Saturday, January 15, 2011

“God has made everything appropriate in its time. He has also set eternity in their heart, yet so that man will not find out the work which God has done from the beginning even to the end.” ~Ecclesiastes 3:11

Sunshine is a common grace, they say, but today it made me ponder how delicious will be the Sonshine, when it is Christ who gives light in the Eternal City.

Slowly, slowly, Lydia and I are winning the war against the leaf infiltration. They have run out of reinforcements and we are obliterating them, one pile at a time. Perhaps by spring, we will have reduced them all to ashes.

Usually Maggie and Freckles play very nicely. In fact, Maggie is more than delighted with her daily outing, accompanying me and Freckles on the trek down the driveway to get the mail. Today, returned home, she discovered a very nasty pelt in our yard, and when Freckles approached inquisitively, attacked her ferociously, pinning her to the ground and going for her throat. I intervened and ordered Maggie home. Reluctantly, she watched from the hedges, her eyes hard with greed, contemplating the best way to snag her desired object as I kicked the disgusting thing into the woods and sent Freckles up to the house. Later, she slunk back and retrieved it, stealing it away home as her trophy. Lydia heaved an indignant sigh when she discovered a bloody little hole punched through Freckles’ ear.

When we all came down the porch steps, decked in coats and boots, Freckles’ tail reached an RPM of at least 100. Ah, but, poor puppy. As soon as I said, “Good-bye, puppy” her tail stopped and her ears drooped.

“You were talking about me, I know you were,” Lydia accused, trying to hide a grin, as she climbed into the back seat of the Camry next to me. Actually, we were. We were talking about how she perfectly pulls the athletic girl style—with the dress up look of a polo of button-up shirt. Her hair was up in a pony-tail with a black sport head band wrapped around her ears, and the look just seemed made for her.

“We were saying how cute you are,” Papa teased, from the front seat.

“That’s Abigail,” Lydia shot back. “I get to be something else.”

“Actually,” I joined the conversation, “I’ve been demoted. You are the new cute. I’ll confess, it’s a sad day for me to let go and move on, but you have certainly surpassed me. So with great strength of character and fortitude, I resign the title. Wear it proudly.”

Lydia scowled. “Nice try.”

We followed Bruce and April and Jocelyn up highway seven, destination: Pedestal Rocks. On a road that curvy, Papa found his driver’s side tires straying into the center line at times—sending a buzz up Lydia’s and my spine that felt like it vibrated our bodies from toe to top, leaving our hair frizzed.

Arrived, we divided our carrying items and struck out down the trail. “We ought to tie a rope to Speed Boat and just get a free ride,” I heard Mom’s voice ring out behind me on the trail. I hadn’t meant to be walking so quickly, but the rugged terrain, the sunshine and fresh air and the sense of adventure felt marvelous. Arrived at the rocks, Speed Boat Senior (aka Papa) forged ahead with Mom in tow, while the rest of us clambered up and down the pedestals posing for pictures, starting snow-ball fights and marveling at the interesting rock formations—pedestals (surprise, surprise), random holes, fissures, cracks and caves. Not to mention a few used-to-be overhangs. Sometime, when Spring arrives and we are less encumbered by extra clothing, it would be fun to tackle a few of the harder rocks for some climbing.

As we hurried down the end of the trail, April squealed. “Rose hips!” Closer inspection revealed the bright, red berries, sprouting from the slender, thorny stems of rose plants. “Try getting a close up from the middle of the bush,” Jocelyn teased, as I worked for just the right angle with the camera. A twinge of daring stubbornness crept up my spine, and I lifted one thorny branch and slipped underneath. I did get better pictures from the middle, but as I turned to retrace my steps, my glow of pride at braving the bush died. Unknown to me, Bruce had been carefully holding the brambles away from me the whole time. How often do I think myself brave, completely unaware of the Father’s careful protection?

After supper, I settled in to finally start reading “Living the Cross Centered Life” by CJ Mahaney. Once upon a time I devoured books like they would melt in the manner of manna. I just don’t seem to find the time for much reading these days. I know that only One Book is necessary, and I often feel like it lies neglected in various corners of my living space far too often. But as I began to read, it seemed like very appropriate timing. I’ve hated that my life has seemed overwhelmed by secondary importances—theological issues, practical issues, relational issues, life issues, grief issues, heart issues, sin issues, disagreement issues, tissue issues. I’ve been praying and reading, but it’s been because I must, not because I can. I must solve these issues. But prayer is a privilege. In the past it was like walking into the King’s throne room and being invited to sit on His lap and lay my head against His chest and listen to His heart. And reading is a love-story. It’s like stealing away to a secret nook to pore over letters from my Betrothed, learning how He thinks and what pleases Him and what a home He is preparing for me. I needed someone to say to me, “Abigail…only one thing is important…it’s the good part that Mary chose…sitting at the Lord’s feet.” Meditating. Focusing. I needed someone to push aside the clambering “needs” and take me by the hand and lead me back to the cross. At first I felt stupid, ready to attack myself with condemnations that would delight my enemy. I should know better. I know what the One Priority is. Or Who, rather. But that isn’t the point, either. Condemnation, Mahaney reminds me, is also eyes not fixed on the cross. My answer is not to condemn myself for folly or blindness, but to give thanks for God’s indescribable gift.

Lydia padded softly into the room and scooted down beside me. “It’s still early,” she whispered. “Will you do something with me?”

Then comes the wrestling. Is it selfish that I want to be by myself with the Lord? That I don’t want to do something with her? Is it because I want to “feel better”? She’s lonely. I don’t know. Only One Thing is important, but other things are still important.

We discussed the virtues of various books and finally read Little House on the Prairie, snuggled up in bed with our heat blankets set on 9.

As I sat against the back wall of my bathroom—my study—just pondering the Lord’s character—His goodness and His mercy and His faithfulness—words from the Preacher in Ecclesiastes came back to mind. “There is a time for every event under heaven…” Berating myself for my lack of joy and passion lately, perhaps I have forgotten that sometimes there is a time for sorrow. A time to mourn. Even to mourn before the Lord. Because some of the things that break my heart must also be sorrowful to Him. He doesn’t delight in inflicting pain. He doesn’t smile on a wayward path. He hates divorce. Divisions are like wounds in His own body. He can’t rejoice in seeing His blood trampled as unholy. As I opened up to read the Preacher’s words, I nodded. “In much wisdom there is much grief and increasing knowledge results in increasing pain.” It seems, as I plead for wisdom and understanding, I discover more that grieves me. Yet which is worse, to pursue folly in blithe ignorance, or to seek to know what is right only to find that the road of obedience is rugged? But again, the eternal perspective refreshed me. “He has made everything appropriate in its time.” Even weeping. Even mourning. Even silence. Even uprooting. The purpose? To put in our hearts a longing for eternity. “He has also set eternity in their heart, yet so that man will not find out the work which God has done from the beginning to the end.” I don’t have answers because God does not intend me to know in this life what His purposes are. Why He tarries. Why He permits. Why He withholds. Why He is silent. In unfulfilled longing is hope. “I know that everything God does will remain forever, there is nothing to add to it and there is nothing to take from it, for God has so worked that men should fear Him. That which is has been already, and that which will be has already been, for God seeks what has passed by.” And here is the Divine Parody—that even in mourning, even with a heavy heart, the gospel is still my hope. Because mourning turns my heart to eternity when all will be made right, when I will finally be perfected, when I will know fully even as I am fully known. And what is my guarantee? Christ’s work on the cross, proved acceptable by His resurrection. This is my promise of purpose. Him. Who fills all in all.

It’s still and quiet in this place,

You meet me here with saving grace.

You met me with this grace before

When I first owned that You were Lord.

And since that day, Your grace has been

The light that I am walking in.

When darkness has obscured my view

Your grace has turned my eyes toward You.

Friday, January 14, 2011

“I do not ask Thee to take them out of the world, but to keep them from the evil one.” ~John 17:15

Overachiever that I am doomed to be, it’s a rare thing when my marker board turns up empty at the end of the week. I’d done at least all I could on every task. Every to-do wiped clean. As I wiped the last one away, I stood in awe. Well, thank you, Lord for your mercy.

We were eating supper when Freckles excitedly informed us that an intruding car had pulled into our parking lot. Soon Olga was inside, delivering eggs and chatting. Again Freckles barked, and we heard Justice’s steps on the porch. It was far too cold to bide his time in the car. We invited them in, passed them pieces of pumpkin cheesecake and settled in for a chat. We talked up and down all kinds of subjects and then Olga began sharing that she’d been reading up on some Russian culture lately. Things she remembered, but remembered differently, having been away. Looking back, she realized she’d never seen any “disabled” folks. Her study revealed that the Russian government had developed a tidy way to hide them away—essentially forgotten by their families, kept only among other disabled folks for their entire lives. “Anyone ‘irregular’,” she said, with disgust at the thought of considering them “deformed” or “undesirable.”

