“Look at this,” Josiah called me over to the edge of the porch where he’d dropped his shovel while digging holes. A five-lined skink sprawled across his back. His sudden movement must have spooked the little fellow, since he scampered up over Josiah’s shoulder and disappeared down his sleeve. Truly disappeared since we couldn’t find him, though I peered under layers of shirts.
My poor head is filled with a fast and furious piano piece that I simply cannot get worked out my fingers. Parts of it come, but so much more is scrambled up somewhere between my mind and my ability. Will I ever possess enough skill to really express myself or am I just fooling myself and others?
Josiah interrupted my complaining composing with a complaint of his own. “Is he in there? That lizard. I think he’s up my shirt still—by my shoulder blade. Otherwise I’ve got some serious muscle spasms.” Compliantly I peeled his sweatshirt up and felt all over his back. Perhaps it was a secret ploy to get a back scratch. My fingers discovered nothing of the reptilian species. “I’m sure he’s not there,” I informed Josiah. “That was just after lunch. It’s been hours since then.”
Papa arrived home late from work, having run a half dozen errands on the way. That’s what happens when I don’t go into town. He walked through the door and greeted us cheerily. “What’s that lizard doing on the table?” And there he was, the little stowaway, sprawled placidly on the dinner table, critically examining our venison and cauliflower soup. Truly, the lizard you may grasp with the hand, but it is in king’s palaces.
Dissecting the scriptural record of Rahab the harlot, I was struck by her attitude of trust. “Faith is the evidence of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen,” scribbles the author of Hebrews. The description fits Rahab perfectly. Raised in a wicked city, leading a sinful life, she heard of Yahweh and His powerful works. While the rest of the city melted in terror, she hoped. Her certainty that Yahweh would prevail led her to receive His messengers in peace, risking her life to help them on their way. When she through herself upon the mercy of God, He regarded her humility and trust and offered His protection. In the beautiful unfolding of His redemption He saved her out of a wicked city devoted to destruction and made her to be a part of His people, and a thread in the scarlet cord of redemption leading to His Son. In a final tribute to her trust, the writer of Hebrews lists her beside the patriarchs and Moses, beside the prophets and judges as a hero of the faith. She was a low-down, filthy Canaanite prostitute, but she trusted in Yahweh and was not disappointed.
Lord, Thy scarlet thread of hope
Runs thickly through the tale Thou penned
Of love that runs more thick than blood
For men Thou made, though we have sinned.
And always is Thy mercy shown
To those who, helpless, seek Thy face
And dare to cling to threads of hope
That Thou wilt offer saving grace.
Showing posts with label wildlife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wildlife. Show all posts
About Effectiveness
Found in a fortune cookie:
If you think you are too small to be effective,
You have never been in bed with a mosquito.
If you think you are too small to be effective,
You have never been in bed with a mosquito.
About Subversive Organizations
Lizards never struck me before as subversive, but it seems that they might possibly be the most conniving creatures yet. After all, they are found in king’s palaces, says the preacher. Lately I’ve noticed these tiny dragons scamper across the deck, drop, pump out about a dozen push-ups and then vanish over the edge. Perhaps they’re not turning out in hoards for the work-outs simply to avoid suspicion. I’ve grown suspicious non-the-less.
About Necessary Additions
“Mom,” Lydia walked into the kitchen, swinging the compost bucket from her arm. “We really need to hang up a hummingbird feeder. There’s swarms of hummingbirds outside!” Mom and I glanced at each other over a sink full of dirty dishes. “Swarms of them?” I questioned, peering out the window. “Well,” Lydia deposited her bucket under the sink where I was working, “I saw one, at least.”
Sunday, April 20, 2008
It seems we’ve been invaded by hoards of bristly orange and black caterpillars--food for the vast array of lizards who scamper in and out around the well house. The birds have arranged themselves into a praise team to sing twenty-four-seven to Almighty God from the verdant boughs. Even the ticks were out rejoicing on a day like this. I never realized just how many of the nasty hitch hikers I picked up until today, when a pair of white pants revealed tag-alongs of all shapes and sizes.
