude from the GPS wired into our windshield—in between chatting on his Bluetooth, of course while Mom enjoyed the Christmas music I’d ripped to an mp3 player. The only improvement I could think up would be “in-flight” fueling.
Upon reaching the Willises, I had high hopes that someone would comment how much I’ve grown. No such luck. Some growth simply isn’t measured in inches.
The uprooting, far from setting me back, has caused me to turn my face toward the Son and bloom with all my might. I left such a short time ago, a sheltered Kansas girl. I return, overwhelmed by the smallness of the world and the enormity of my Lord. I left, wondering what the Lord had in store for me. I return, knowing His plan remains the same as always—to glorify Him.
But I find I sympathize with my Savior “A prophet is without honor in his hometown and among his own relatives.” Is it a circle? Because I know my own family, my own hometown will watch me critically, smiling and patting me on the head as an eternal little girl, I close myself up inside, shrink back into the stature of a child and try to hide behind memories. It is hardest to share my heart with those who share my life.
Have I grown? I dare not stand next to the measuring tape my own family would hold.
Lord, Thou plants and Thou dost prune
And though the outcome seems not soon
The perfect plan that Thou hast drawn
Becomes more clear with each new dawn.
The measuring tape that others hold
Is not the stature I uphold.
I’ll never reach these plans, save one:
The measure of Thy perfect Son.
Road trips have evolved enormously from the days when I was a youngster. Imagine me, pointing my cane and muttering, “When I was a youngster, we listened to cassette tapes and colored in coloring books, and kept plenty of quarters around for payphones on trips home for Christmas.” I spent most of this trip, busily catching up on e-mails connected on my laptop through an AT&T wireless device. Papa read out our speed, elevation, time, longitude and latitude from the GPS wired into our windshield—in between chatting on his Bluetooth, of course while Mom enjoyed the Christmas music I’d ripped to an mp3 player. The only improvement I could think up would be “in-flight” fueling.
Upon reaching the Willises, I had high hopes that someone would comment how much I’ve grown. No such luck. Some growth simply isn’t measured in inches.
The uprooting, far from setting me back, has caused me to turn my face toward the Son and bloom with all my might. I left such a short time ago, a sheltered Kansas girl. I return, overwhelmed by the smallness of the world and the enormity of my Lord. I left, wondering what the Lord had in store for me. I return, knowing His plan remains the same as always—to glorify Him.
But I find I sympathize with my Savior “A prophet is without honor in his hometown and among his own relatives.” Is it a circle? Because I know my own family, my own hometown will watch me critically, smiling and patting me on the head as an eternal little girl, I close myself up inside, shrink back into the stature of a child and try to hide behind memories. It is hardest to share my heart with those who share my life.
Have I grown? I dare not stand next to the measuring tape my own family would hold.
Lord, Thou plants and Thou dost prune
And though the outcome seems not soon
The perfect plan that Thou hast drawn
Becomes more clear with each new dawn.
The measuring tape that others hold
Is not the stature I uphold.
I’ll never reach these plans, save one:
The measure of Thy perfect Son.