“You’ve been reading a lot in Russian, haven’t you,” Justice asked suddenly, as she finished what she was saying.

“Well, yes,” she answered, smiling.

“I can tell,” he explained, “Because your vocal patterns are different. You’re using lots of indefinite articles like ‘a work’ instead of ‘work.’”

Thus launched a very interesting discussion of Russian grammar. “Which is more difficult?” we asked, as she tried to explain at least half a dozen Russian tenses and the change it made simply in a noun. “Russian!” she declared quickly. “I’d rather speak English any day.”

Tonight I knelt on the cold tile in my bathroom, trying to pray—for so many people about so many situations. Overwhelmed with helplessness, I finally just opened to the simple prayer Jesus taught His disciples and began to personalize it. Then I turned to John 17 and read. All my life, I’ve begged the Lord to break me, pour me out and use me up, but I’m afraid I was overly confident. I’m so exhausted. So emotionally drained. I have been for several months. And I haven’t even come close to touching the life I have prayed to lead. Struggling to feed myself, not feeling like I’m being fed from anywhere else. All year, it has just seemed like one situation after another has sucked away my emotion and passion, and I have been helpless to refuel. I’m completely empty. I have nothing left to give. I’m shot.

And I’m so disgusted with myself. Why can’t I feed myself? Why do I come away from Bible Study still exhausted spiritually? I’m so stale. There’s no passion left for evangelism. I want to turn and walk away from anyone who spouts folly about God, instead of probing for their conscience. Where has my love gone? Where is the bold Spirit that used to come upon me? Where is the strength that once upheld me? The joy that drove me? The compassion that motivated me? Why am I shriveling up? When I’m years removed from true persecution, why am I moaning like a wounded animal? The Lord upholds prisoners in solitary confinement, He can uphold overdramatic me!

But the Lord Jesus’ words as He prayed for those whom God gave Him, sent a small fire back into my soul. I’d knelt, struggling to pray for others. Struggling to pray for others that I’ve been praying for with no visible results. Struggling to know what to pray. Weary. No words to speak. No direction to aim. Wondering if anyone has been praying for me? I’ve not been asking for prayer. Everyone seems to have so much already burdening their hearts and minds. Can’t I muddle through without troubling anyone? Can’t I handle these little loads that come my way? Can’t I even feed myself? There in the Garden, as His life and His heart were ebbing away, as He awaited His betrayer, as He prepared for separation from His holy Father, when He was drained and empty, He prayed for me. He prayed that I would glorify the Father, that I would continue in God’s name, that I would have full joy, that I would be kept from the evil one, that I would be made holy through God’s word, that I would be unified with my brothers and sisters, that I would love as He loves and that, someday, I would be with Him. And if God heard Him on my behalf regarding sin and my just punishment, as proven by His resurrection, then I rejoice knowing God heard Him on my behalf in the garden.

I am weary, hearing nothing, knowing nothing, feeling nothing

Empty words I’ve heard are only the reflection of myself.

But when Christ, my Life, knelt lonely in the Garden, pleading pardon

For my soul, that I’d be whole, and wholly yielded to the King,

He was heard, His words were spoken from a broken man, yet God

Found them pleasing, for this reason He was heard, His every word.

And I’m trusting that His pleading for the life that I am leading

Will be proven as I’m kept from death, His breath my daily bread.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

I’m an idiot because it’s midnight and I have my alarm set for 5 o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ve been skimming through my old journals, staring at the pages of time passed, wondering how it is that I was so much more focused, in love with the Lord and mature—three years ago. So much for the perseverance of the saints. How can I make these important things happen? Bible study, worship and journaling. I need them. They keep me spiritually vital. But when?

My heart has forgotten how to worship.

How did it happen? I don’t pour out praise, my mind is here now, poetry is long forgotten, music whispers in past history, my meditations are trying to sort out my deathly emotions. Where is God? Where is my passion? How can the two meet again?

Where, my heart, is worship hiding?
Hast thou left it by the way?
Now thou sleepest due to sorrow,
When thou shouldst wake, watch and pray.

Dare to plead again with Jesus,
Dare to wear thyself with praise
Dare to lose thy mind in worship
Dare to waste thy precious days
Seeking, groping, searching duly
For the Ancient One of Days.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

I’m a walking contradiction.

I’m such an impatient person. Such an idealist. I want everything in black and white and perfect. And I’m so ridiculously emotional. Nobody believes me. They all say I’m steady and predictable and dependable and controlled and confident and all kinds of nonsense. I’m not. My feelings wobble like a floppy top. I hate change when I’m comfortable, but when it seems inevitable then I like it drastic and dramatic and as quickly as possible, please. Especially if it seems like it will accomplish ideal.

I went to bed last night feeling weepy and frustrated because I see ideals in scripture and try to obey them, but they don’t seem to be working.

Like church. Christians divide over everything imaginable. Yet, where there are differences, it is hard to balance love and truth. Everyone has different priorities and different hills on which they are willing to die.

And romance.

And homeschooling. Half the kids I grew up with seem in grave danger of a fall because they are too naïve to recognize that the world is full of evil. Many of my homeschooled friends are trading in the values of their parents for whatever works.

And this whole “raising homemakers” thing seems to breed an awful lot of discontent young women.

I’m determined to cling to what I know is right, but why doesn’t it seem to work?

On the other hand, sometimes I feel like I’m compromising. Like I accept the best option instead of demanding perfect. Like, why do I help girls at Choices get signed up for Medicaid and WIC when I don’t believe in either? Why do I help them find jobs when I think it’s a curse on women to be in the work force? Why do I encourage them to bring children into the world when I know that children raised without fathers and in no fear of God have little likelihood of growing well? Yet in this case, I know that the overriding truth is that life belongs to God and it’s not for me to know or decide beyond doing my best to save life. Currently I do that legally and I employ legal means. If it becomes illegal, I will still seek to save lives. And I hope that perhaps I will have opportunity to introduce these women to a different way, but for now the priority is to save lives.

So maybe that’s the point with the other issues—the priority is not perfection. It’s not what works. It’s my obedience to what I know.

It’s very difficult.

This morning when I woke up, all my frustrations had run away with the Sand Man. They didn’t even seem important. Maybe I just get frustrated the more tired I am? And we had an excellent meeting. The S Family and a friend of theirs named John joined us for the meeting, which stretched until one o’clock with lots of encouragement.

It was a beautiful day, so when we got home, Papa and I hopped on his bike and I straddled his new saddle bags as we zipped all over Linker Mountain and Lander’s Loop. The whole ride I wrestled with ideal and simplifying the complicating factors of life as the scenery whizzed by.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t been journaling—because I’m feeling a bit confused and frustrated as I just want things to be either wrong or right. To either go away or happen. I just don’t like waiting.

Which is exactly what the Lord allows to teach me to keep my focus on Him.

Which is exactly what waiting requires—perseverance in doing good.

Lord Jesus, I’m always dissatisfied with the status quo, always frustrated with the slow pace of life and with all the things I perceive as wasted time, emotion and motion. But Father, I know that these are things You ordain and permit to cause me to grow into Your image. If You ordained everything to happen in perfect order and in ideal circumstances, where would I learn obedience? Where would I learn proven character? Where would I learn hope? And where would be the encouragement to fix my eyes on a heavenly kingdom which is imperishable and in which You dwell and rule and everything is perfect? Teach me to use my times of frustration to plead that Your kingdom would come and Your will be done on earth just as it is in heaven. Teach me to be forever dissatisfied with what I currently know and possess of You and always to hunger and thirst for You and for Your righteousness, with the promise that I would be filled. Lord, I’m distracted by things that aren’t even happening—just wanting them to happen so they’ll be over and I can get focused again—but You want to use them to teach me to focus. So strengthen me. You reveal Your goodness and Your worthiness to me every day, but be so kind as to reveal it again and again with constant reminders that I can’t ignore. Pursue me. Rope me in. Keep my eyes on You. I love You. Teach me to love You more.

Friday, April 18, 2008

“What does ‘manna’ mean?” I asked, over the breakfast table. Papa leaned back in his chair and smiled. “What is it?” Blank stares passed from one person to the next before Mom finally ventured, “Bread from heaven…?” Papa’s grin widened as he clarified. “Manna means ‘What is it?’”