Donnie’s younger brother, Tommy, joined us for church today. When I first met him, nearly four years ago, he was one of those people I thought I could very happily live without ever seeing again. He’s grown up a bit, matured a lot and become considerably more pleasant. And met the Lord in the interim, I’d guess, from the testimony he shared at lunch.
Papa taught from First Timothy three—the requirements for elders in the assembly. He boiled it down to four basic themes: male, mature, moral and a martyr (literally, a witness of Christ). But is this standard for leaders such an unattainable goal? Hardly. There are no restrictions for personality or spiritual gift and, most fascinating, he pointed out that nearly every command for overseers is paralleled elsewhere for all believers—excluding the call to males, of course (mercifully for those of us of the “female persuasion”). If the Lord calls us all to a standard of excellence, how much less those who would shepherd His flock!
“Here,” Zach thrust his Bible in front of me as I sat at the piano. “Verse eight.” We’ll call that a PIE attack, and it means one thing: provide immediate explanation. I glanced around hurriedly for someone to bail me out before protesting. “Who do you think I am to explain this?” “Well, duh,” he shrugged. “Lane's your father.” And there we have it, in three simple words and an apostrophe: my heritage. My amazing heritage. Because my father is wise, the poor, deluded individuals who appear on our doorstep assume the same applies to me. I only wish more of his wisdom would seed and grow in my own heart. I can attempt to regurgitate his explanations. I can pretend to walk uprightly. I can stare hard at a page of scripture and scratch my head and make semi intelligent grunts, but this child—well, this child knows nothing good. Can’t they see that? The high regard my father deserves is miles above anything I might claim. And I fall so short of the perfection of Christ. Please, Yahweh, God of my father, open my eyes, too, that I may behold wonderful things from Thy Law. Zach’s question came from Hebrews five and has been spinning around in my mind all day: “Although He (Jesus) was a Son, He learned obedience from the things which He suffered. And having been made perfect, He became to all those who obey Him, the source of eternal life.” For some odd reason, my head wasn’t screwed on tightly enough to think to take him to Philippians two, where Tabby and I are memorizing. “Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” To the best of my understanding, Jesus learning obedience doesn’t imply that He’d been disobedient before, but simply that He’d never been called to obey before. Once upon a time, He was equal with God, but when He emptied Himself, He chose to be obedient and He learned to be obedient through the suffering—even no longer being present with God at all times must have been difficult. Dragging around an body of dust must have been tiresome. And being forsaken by God and punished for the sins of the world was without doubt agonizing. All this He did for the glory of God. Hebrews says He was heard because of His piety. Philippians continues “Therefore God highly exalted Him, and gave Him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow…” Have this humility, I am told. Jesus was equal with the God who humbles Himself just to look at heaven and earth, yet He poured it all out on the altar of sacrifice as a pleasing aroma to God. Have this humility. Whatever I think I am. Whatever I think I have. Pour it out completely on the altar of sacrifice, knowing that I will be heard because of Jesus’ piety.
Lord, the way Thou made to heav’n
Defies our wisdom, schemes or plans
While men seek blindly to be God,
God chose to be a man.
And by Thy Son’s obedience—
And Thou rejecting Him—
Thou brought near those who disobeyed
And set them free from sin.
Donnie’s younger brother, Tommy, joined us for church today. When I first met him, nearly four years ago, he was one of those people I thought I could very happily live without ever seeing again. He’s grown up a bit, matured a lot and become considerably more pleasant. And met the Lord in the interim, I’d guess, from the testimony he shared at lunch.
Papa taught from First Timothy three—the requirements for elders in the assembly. He boiled it down to four basic themes: male, mature, moral and a martyr (literally, a witness of Christ). But is this standard for leaders such an unattainable goal? Hardly. There are no restrictions for personality or spiritual gift and, most fascinating, he pointed out that nearly every command for overseers is paralleled elsewhere for all believers—excluding the call to males, of course (mercifully for those of us of the “female persuasion”). If the Lord calls us all to a standard of excellence, how much less those who would shepherd His flock!