Sunlight poured over my kitchen work as Mom came in and poured herself a glass of milk. “I need to be drinking more of this,” she commented and I took the opportunity to ask about all the medical tests she’s been having lately. Many of them are just routine “woman” checks, but I sensed that all is not as she might wish. “My bone density scan was pretty…pretty bad,” she admitted. “Much worse than someone my age should be. I’m not quite osteoporosis, but almost.” And she started crying. “What can you do about it?” I asked, pushing away my mixing bowl and wrapping my arms around her. Nothing. She doesn’t weigh enough to make exercising very useful. Not that she should stop, of course. It just won’t help. More milk will never do it. Medication is on the horizon, but many doctors won’t even take the medications they prescribe. “So, what does that mean? What will it do to you? Are you going to fall and break your hips?” She wiped her eyes and grinned a little lop-sided. “I don’t really know. I don’t think it’s that bad. I just don’t like getting old.” Papa’s blood pressure has been up, too. Pretty high, I guess. “It pounds in my face, turning me red, and gives me headaches,” he explained to me as we walked along the quiet road. Stress always sends his blood pressure sky-rocketing. If I could, I would heal everything instantly, but in this I see the limit to my wisdom, for what valuable lessons might be all lose were there never a care in the world? A pain. An ache. A void.

I overheard Lydia announcing a loose tooth tonight. In this are our differing characters revealed: Lydia’s patience in waiting until each tooth falls out—the last one in several pieces, it was so far gone. My controlling lack of it, in ripping every one out as soon as it gave the first sign of a tell-tale wiggle—many still had part of the root. “I hath a looth tooth!” she proudly proclaimed several years ago, after discovering her first. “Oh!” I knelt in front of her. “Let me see!” And then, “Here you go” as I handed her the pearly white. Since then she has carefully refrained from sharing her news with me, until she was good and ready to be through with the drama of the wiggling stage. Tonight was her first molar. “No!” she said, firmly, as I followed her into the bathroom, but then she relented. “Just pull it out fast.” I grinned, rolled up my sleeves with an “All righty!” and out the tooth came. I suppose Lydia’s gratefulness bubbled over, since she offered me assistance later, as I balanced on the tip of my toes attempting to reach the top shelf of the cabinet. “Oops! Skin!” she exclaimed and yanked my skirt waistband up to my ribs. I’m not ticklish, but I nearly dropped the pot on her head.

“Penguins incubate their eggs by keeping them on their feet under their belly fat,” Taylor informed us. Thus began the discussion of penguins—particularly whether or not they are possessed of feathers. I’ve even seen them close up, and still always assumed they attired themselves much in the fashion of a whale or dolphin—you know, a tailored wet suit. “Don’t you remember what makes a bird a bird?” Papa remonstrated and quickly proved any doubters wrong with the nearest Encyclopaedia. That fact settled, Nathan and Taylor moved on to various other creatures and contraptions in God’s ingenious planet earth. “Those sure are some nice guys,” Mom commented, wiping crumbs from the counter after they’d left. “I wish the whole world were made up of a whole lot more guys like that. It would be a much more pleasant place.” “Yes,” I observed, sagely. “Much more quiet.”

The book of First Samuel brought me face to face with another exemplary woman—Hannah. At a time when I keep asking Yahweh for favors, gifts and notice, her multiplied prayer for a son caught my attention. “Women shall be preserved through the bearing of children,” Paul comments, hundreds of years later. What did she need? Children to care for her in her old age. A true need. But her request is laced with humility and devotion to Yahweh. “If You will indeed look upon me and remember me and not forgive me, but will give me a son, the Yahweh of hosts, I will give him back to You!” Struck dumb by her words, I kept rereading the prayer that Yahweh delighted to answer. “Please be so kind as to give me a son, that I can give him back to You!” She wanted a son to serve Yahweh. Her desire to give back to Yahweh was honored and she bore a son who became a great prophet—even anointed Israel’s first two kings. And Yahweh’s blessing was multiplied to her through the births of five more children. This humble woman’s prayer was a testimony to me of what and how I should implore Yahweh of hosts—so that I might give back to Him, recognizing that I can only give what He has already given me.

Lord, may Thy grace dwell richly in me,
May I bring forth fruits that please Thee—
Children that will serve Thee wholly,
Dedicated to Thee only.

May the work of both my hands,
Be blessed of Thee to strongly stand.
And every blessing flowing from Thee,
Be offered up to bless Thee fully.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Lydia didn’t realize I’d answered the phone at the same time she had. “Hello,” came the automated voice. “This is Laura (ooh, nice. Now automated voices have names?) from United Health Care. I have a few important questions for Marcia. Is this Marcia?” Lydia hesitated on the other end and finally softly answered, “No.” “What was that?” asked the intelligent robot. “Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” I could hear Lydia’s eyes widen through the telephone lines as she repeated “No.” “Okay. I don’t mind waiting,” the recording continued. “If Marcia is there, please ask me to ‘wait’. If she’s not there, say ‘call back later’. If she doesn’t live there at all, please say ‘wrong number’. What would you like me to do?” A muffled giggle, then Lydia answered. “Wait.” “Okay,” “Laura” responded promptly. “I’ll be happy to wait one minute.” Then the echoing sounds of Lydia relaying the message. “Mom, it’s the smartest recording ever on the phone for you. Her name is Laura.”

I’m so proud of my men folk. With a little adjusting here, and manipulating there, they had our well pump working like new. Well, not like new, but at least back up and limping along. I could finally do loads of laundry, run the dishwasher, clean my bathroom and wash my hair. They are tho thmart.

After supper Bible reading. Lydia’s spelling seems a little hooked on the letter “q”. “Why does Mo keep making the excques that he was not squilled in speech” but nothing was quite as insightful as her simple statement, “Pharaoh was bad.” Of course, so is John Piper.

Still feeling like I’d somehow missed the point of Judges, I skimmed back over the book today, begging that the Lord would somehow personalize it to me. I’m always amazed at the way Yahweh’s word comes together with life issues. Even Judges. As Tabitha and I prayed over the phone, life applications began spilling out. Things that hadn’t really occurred to me until that moment when the Holy Spirit brought them back to mind, convicting and convincing and teaching me to pray. Convicted by the Israelites unfaithfulness, as time and again they turned from Yahweh to serve idols, we begged the Lord to give us both strength to tear down the idols in our own lives and serve Yahweh, as we’ve promised to do.

Lord, even on Thy very altar
I see my flesh and heart both falter
Turning from Thy holy presence
To erect an idol.

Give me strength to tear whatever
Might my heart, from worship, sever
And return me to Thy presence
Freed from every idol.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

My hands and arms still tingle and my throat is prickling like a porcupine with his coat on inside out from fiberglass insulation in the attic. Old age comes quickly for those who spend hours under houses. Or in the attic. Tabitha and I crawled out of our sleeping bags this morning barely able to turn our necks from side to side and stiffly dressed to sit on the front porch and talk and pray while the rest of the house slumbered on.

Miss Lin N, fourth grade teacher, arrived in time to finish off the last two breakfast muffins. Looking fresh and springy in a green dress, she was toting her cap and gown and a huge smile for her senior pictures. It’s been a while since I’ve shot professionally and I’ll readily admit to lacking creativity. Hopefully her charm will make up for whatever falls short in me.

We finally finished insulating the attic and patching the hole in the ceiling where Ezra fell through in time to vanish into the woods for a tramp across the property. “It’s gorgeous,” the Willis kids all gushed. Before we’d thought much farther than enjoying the sunshine, we were down at the creek, pulling off shoes and socks and wading knee-deep into the icy water. Even with the laughter, the splashing and the joking, the peacefulness of the creek is undisturbed. I wish I could tuck my favorite woodland haunts into a leather wallet to keep safely in my pocket for the rest of my life. Then, sometime down the road, when stress or sorrow or trouble find me in the world of men, I could whip one out, climb into the serene scene and be quiet with God and His creation.

Last in line to shower tonight, the water gave out as I waited (patiently, of course) my turn. Laughter at Josiah’s crazy antics floated into my bedroom, as I sat, bathrobe clad, my facial wash drying on my skin. They didn’t seem to be missing me too terribly and the Lord reminded me that He was. Would to God I were like Daniel, who in spite of the affairs of a kingdom and the threats of a king, set his heart to please Yahweh and sought his room three times a day to pray to Yahweh. Lord, it’s been a busy day. My mind is full, my energy level is empty. You know all my thoughts. You know what dreams bind me, what thoughts capture me, what worries trouble me. You know what sins distract me, what devils plague me, what desires delude me. Capture my mind and bring it into obedience to You, disciplined to serve You, to delight in You, to worship You.

Lord, Thou hast called my soul Thy own,
And promised me a royal home,
Call my heart Thy own, as well
And teach my lips Thy praise to tell.

Capture my will with Thy own,
That I may bow before Thy throne,
Delighted as Thy humble slave
Since Thou, my soul and heart, doth save.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Between dusk and dawn my spirit quieted, like a dove settling into its nest, and I woke this morning knowing again, all will be well. All day long I felt humbled by Yahweh’s goodness, in spite of my fear, doubt and faithlessness. Sometimes I want to crawl out of my own skin and flutter into the air like an invisible butterfly, watching from a distance what God will do next. Emily and I escaped the noisy cafeteria to get some one-on-one in her room and she reminded me how, late one night, shortly after our move, we had made some specific requests to our Lord, how He’d clearly begun an answer the next night and now, looking back over the months, my breath was knocked away by how beautifully He’s been answering that same prayer since. Emily is a faithful prayer warrior, swift to bring everything to her Father’s throne and faithful to remember and recount each answer. I arrived at Amber’s on a Jesus high. “How much sugar have you had today?” she demanded, shaking her head. While she took an important phone call, I filled her camera with hideous faces. I have a decided talent for making hideous faces. I just get tired of trying to be beautiful, and figure I might as well do something I’m actually good at. Silky-coated Baby, who normally vanishes with the arrival of visitors, slinked in to see me, purring slyly to show that she’s accepted me into the family. I threatened Judy with a roll of contact paper and was rather pleased with my ability to inspire fear. “I didn’t do it!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Honest I didn’t! I thought about it, but I didn’t!”

Josh escorted me through the inner maze of DHS to meet Eileen, Lizzy’s mom. I slipped on my best undaunted mask as I sat down across a big desk from her and tried to find a good place to put my hands. First they crept under my crossed legs, but that lasted only as long as the crossed legs. How nice. Here’s the little girl, ma’am, that you’ve never met but wants to steal your daughter for a day every week. She’s a bit odd, ma’am. Wears dresses over her jeans, pulls her hair back in two tails at the back of her neck, refuses to date and she’s short. Oh, excuse me. She’s about your height, ma’am. As she talked with me about her goals for Lizzy, my heart warmed. “We’re not doing the dating thing,” she added. “In fact, there’s not even going to be any of this ‘alone together’ with a guy stuff.” Well. So that’s that. I’d thought she was unsure about the idea. Apparently we’re on. Now I just need to meet Lizzy. Daunting.

Gone excavating in my ancient journals, in search of a missing link for something else, I discovered something which had completely vanished from my current memory system: the draft for a letter—the only letter I’ve ever written a guy. At sweet sixteen. Aw. Not. This one was hard core, all rough edges, blunt phrases and no nonsense. The gist of it was “You need to know that you are a flirt and that’s not a fair way to treat your sisters in Christ.” I cringed as I read it, half embarrassed, half amused, half in awe of the fiery little prophetess of yore. “If this letter ruins our friendship, well, I’m sorry,” it finished with a flourish. “But that will tell me something about your heart.” Oh, but the post script. We mustn’t forget the post script. “Don’t bother writing back. I read all my letters to the family, and I’d rather you didn’t anyway.” To his credit, we’re still friends. I’d like to imagine I’ve picked up a little seasonable grace since then.

In the middle of feeling small, overwhelmed and hating Judges, I found myself shamed by the beautiful lessons the Lord had for Gideon. Hiding in a wine press to beat out wheat, Gideon hardly resembled the “Valiant Warrior” Yahweh’s messenger greeted him as. In fact, the title fit him worse than Saul’s armor fit the young David. “I’m a nobody,” Gideon protested Yahweh’s plan for him to save Israel from Midian. “Not only is my family low on the social ladder, but I’m the baby as well!” Afraid of others’ opinions, he followed the Lord’s instructions to destroy the altars to Baal—at night. But Yahweh wasn’t through teaching Gideon that little is more than enough. Obedience is all Yahweh needs for victory. Sometimes I picture Yahweh shrugging. Or shaking His head nonchalantly, as if to say, “I really am bigger than you think.” After Gideon had gathered an army 32,000 strong, Yahweh told him, “You have too many men.” Wave after wave of men were dismissed until only three hundred remained. Three hundred. To fight a battle as odd as any ever fought. The secret to Gideon’s success lay in the message the angel had given him while he beat out the wheat in secret. “Yahweh is with you, O Valiant Warrior.” Not that Yahweh was with him because of his valor, but that he would be valiant because Yahweh was with him. Striking down public idols might have seemed frightening. Driving out the Midianites might have seemed daunting.. Waving torches and shouting might have seemed ridiculous. Don’t you get it, Abigail? That’s the point. Being vulnerable might seem frightening. Discipling a girl I’ve never even met might seem daunting. Living Yahweh’s way certainly seems ridiculous at times. Yahweh is with me. How about that, little nobody? Why don’t you try “Valiant Warrior” on for size?

Lord, the torch Thou gave me smolders,
Thou hast bid me to be bolder!
Thou hast bid me smash my vase
That I might light up Thy face.

Thou art big enough to raise me,
Naught on earth should daunt or phase me.
Thou puts the powers of dark to flight—
Ignite in me Thy holy light.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Oddly, I don’t think we have any more weddings until December. Last year they were stacked up like a plate of flapjacks—with syrup oozing over the edges. Jonathan and Chloe’s had to be the most unique wedding I’ve attended yet. Ushered into a candle lit building, all seats facing toward a canopy in the center, we waited while the event unfolded—almost like watching a movie. Devoid of Nathaniel, who was enjoying a front row seat as an “honored guest”, Lauren whispered to me, “I want the soundtrack to their wedding!” The ceremony was everything that describes Jonathan and Chloe—poetic, creative, romantic and focused on Yahweh. But the reception that followed was made quite lively with the addition of outdoor games—arm-wrestling, shot-putting and a piñata. Lauren and I went arm to arm and proved ourselves, once again, pretty evenly matched. It’s a pity the bystanders didn’t have the benefit of seeing her without her jacket, and watching those softball sized biceps at work. Catching up with everyone felt like an impossible task. Caleb, who silently shadowed me at every speech tournament, now towers over me, still mostly silent with the same innocent, half awkward smile. I think I met at least three of the guy’s girl-friends—all named Anna. As I talked with Cory’s mom, I realized she didn’t recognize Josiah, standing behind me. Well, of course not. He’s sprouted from the upstart little boy proud of outgrowing his sister into a young man with facial hair and a shoulder span. Grabbing his hand I pulled him forward and introduced him: “I want you to meet my boyfriend.” Her face glossed over with polite surprise. “Josiah Scott.” She extended her hand, completely missing the name. Grinning I added, “You remember my little brother, Josiah?” Finally her face relaxed and she laughed, “I sure didn’t think there was going to be any of this boyfriend stuff.” As Melissa told stories on Chloe during the reception, she began to describe how, several years ago Chloe and Hannah had insisted I’d be married with kids in a couple of years and they’d be old maids. The reason? I knew so many guys and they knew none. I shrugged, told them not to worry: “Whatever. It only takes one.” Three years later Chloe is now married, Hannah is not only married, but ten weeks pregnant, and guess who’s still single! I couldn’t contain my laughter when it suddenly occurred to me that I’d even known both of their husbands at that time, before they did. I’m beginning to feel accomplished in proving folks wrong.

I can’t remember how long it’s been singe I worshipped in a large church building. Blue Springs Christian Church has moved on with the times—casual clothing, theatrical feel, with a foyer that feels like an airport: hot coffee and donuts served! The thinly disguised marketing pitch delivered by the pastor in a goal to convince congregants to give toward the three and a half million dollar youth building saddened me. Deception, I thought. Not that the pastor was trying to deceive, but that the pastor, himself, was deceived. Do we really believe that three million dollar buildings or large praise bands will help us to “evangelize” the youth of America? Do we really believe that supplying them with video games, entertainment and food will bring them to salvation? Show me the expensive buildings, the technology, the theatrics of the church in China or Indonesia or Ghana. Our brothers and sisters across the globe are worshipping in basements, under the stars on inside thatched-roof huts and their numbers are growing phenomenally. In our search to please American consumers, we’ve missed the purpose that should really drive the church. We’ve spelled ourselves right into a run on sentence—it doesn’t end. We’ll always have to pump more money and time into keeping up with the entertainment industry, since we fill our churches with those seeking an “experience” instead of those seeking Yahweh.

Josiah and I left our bags to be unpacked after dark, buckled on helmets and mounted our bicycles to work out dangerous levels of energy. It’s not a surprising sight to round a bend and see a pack of dogs loping to meet us, howling yipping and barking. Lanky hounds, rolly-polly terriers, square boxers and a spindly legged—excuse me, is that a deer? Sure enough, a soft-eyed fawn bounded up to the fence and sniffed my offered hand before retreating back a few steps to watch the rest of the “dogs” wiggle, waggle and beg to be scratched.