“Here,” Zach thrust his Bible in front of me as I sat at the piano. “Verse eight.” We’ll call that a PIE attack, and it means one thing: provide immediate explanation. I glanced around hurriedly for someone to bail me out before protesting. “Who do you think I am to explain this?” “Well, duh,” he shrugged. “Lane's your father.” And there we have it, in three simple words and an apostrophe: my heritage. My amazing heritage. Because my father is wise, the poor, deluded individuals who appear on our doorstep assume the same applies to me. I only wish more of his wisdom would seed and grow in my own heart. I can attempt to regurgitate his explanations. I can pretend to walk uprightly. I can stare hard at a page of scripture and scratch my head and make semi intelligent grunts, but this child—well, this child knows nothing good. Can’t they see that? The high regard my father deserves is miles above anything I might claim. And I fall so short of the perfection of Christ. Please, Yahweh, God of my father, open my eyes, too, that I may behold wonderful things from Thy Law. Zach’s question came from Hebrews five and has been spinning around in my mind all day: “Although He (Jesus) was a Son, He learned obedience from the things which He suffered. And having been made perfect, He became to all those who obey Him, the source of eternal life.” For some odd reason, my head wasn’t screwed on tightly enough to think to take him to Philippians two, where Tabby and I are memorizing. “Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” To the best of my understanding, Jesus learning obedience doesn’t imply that He’d been disobedient before, but simply that He’d never been called to obey before. Once upon a time, He was equal with God, but when He emptied Himself, He chose to be obedient and He learned to be obedient through the suffering—even no longer being present with God at all times must have been difficult. Dragging around an body of dust must have been tiresome. And being forsaken by God and punished for the sins of the world was without doubt agonizing. All this He did for the glory of God. Hebrews says He was heard because of His piety. Philippians continues “Therefore God highly exalted Him, and gave Him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow…” Have this humility, I am told. Jesus was equal with the God who humbles Himself just to look at heaven and earth, yet He poured it all out on the altar of sacrifice as a pleasing aroma to God. Have this humility. Whatever I think I am. Whatever I think I have. Pour it out completely on the altar of sacrifice, knowing that I will be heard because of Jesus’ piety.
Lord, the way Thou made to heav’n
Defies our wisdom, schemes or plans
While men seek blindly to be God,
God chose to be a man.
And by Thy Son’s obedience—
And Thou rejecting Him—
Thou brought near those who disobeyed
And set them free from sin.
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.
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.
March 13, 2008
Not only am I absent-minded enough to close one hand in a door and another in the dishwasher, but I also completely forgot about it until I stood in the garden spot, shovel in hand, wondering why in the world my hands were complaining about the work. Ah, but life gets better. Five o’clock rolled around and Lydia poked her head in to ask why I hadn’t started supper yet. Completely forgetting I’d traded days with Mom, I was sorting through papers in my desk, because nothing else needed cleaned. With a mad dash to the freezer, I produced the very thing: an extra meal I’d frozen for just such an accident and whisked supper on barely ten minutes late. Thank You, Lord! That was after managing to close my skirt in the refrigerator. I sat down to supper and my ponytail tangled with the fancy back of my chair. I think the kitchen has conspired against me.
The woods are even worse. On the warning of a jaybird, I glanced around to see several camouflaged spies, covertly watching me from the tangled shadows of underbrush. As soon as they’d detected that they’d been detected they bounded away, waving white tails as they ran. I chose to accept that as surrender and held off on pursuit.
Even my own family is secretly planning my downfall. What business is it of anyone else’s if I only sit on the very edge of my desk chair? Josiah took the situation in at a glance, decided I was on poor terms with the chair and chose to help out by separating the two of us--rather quickly. I scolded him roundly, insisting he’d hurt my elbow in a way I wouldn’t forget for the next five minutes, but he heard me giggle on his way out the door. “I knew it!” he exclaimed in triumph. “You thought it was funny!” Well, of course I thought it was funny, but as long as he knows that he’ll keep doing it. I didn’t find it funny enough to ask for an instant replay.