Once upon a time I eagerly read any book I could get my hands on. Now I find myself tossing books down in disgust after a few pages. The novel I picked up yesterday ranks high on my list of horrible books. Veiled by the backdrop of an oriental supermodel heading home for a mission trip, the plot turned my stomach with mistaken perceptions of finding God’s will and making godly decisions. Snares laid by misunderstanding, and ready to entangle the feet of many a believer. Let’s throw in how we “prayed about something”, but how’d we get our answer? “I prayed about it,” someone tells me, by way of expressing the authority for their actions when contrary to scripture or sound judgment. God’s not a mystical eight ball that we put questions to and then sit, waiting for a gut feeling to guide us. Ah, but prayer is an important part of every decision, every day, every moment, and I know without a doubt I let it slide. In scripture, I see a pattern of seeking things that appear in accordance with God’s goals, accompanied by prayers of thanksgiving and pleas for wisdom and godly counsel. David said God’s word is the light that guides us, not our feelings, our senses of peace or unrest, or even the thoughts that pop into our heads while praying. At the end of the day, startled back to an awareness of time by the click by which my lamp bids me good-night, I know the reminder to seek Yahweh in spirit and truth was timely.

Lord, Thy wisdom from above,
Thy timeless gift bestowed in love,
Is what I lack, and so I pray
That Thou would give Thy power today,

That I might be a pleasing child
To walk before Thee, undefiled,
That Thou would keep me from each snare
That where Thou art, I would be there.

Monday, March 31, 2008

“I have something for you,” Papa dug in his pocket and produced a handful of limp dandelions. “From Sarah and John Paul.” For the umpteenth time, I miss those little ones.

“Will you blow this up for me?” Lydia handed me a foot long, narrow, blue balloon. “I’ll try,” I joked, “But it will probably make me faint.” There’s nothing like being your own prophet of doom. I huffed and I puffed and I tumbled right down. Next thing Lydia was helping me up from my bedroom floor. “Well,” she said, “you sure pass out easy.”

Papa returned Nick to campus this morning on his way to work, signaling the official end of spring break. The house seemed empty until Josh called while I was fixing supper, asking if he could join us for the evening with questions about church membership. “It don’t seem right,” he complained over a plateful of deer curry and rice. “Membership is Biblical,” Papa quietly said, hiding a smile as he watched Josh’s jaw drop. Not a sign on the dotted line sort of membership, of course, but a Romans twelve and First Corinthians twelve sort: with God placing each member into the body, just as He desired. The goal being that we should be attached to a body in order to be alive in Christ. After Lydia and I worked over a piece she’s writing, Josh showed up with a song he and Josiah had written, “The Happy Song”, which he wanted me to put to music. My favorite line, “Praise Him on the mountain top, Praise Him ‘till your eardrums pop!...And stuff.” I must admit, it made me happy. And seeing Josh try to work through hand motions for it made me laugh even harder. Apparently he missed us.

We missed a pretty powerful electric storm Saturday night. Last night we discovered that our gas was off. This morning we realized it was due to blown breakers. A blown switch in the well-house left us without water until this afternoon. All our fancy telephones received a shock that left them inoperable. We now have one old faithful corded phone plugged into the living room. Josiah reported broken light bulbs in the garage and well house. Even the local cell phone tower must’ve been taken out, since no one’s cell phones have any reception out here. The internet hook-up still hasn’t arrived, so if anyone wants to know how we’re doing, they’d better wade through the current toad-strangler and find out face to face. A monstrous tree standing sentinel between Travis’ yard and ours was lightening-stripped of his bark and left exposed for all to see—until just a few minutes ago, when he shivered, shook and splintered into several pieces. Travis had wisely moved all his equipment from underneath.

I clambered onto the dryer to pray about a whole host of things. Several reasons for my choice: First, it’s warm. Second, it’s private. Third, it has a loud buzzer to wake me up when I fall asleep. Times I am alert and passionate while praying seem few and far between—only when I’m so distressed I can’t even imagine being able to sleep. “Watch and pray,” Jesus told His disciples, “that you may not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Once upon a time, sleep was a commodity of which I needed very little. Now it seems I could sleep anywhere any time. Closing my eyes and sitting still is simply encouraging the urge. But if I go outside and run, concentration eludes me like flitting butterflies—almost within grasp, but scattering everywhere when I can almost claim them. Even when I pray aloud my words trail off into halting silence. Perhaps I need to revisit the days when I filled countless journals by simply scribbling my prayers, hoping to at least confine my wandering heart to the page. There are so many needing prayer besides myself—even in my immediate family—and I lack the discipline to kneel before my Redeemer and beg His favor on them.

Lord, I kneel upon the floor
With much to ask, more to implore.
Distractions calling out to me
Tempt my heart to turn from Thee.

Once Thou knelt and bled and wept,
Thy heart was breaking while I slept.
This flesh I bear has made mine weak.
Break it tonight. Be all I seek.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

Grandma’s house is a place to grow fat. She always makes enough food to feed an army of hippos and insists we eat it. “No one’s going anywhere until that vegetable soup is gone.” “I made a huge cake! I expect to see it eaten.” I was delighted we had Nick along to help our endeavor.

And Mandy was another welcome addition. “I’m at my Grandma’s,” I told her over the phone. “Are you busy this afternoon?” As a matter of fact she wasn’t. And she was coming to town anyway for a game night at Abigail and Shane’s. After an amazing lunch of chicken enchiladas, eaten fashionably late (at three o’clock), the whole family packed out in the suburban and headed into their house for a tour and a glimpse of little Miss Sofia Grace. A few months ago I’d figured I’d be spending my days holding Abigail’s baby and hanging out with Mandy. This is the first time I’ve held Sofia, and I’ve not seen Mandy in six months. Seems like I keep being reminded how the Lord changes things—quickly sometimes. I always look ahead, when the change is still misty and unknown and grow frightened, but each change is simply the rerouting of a channel. The flow is never stopped—just redirected. Never as dangerous as my overactive imagination deems possible.

Grandma’s house is also a wealth of distractions. “I’ll have plenty of time to finish Joshua,” I cheerfully tell myself, but instead I sit through the entire KU game, keeping track of the players almost as avidly as Grandma herself. As if I care who makes it into the top four. As if it has any benefit or bearing on my life or the path the Lord would have me walk. As if watching these poor deluded souls grasping at a fading crown will somehow spur me on toward my own eternal crown.

“The Prayer of Jabez” lay quietly by on the coffee table, so I picked it up and started reading. More out of curiosity, since I’d seen more “prayer of Jabez” paraphernalia than I ever cared to see. Creating study Bibles named after one verse seems a bit of overkill to me. However, I soon found myself engrossed in the truths and principles shared in this original pocket-sized book—many of which the Lord has been bringing forth in my life already. Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, “Oh that Thou wouldst bless me indeed, and enlarge my border, and that Thy hand might be with me, and that Thou wouldst keep me from evil, that it may not bring pain to me.” A simple prayer, it seems, and perhaps a little self-serving. In my self-righteousness, I tend to reprimand myself for praying for “me” all the time. But David, the man after God’s own heart prayed and pleaded for himself constantly. Yahweh wants us to seek Him for ourselves, to seek His blessings for ourselves, and to seek His protection for ourselves. This little booklet broke down Jabez’s prayer into four parts: A plea for God’s blessing, a plea for increased influence, a plea for God’s empowering and a plea to be kept from temptation. When we ask for God to bless what we do, we must understand that His blessings point to Him, that He blesses what brings glory to Him, that His blessings include pruning, disciplining and guidance. When we ask that he increase our influence, we are asking for more ministry—sometimes beyond what we can handle! I’ve seen this over and over again in my life, especially in the past few months. But having more than we can handle is simply the perfect situation for Yahweh to work—if we humbly entreat His hand to be with us, His Spirit to empower us, His wisdom to guide us. There is no question then about Who did the work. The more we seek to do for the Lord, the larger a target we make ourselves to Satan. To pray to be kept from temptation—“lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil,” Jesus taught His disciples to pray. Beg the Lord, not only for strength to endure, to resist and to come safely through temptation, but pray in advance that He would remove temptation, that He would keep our feet on a level path. What could glorify God more than to bless us as we seek to serve Him, by His power and to implore His protection from even the temptation to sin? Chronicles tell us, God answered the prayer of Jabez.

As I read, my mind kept coming back to Caleb, the man I read about this morning. Of the generation that rebelled against Yahweh and fearfully refused to take the land, only Joshua and Caleb lived to enter the land—the two spies who remained faithful to Yahweh. Incidentally, Caleb’s name means faithful. At age eighty-five, when he finally entered the land and took his possession, he came to Joshua saying, “I’m still strong! There’s still so much to do! Give me more land (enlarge my boundaries) so I can drive out the Lord’s enemies.” What a delight Caleb must have been to Yahweh, in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, he shone like a light, praising Yahweh for giving him health, desiring more room to use God’s blessings to further God’s name.

Lord, bless me! Bless my soul indeed
Fulfill my deeply rooted need
To be with Thee and to be Thine,
And turn my water into wine

That it may bring Thy joy to all,
And hear my prayer whene’er I call.
May Thy hand be swift to guide me
And from every evil hide me.

Thursday, March 17, 2008

Travis put us all in stitches, describing the plight of his dentures. Tricky things to make, are dentures, and take hours of intense labor, as I’ve discovered from being in the lab with Papa. It’s hard to convince the wayward teeth to stay in one’s mouth, as poor Travis has discovered. “Super glue works for many things,” Mom offered, jokingly, but Travis only shuddered. “It doesn’t work for this! I tried it!” Out pop his teeth, before he continues, “I go to eat oatmeal with a big spoon and wind up putting my food on top of my teeth instead of between them. The first day I got them, I was driving down the highway with my windows rolled down and I sneezed. I barely caught my teeth on their way out the window. Just the other day I coughed and they went flying across the floor. ‘Mary!’ I yelled. ‘Get me my dentures, would you?’ She says, ‘I ain’t touching them!’” Then there’s the time he lost them in a movie theatre. He’d taken them out to eat popcorn and rolled them into his sweatshirt, then gotten up to move, forgetting about them. Soon he and the manager were crawling around in the dark with a flashlight, poking under people’s feet, more entertaining than the movie, as they searched for the missing mouthpiece. Travis knows we’re believers. We talk with him frequently. But none of us has yet shared the gospel. Why is it that those who live so near us, who give us so many opportunities, seem the most frightening? As if sharing the best news on earth would somehow hamper our relationship.

I think I made a million phone calls today, and received a million more. I can’t even remember why. I know I wasn’t selling vinyl siding. Thankfully, they weren’t either.

As usual, I’d disconnected the wireless device after checking my e-mail and attempted to reconnect it to Papa’s computer. Nothing. No recognition. Uh. What? I checked the USB cables, tried several other ports and then tried reconnecting to my laptop. Power, yes. Data, no. Oh great. That meant a hardware issue. I quickly dug out our latest bill and called AT&T. Emily, my very kind AT&T representative walked me through several troubleshooting processes (again) and deduced the same thing. Here’s where I found her impressive: instead of simply transferring me over to the warranty department and leaving me on my own to explain myself and my data, she went on hold with me—even disconnected me, so I wouldn’t have to wait, and then called me back when she finally got through to a representative, where she introduced us, passed on the problem and I soon had my issue resolved. Well, at least as well as I could hope for. The upshot is that we’re expecting a new device Monday. Until then, we shall be entirely cut off from the electronic world. Funny how dependent we’ve become on e-mail and internet that a few days without that option seems like a hardship.

I’ve been lingering in the word bridge between Deuteronomy and Joshua, captured by one theme: “Have I not commanded you, be strong and courageous! Do not be terrified or discouraged, for Yahweh is with you.” Could there be a more appropriate time for this command, when it seems a few giants are undefined giants are facing us? Fascinating is the wording. Not, “you can do it” or “you’re big enough for this” or “you’re the man!” as the world would tell us—falsely. A command: be strong and courageous. Make the choice: don’t be terrified or discouraged. Why? Because Yahweh is with you. Us. Me. Forty years before, Joshua’s generation had trembled, had feared, had become discouraged, forgetting the mighty deeds Yahweh had done on their behalf. Now, as an eighty-year-old man, come again to the edge of the promised land, God reminds him over and over again to be brave! To fight with might for the right. Because Yahweh Himself is with him, fighting for the sake of His name.

Be strong in Yahweh and in the strength of His might. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against rulers and principalities of darkness. We’re not battling idolatrous Canaanites, but the very bloodthirsty darkness that controlled them. Therefore, we should gird ourselves with the armor of God, that we may stand firm. Clothed with truth, guarded by righteousness, walking in peace, shielded by faith, protected by salvation and doing battle with God’s word and through the far-reaching power of prayer.

And pray for what? For boldness. “Have I not commanded you be strong and courageous!” Because the Creator and Sustainer of all life is with me wherever I go. Because the battle is not mine, it’s His. Because He has already won the victory and ensured that I will receive the unfading wreath of eternal life.

The story of Jericho’s downfall seems overly familiar at times, but the command for silence set me to thinking. Why would God command silence as His people paraded around the walls of Jericho? In a dearth of words, I find myself growing thoughtful, pondering, meditating. No doubt the men of Israel found themselves recalling how Yahweh had piled up the water of the Jordan so they could cross, how He had brought them so far, they could see the ark in front of them, leading the way, remember the beautiful object lessons it contained, think on God’s promises kept and this new one: that the walls would come crashing down when they obeyed. Jericho was a battle won through worship—unquestioningly obeying God’s commands. Silently, so as to focus on Yahweh and His power. Then the shout—the cry of faith that the victory was won and the answering rumbling that sent the massive walls into piles of dust and debris. As I buckle on my armor for spiritual battle, I am reminded that God does the fighting—our part is to worship, to obey, to shout the cry of victory.

Lord, Thou bids me take my sword,
And in the true strength of Thy word,
The courage which Thy presence lends,
The power which Thy spirit sends,

To take the battlefield and fight,
Against the strongholds of the night,
Tear down discouragement and fear,
And so the devil’s strongholds here.

Saturday, March 22, 2008

I hung up my toothbrush, wiped my hands and opened the bathroom door, at last free to sit down and just be alone. A pale, blue figure stood forlornly outside, squinting at the light. “Abigail,” came Lydia’s sleepy voice. “I think I have a bunch of chigger bites on my back. They itch. Can you do something for me?” It’s pretty early for chiggers. I pulled her into the bathroom, slid her shirt over her head and gasped. Her little back was mottled and blistered with a nasty rash. “What did you eat today?” I demanded. “What did you do outside?” The mountain ranges were crawling up her neck and arms, across her belly and down her whole backside. Half an hour, several antihistamines, a body rub of ant-itch cream and clean clothes later, I am finally sitting down in the quiet. It’s already past ten-thirty.

This in flight fueling just doesn’t seem to work for me.

Unthought thoughts seem to pile up in my arms, like a load of firewood, needing only one thing: to be laid on Yahweh’s altar as a pleasing sacrifice to Him.

I thought I could wish Him good-morning while fixing breakfast, but others trickled in, greeting, laughing, asking questions. As soon as we’d finished breakfast, I clambered outside and wrangled our poor, dilapidated weed eater to the floor, to fill it with fuel and attempt starting it. “Homelite” I read over again and again as I futily cranked it. “Simply reliable.” Reliable would not have been my word of choice, considering the polished wood string head (Josiah’s creative craftsmanship), the shuddering blade ensemble (held together by bolts and electrical tape) or the fact that I had opened up the side and pulled out the air filter so I could manually choke the engine, while spraying in starter fluid. Finally she roared to life and managed to rattle every bone in my body as we attacked the brush crowding out the back lane. Just as I finished up, ol’ Homelite gave a shudder, parted ways with her muffler and went out sounding like a motorcycle on a respirator. But I finished the job. Barely in time to snatch a quick shower and head out the door with Nathaniel and Lauren in an attempt to find Lauren some new dresses. “You’re my favorite person to shop with,” she confided. Shopping might not be my most favoritist activity in the world, but if it’s the only one in which I surpass Nathaniel, I will seek to be the best fashion consultant/shopper helper the world has ever known. Our hurried spree came to an end in time to see us arriving “fashionably late” (so Lauren said) and Donnie’s open house. Open houses are painfully awkward creatures. I arrived, I said “hi”, I joined the volleyball game, I ate, I had snatches of numerous conversations with numerous people. Listening over a dull roar is a talent I do not possess. Making small talk is another. Spiking a volleyball is a third. But the important thing is that Donnie enjoyed the event, felt special because I was there (well, me and a few others) and proved to be a master in serving volleyball.

For the fifteen miles home, my mind reached blindly for the “alone time” I was promising myself. Because my plans are so important. Because I am so important. Home arrived with a new set of demands. Make supper. Wash dishes. Clean the house. Get ready for more company. Fix food for tomorrow. My outer shell smiled as I spooned jell-o into a pan and chopped a crop of dusty pototatoes. My inner being wept. Slicing the turkey, Mom asked for prayer about several things weighing on her mind. I slammed a butterfly net over my wandering mind and put it in a jar on the counter in front of me, hoping to hold it present to listen to her. “Lord!” I plead, “I just wanted to be alone!”