Perhaps the fact that I’ve spent half the day on the phone will account for my odd mood. I enjoyed pleasant conversations with several different automated voices on the Sears line. Unfortunately, computers don’t get my wisecracks. “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” Finally transferred to the proper store, I was politely informed that the office was closed. Dial-a-trade gets old quickly, too, so I entertain myself by trying different tones and accents when I call in. Sadly, many of my “important” calls hardly allowed for such games. The phone is hardly my favorite household appliance. I do what I can to make encounters with this beast slightly more pleasant.
Every year I try to convince Mom that planting a garden in charity to the starving insects of the world is hardly her calling in life, but every year she bravely sets out to feed our six-legged neighbors. Every year I help her dig up the ground and weed and water and pick. It’s one of those traditions that simply can’t be broken. If I ever suggested planting a garden, she’d think I’d lost my senses, and if she ever decided to let it lie fallow, I’d be checking her temperature. Today as I shoveled, chopped and did other various sorts of tilling—without the aid of a tiller—the verses about breaking up the fallow ground started buzzing through my mind like mosquitoes. Thus says Yahweh, “Break up your fallow ground and don’t sow among thorns…” Put away your idols, dedicate your hearts to Me and speak truth. Searching my heart, seeking out the idols that sit on dusty shelves in hidden places, rooting out the seeds of deceit and begging the Lord to wash my heart from all evil—breaking up the fallow ground in my heart, I hope I may bear fruit in keeping with righteousness. What a project He has taken on!
Lord, this heart is hard and dry,
Filled with roots of bitter pride.
Yoked with Thee, I pray Thou lead;
To plow this heart is what I need.
Idols ashes Thou must scatter
Soil of selfish rocks, please shatter
Send Thyself, as springtime’s rain
To sprout in me Thy Spirit’s grain.
The woods are even worse. On the warning of a jaybird, I glanced around to see several camouflaged spies, covertly watching me from the tangled shadows of underbrush. As soon as they’d detected that they’d been detected they bounded away, waving white tails as they ran. I chose to accept that as surrender and held off on pursuit.
Even my own family is secretly planning my downfall. What business is it of anyone else’s if I only sit on the very edge of my desk chair? Josiah took the situation in at a glance, decided I was on poor terms with the chair and chose to help out by separating the two of us--rather quickly. I scolded him roundly, insisting he’d hurt my elbow in a way I wouldn’t forget for the next five minutes, but he heard me giggle on his way out the door. “I knew it!” he exclaimed in triumph. “You thought it was funny!” Well, of course I thought it was funny, but as long as he knows that he’ll keep doing it. I didn’t find it funny enough to ask for an instant replay.
Perhaps the fact that I’ve spent half the day on the phone will account for my odd mood. I enjoyed pleasant conversations with several different automated voices on the Sears line. Unfortunately, computers don’t get my wisecracks. “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” Finally transferred to the proper store, I was politely informed that the office was closed. Dial-a-trade gets old quickly, too, so I entertain myself by trying different tones and accents when I call in. Sadly, many of my “important” calls hardly allowed for such games. The phone is hardly my favorite household appliance. I do what I can to make encounters with this beast slightly more pleasant.
Every year I try to convince Mom that planting a garden in charity to the starving insects of the world is hardly her calling in life, but every year she bravely sets out to feed our six-legged neighbors. Every year I help her dig up the ground and weed and water and pick. It’s one of those traditions that simply can’t be broken. If I ever suggested planting a garden, she’d think I’d lost my senses, and if she ever decided to let it lie fallow, I’d be checking her temperature. Today as I shoveled, chopped and did other various sorts of tilling—without the aid of a tiller—the verses about breaking up the fallow ground started buzzing through my mind like mosquitoes. Thus says Yahweh, “Break up your fallow ground and don’t sow among thorns…” Put away your idols, dedicate your hearts to Me and speak truth. Searching my heart, seeking out the idols that sit on dusty shelves in hidden places, rooting out the seeds of deceit and begging the Lord to wash my heart from all evil—breaking up the fallow ground in my heart, I hope I may bear fruit in keeping with righteousness. What a project He has taken on!