“I know the feeling.”

Made in the likeness of sinful flesh. A priest who can sympathize with our weaknesses. Often Jesus tried to creep away with His disciples, to be alone, to pray, to talk to His father, but the clamorous multitudes hunted Him out, seeking only to eat the loaves and be filled. One day He fed five thousand, spent the night in prayer, crossed the sea on foot through a storm only to be greeted on the other side by those He’d hoped to evade. At last, those same men and women who had so eagerly sought Him before, turned against Him and demanded His death. Hardly a chance to be alone that night, as He faced the most terrible agony possible—paving the way for me to come to Him.

Now that I’m finally alone in the dark and quiet, my head droops. “I’m too tired, Lord. I’m exhausted. I just need to go to sleep.”

The disciples were too tired to watch and pray by the side of their Lord. Too tired to savor those last few moments with Him before He was betrayed. Too tired to seek their comfort, solace and strength from Him—the only strength that could save them from falling into temptation, that could strengthen their willing spirits.

Some things should never be left for tomorrow.

Tomorrow never comes.

Lord, when I think sleep is better
Than to be alone with Thee,
Bind me with Thy love’s strong fetter,
That my heart, enchained will be.

I dare not sleep without first seeking
Thou, Who art my source of power.
I hear the Savior softly speaking,
“Watch and pray throughout this hour.”

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Current events are becoming interesting. California has practically banned home education. Obama and Hillary are fighting it out at the polls, and might even run together in the general election. Nationally, we are a welfare state in a recession, worse than anything we’ve seen since the Great Depression. A man is standing trial for preaching the gospel in Salem, Mass. Who else feels the oppression, the iron curtain beginning to slide closed on our freedoms? Is persecution just around the corner?

In all my wondering, I wonder what the view is from heaven—how the Lord sees my life, day by day, worrying, anxious, fearful, praying, while He’s already given answers in His infinite timing. How often does He shake His head, whispering, “Abigail, be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted in the earth.”

During church, Papa read a sermon by Charles Spurgeon from First Timothy chapter two: Does God really desire ALL men to be saved? Once upon a time our family read this man’s life story, his dedication to preaching the truth—whatever He found in the scriptures. His words, though quaint, were rich and uplifting, filled with the perfection of the gospel.

Josh and Josiah had just dived into First John when I joined them. We took the whole book in a sitting, watching Josh discover the tests, the commands (to believe in Jesus and love the brethren) and the beauty. “I like that,” he’d say, marking the passage with a purple twist-up crayon. “Oooh, I don’t like that,” and he’d mark it, too, knowing it was good. Again and again I am amazed to see the Lord’s hand in his life and heart, the Holy Spirit’s working, leading him into truth and obedience. After the other guys had left, we discovered Josh had been patiently waiting his turn. “Okay, Lane,” he said to my dad, after eagerly accepting an invitation for supper. “Can we have some me time? I’ve got some questions for you.”

Meanwhile, Josiah and I slipped quietly outside and out into the woods, rambling through the green briar, underbrush and falling darkness, crossing the stream on slippery stones and talking about whatever concerned us. Muddy and windblown and full of thorns, we trouped into his room and tumbled to the floor. “Do you want to pray?” I asked. Together we both answered, “For everyone.” We started, sharing back and forth, but suddenly he took off, pouring out his heart for anyone and everyone the Lord brought to his mind, pleading for salvation, asking for peace. When he said my name, a little shiver passed through my body and slipped out my toes, leaving me warm behind it. Not so long ago he was shy to pray aloud with anyone else. Tears slid from my eyes as I prayed for him—with thanksgiving.

Lord, the greatest blessings Thou dost give,
Aside from Thy own grace to live,
Are those who love to seek Thy face
And so reveal Thy matchless grace.

My heart is full of what Thou dost
In teaching sinful man to trust
In standing to receive our prayer.
Where two are gathered, Thou art there.

Monday, March 10, 2008

“Hello, this is an important message from – Financial regarding your unsecured debt. We can help…” I hung up the phone. It might be an important message if we actually had any debt.

Mom accused me of making her bed again, this morning, but I just shrugged. I hadn’t even been in her room, yet, but a high-watered corner suggested the culprits—Lydia and Lydia. As I cleaned my bathroom, I listened in on Lydia’s dramatic reading from John, rendered perfectly from the Laundry room through the air ducts in the ceiling. Perhaps that’s not quite how I imagine Jesus’ voice, but the Pharisees nasally complaints were right on target. It’s been a bit difficult to feel as though I’m stuck in a broken record—still going through John with Amber, now into it with Lydia, and the family just started in for breakfast the other day. It must be good for me, who likes to finish. Poor Lydia discovered the meaning of anti-climactic after Renee’ and Lydia’s departure this afternoon.

My entertainment for the evening consisted of supervising Josiah’s muffin creation, while fixing supper. No one in my acquaintance uses a spatula quite to the same effect as he. “Look at how soupy it is!” he complained. “Should I add more flour?” I grimaced. “I’d recommend following the recipe.” Josiah’s spatula clattered to the counter. “Since when?” he demanded. Well, I do. Recommend following recipes. For other people.

My way has been level for some time now, and I find my prayers growing cold and stale, along with my heart. Reading the Word is easy. Relatively. Studying it is hardly difficult. But prayer is painful. Deserts always find me in the level places. My mind keeps slipping away to do other things, to busyness, to distractions and leaves me kneeling and vacant on the floor of my bedroom. Other’s words play through my mind: “My eyes are dry, my faith is old, my heart is hard, my prayers are cold”, “I struggle for tears when I pray…but You sweat blood.” Passion meets me in the peaks and valleys, but in the level places—in the deserts—I grumble against the Lord and whine for meat to eat. “Lord,” I cried today, “Just keep me focused on You! Whatever it takes!” In the very next step a pebble broke loose under my feet and went rolling—down.

Perhaps this is the very valley which I have been dreading.

Lord, the mountains give me views,
And yet, the fogs of height confuse
Sometimes it seems my way more clear,
My heart more pure, Thy hand more dear
When I am in the valley.

If this descent is where Thou lead
I’ll follow Thee with joyful tread.
Thou makes my feet like those of hinds
And proves Thyself to be more kind
When I am in the valley.

Lord,
Lead me to the valley.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

It’s a good thing we have plenty of parking. There were plenty of cars here, today. A veritable party. From my vantage point next to her, I could see Lydia’s hands shaking with nervousness as her recital was announced over lunch. We’d only planned on family with a couple extras. Instead she played for a full house—played very well, I might add. She has so much more natural grace than her teacher. I’m the one who walks into doorways (instead of through them), trips over her own feet and throws pickles at herself (when she’s trying to eat them). She waltzed into the room with a sweeping bow and delivered an exceptional performance (for a first-time recitalist). And her audience responded kindly with a rousing round of applause. Whew. That’s over and done. We can move on to book two.

For future reference: never allow Josiah, Taylor and Kunal to play on the same Frisbee team. The teamwork between those three was inspiring. It inspired me to turn around and head for the far end of the field as soon as they began passing. I upheld my Frisbee tradition of always colliding with at least one person. Unintentionally, of course. Please recall: I am not exactly graceful. The tradition started almost exactly four years ago, in my first Frisbee game during our first visit to the Tech campus, when Papa and I met midfield and he took a nosedive. This time it was my very own, very protective big brother and team mate who knocked me down—I’d forgotten how painful it is to have the wind knocked out of me. Actually, I think I pretty much plowed right into him. I really ought to upgrade to power brakes and steering.

Meditating on the altar of incense, on which Aaron was to burn a unique fragrance before the Lord—constantly. Skipping to the end of the Word, we are told that the incense burned on the altar in heaven is the prayers of the saints. Our prayers are unique—we aren’t supposed to speak to anyone else as we speak to Yahweh. We are also to pray at all times—continually—to be in an attitude of constant communion with Him, constantly pleasing Him by sending soothing aromas before His throne. We know from Romans that it is through the mediation of Jesus and the help of the Holy Spirit that these prayers can even be made acceptable, for we don’t even know how to pray as we should! Thanks to the consecration I mentioned before—the sprinkling of the atonement Lamb—we can confidently come before Him with requests, entreaties and prayers on behalf of all men, as well as praise and thanksgiving for the mighty works of our God!

I know I so often let the fire on the altar die out.

Lord, that Thou would hear my words,
And even more, that having heard,
Thou would choose to let them be
A pleasing sacrifice to Thee,

And even when I cannot pray
Thou teaches me the words to say,
Is mercy more than I can tell.
Why dost Thou love this dust so well?

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

My Lord is merciful indeed. At this moment I feel calm, at peace and rested, like a weaned child leaning against her mother. Torrents of tears subsided, confusion wiped away, struggles laid down at the feet of the all-powerful, all-knowing God. He hands me my broken heart, now mended with His mercy, and I place it back in His hands for safe-keeping, praying only that there it will remain until eternity.

I buckled on my armor this morning, determined to fight my way through the throngs of enemy to the sanctuary of praise and the mercy seat of Almighty God. A heroic attempt, perhaps, though rather misguided. I flung out, swinging wildly, madly and without much direction, stumbling, blinded by tears and constantly beaten down. Each step of the way the enemy pounded me with accusations, distractions, discouragements and lies, and under every blow I crumbled and wept. Every tear was captured in God’s bottle, to be wiped from my heart some day when I stand before Him.

My heart sank to the floor when Papa called me to say that Taylor was coming over for supper and to get some Bible questions answered. I could hear the enthusiasm in his voice. I tried to echo it. Inside I wanted to curl up and cover my head and give up without reaching God’s temple. The last thing I wanted tonight was company—especially not a guy—especially not Taylor, steady Taylor, one of the few guys I actually admire, one of the only guys I’m honestly half scared of.

Papa invited any of us to join their discussion, but I sought refuge in Josiah’s room, playing his drums. I felt weaker than stone soup, used up emotionally, and it wasn’t long before I quit, bravely trekked through the dining room where they still discoursed and made it safely to my own haven, where I knelt under the merciless attack of the enemy. How long I cowered, arms protecting my head, tears cutting canyons down my face, I don’t know. As I cried out to my Savior He came, cutting assailants left and right with the Word of His mouth, shattering fears, doubts and worries, sending light and warmth into the darkness of my heart. As He gathered me in His arms and carried me back toward His sanctuary of praise, He hushed me, and I leaned my head against Him. “I’ve got you,” He whispered, and the truth dawned on me, bright and pure. He’s got me. I’m His. I’m safe. The enemy can’t touch me. How could the enemy bring an accusation? My judge is my justifier. How could the enemy distract me? He is in all things and in Him all things hold together. How could the enemy discourage me? I don’t hope in myself—I hope in the Lord, who is the lifter up of my countenance. How could the enemy convince me of lies? I know the Truth.

Why did I embark on my battle alone? Determined to make my way to God. My Savior is the way. When I cry to Him, He is there. I am His temple. Wherever I am, I can seek Him and find that He is always on His mercy seat, extending to me the golden scepter of life.

Lord, I sought Thee and I found
That accusations can’t confound
When I am safe within Thy arms.
Free from doubt and sin’s alarms

I stand before Thee and I know
My enemy Thou overthrows
Today, just as Thou triumphed when
Thou rose and conquered death and sin.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

Above the perfect line of floral wallpaper border, the clear, blue sky gaped in at me, as I stood, pouring hot coffee for a tornado refugee. I can still hardly believe the terrible damages I saw and heard. Fatalities, something very rare back in Tornado Alley, where I was born and grew up. Incidentally, we’d all had basements or storm shelters. Here a woman showed me her tiny, windowless bathroom, the only room still intact, and the blessed haven of seven bodies through the tornadoes that swept away so many homes Tuesday. I rejoiced to discover that she also had a more secure haven for her soul.

I’d barely finished running Mom’s errands when I answered a phone call from Audrey, asking if I could come help with Salvation Army relief out in the tornado zone. A short time later we were also joined by Mom, Josiah and Lydia and trooped out to the disaster area, laden with soup, cinnamon rolls and hot coffee and chocolate. If I’d known before-hand I’d have come decked out in worker-girl clothes and dived in to help clean-up. Instead I shuffled down debris crusted streets, offering food and drinks to refugees and workers alike. Since I don’t work for the Salvation Army, I feel at liberty to confide that I would have much rather walked in as a nobody and gotten dirty helping, than in an enormous logo-encrusted polo shirt, dancing around for publicity shots and trying to toss in that phrase “Salvation Army” so folks would know who their Good Samaritan was while toting luke-warm coffee and hot chocolate to folks who’ve already had lunch. And I found myself shying away from the half a dozen TV crews and newspaper reporters who were there only for the story. Caleb, one of my gradeschool-age accomplices was snagged by KARK 4 for a live interview. “Hold up your donuts like you’re proud of them!” the exuberant reporter instructed him. Then he wiped the enthusiasm from his face, replacing it with a feigned sympathy for the poor, poor people who had lost so much. He’d even duded himself up in waders for the occasion—didn’t he just look the part? What a lot of good was hampered by those rat-sniffing media moguls and competing charities. That’s right: competing charities. Well-meaning charities who help people so that people would see what they’re doing and give them more money so they can go help more people. We’ve fallen so short of the left hand unaware of the right hand’s doing.

Lord, teach me to serve and give,
To take my life and truly live
In sacrifice before Thy throne
That Thou might claim my deeds Thine own.

Teach my lips to speak, my eyes
To shed the tears Thy Spirit cries.
Thou loved the world through Thy Son.
Love through me, O Holy One.

Monday, February 4, 2008

The sounds of military aircraft barely scraping the trees in one’s backyard are not overly comforting at 10 o’clock at night. On the heels of a bout of loneliness because everyone else had homework or other catch-up work claiming their attention, I found myself sitting down to write.

I will find the good in today, because it belonged to the Lord. Why should I be so discouraged these days? Why should I feel forgotten and alone? Why am I allowing the enemy to pursue and overtake me and beat me down? The Lord is my strength and song and He has become my victory!

In search of a much-needed break from Leviticus, that book of Law and Order, I spent several hours creating a “prayer chain”—scraps of colored cardstock clipped to a keychain and containing the folks I need to be praying faithfully for, as well as a ring of amazing verses about prayer, praise, promised blessings, holy living and the gospel, to keep with me and work on hiding in my heart for future reference. Already my "prayer chain" has several important, specific prayer requests. I need to e-mail Hannah, but I don't know what to say. And I need to call Amber, but I didn’t feel like talking. I heard Mom’s slippers pad-padding into my room and looked up to see a strange look on her face. “Aunt Helen and Paul were in a bad car wreck,” she said. They weren’t hurt, but it sure could have been nasty. Someone is looking out for them. Someone is giving me another chance to obey and share the gospel again. I need to e-mail Aunt Helen. It never slows down. It never stops. It’s a battle to the death—my death.

There is no more strength in my body, soul or spirit.

Lord, Thou must hear and heed
It is Thy power, Thy strength I need!
To do Thy work, to do Thy willing
I need Thy Holy Spirit’s filling

And convicting and His leading,
Hear my weakened spirit’s pleading
Be Thou mine as I am Thine
And turn my water into wine.

Friday, January 18, 2008

Today I took scissors to both Mom and Lydia’s hair. Or hairs, if we want to get technical. Josiah promised to cut his own Sunday morning.

Mom and Papa pulled out of here around two headed for Horseshoe Canyon Dude Ranch and a weekend to themselves to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Thirty years. What a time stamp.

I would smash my biological clock with a sledgehammer, were it possible. Every time we receive another wedding invitation that annoying, little love-bird pops out cuckooing at the top of his lungs and making me feel left out. Left out of what, I’d like to know? The rest of the day I drooped like a weeping willow—at least inwardly. Lydia read me a story about horses and I started sniveling. It seems everyone is going through the same struggle at the same time. Or maybe we’re just always struggling with this little imp we'll call the “wish for wifery”. What is it about being married that captures the entire desire system of a young woman and prevents her from functioning in a disinterested or content frame of mind?

I can’t say that I greatly admire Jacob. I mean, the man had the nerve to wrestle with God, to demand that God bless him before he would let Him go. How irreverent must he be? God could have slain Jacob. He didn’t have to bless him. Why did Yahweh Almighty, God of Hostss, allow a weak, disobedient man to wrestle with Him—and prevail? In those early dawn hours, while Jacob wrestled with God for his very soul, God reached out and marked Jacob His own. The limp that Jacob, now named “One who strives with God”, would carry to his grave would remind him of that night he saw God face to face and his life had been preserved. Mercifully. One touch put his hip out of place. How helpless he truly was in the hands of Almighty God! God delights for us to wrestle with Him, our will and His struggling so that when we demand He bless us, we can see how completely helpless we are. Everything we have is a blessing. Every step we take that we do not limp is a mercy of the Lord’s. The very fact that our life has been preserved is Yahweh’s compassion and long suffering.

Lord, when I wrestle Thee I find
That Thou dost show Thyself more kind
For Thou could crush and Thou could kill
Yet Thou preserves and keeps me still.

To come to Thee should bring my end
Yet Thou hast chosen me Thy friend
And wrestling with Thee only proves
How powerful Thy saving love.