Lord, this heart is hard and dry,
Filled with roots of bitter pride.
Yoked with Thee, I pray Thou lead;
To plow this heart is what I need.
Idols ashes Thou must scatter
Soil of selfish rocks, please shatter
Send Thyself, as springtime’s rain
To sprout in me Thy Spirit’s grain.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The sound of a sparrow twittering and singing outside my window, startled me from my quiet time this morning. Is it possible that spring is just around the bend?
A pig is a critter of worth, I am firmly resolved, and will go to great lengths to prove it by rhyme, story or science. I simply wish our internet connection could pick up a little speed to aid me in my research endeavors. Counting the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin while waiting for a page to load gets to be rather a boar. But someday, when I hold in my hands a stiff, new copy of my book, smelling of glue and wet paper, I’m sure I’ll forget the agony and pain involved in the researching process for the joy of finally holding my “baby”. Notice I said “when”, not “if”.
Back in time with Moses and the children of Israel, enslaved in Egypt for four-hundred years, I found myself sucked into the story of the ten plagues which Yahweh sent on the land of captivity. “Pharaoh will harden his heart,” he warned Moses, “And against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment—I AM YAHWEH.” One by one He proceeded to challenge, attack and prevail over the primary gods of the Egyptian religion. Did the Nile give life, through the aid of Hapi and Osiris? It was turned to blood, the symbol of life and yet dealing death to the land. Did frog represent good crops, insect control and blessings in the afterlife? Let us enjoy an overabundance of frogs—followed by a place of insects and destroyed crops. As the Lord moved down through each of the ten plagues He showed Himself to be God Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. The last and final plague was directed at Pharaoh himself, believed to be a god, yet unable to protect his own heir. The Egyptians worshiped so many false gods, depended on everything but Yahweh for their sustenance, and finally crumbled and fell into ruin, no longer a splendid world power as at one time. Why? Because God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble. He opposed the conceited Pharaoh, dragging him through the mud as he foolishly and repeatedly refused the advice of his counselors. Because Pharaoh refused to listen to God, God clouded his judgment so that he couldn’t even think clearly. His heart was hard. What a sober warning to me, to humble myself before the Lord, soften my heart to His word and seek Him while He may be found.
Lord, Thou opposes haughty men,
To trust ourselves is such great sin.
We will find our hearts grown hard
If we turn deaf ears to Thy word.
Teach me, Lord, to count my days
That I will offer all my praise
To Thou who rulest earth and sea
And yet attends Thy ear to me.
A pig is a critter of worth, I am firmly resolved, and will go to great lengths to prove it by rhyme, story or science. I simply wish our internet connection could pick up a little speed to aid me in my research endeavors. Counting the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin while waiting for a page to load gets to be rather a boar. But someday, when I hold in my hands a stiff, new copy of my book, smelling of glue and wet paper, I’m sure I’ll forget the agony and pain involved in the researching process for the joy of finally holding my “baby”. Notice I said “when”, not “if”.
Back in time with Moses and the children of Israel, enslaved in Egypt for four-hundred years, I found myself sucked into the story of the ten plagues which Yahweh sent on the land of captivity. “Pharaoh will harden his heart,” he warned Moses, “And against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment—I AM YAHWEH.” One by one He proceeded to challenge, attack and prevail over the primary gods of the Egyptian religion. Did the Nile give life, through the aid of Hapi and Osiris? It was turned to blood, the symbol of life and yet dealing death to the land. Did frog represent good crops, insect control and blessings in the afterlife? Let us enjoy an overabundance of frogs—followed by a place of insects and destroyed crops. As the Lord moved down through each of the ten plagues He showed Himself to be God Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. The last and final plague was directed at Pharaoh himself, believed to be a god, yet unable to protect his own heir. The Egyptians worshiped so many false gods, depended on everything but Yahweh for their sustenance, and finally crumbled and fell into ruin, no longer a splendid world power as at one time. Why? Because God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble. He opposed the conceited Pharaoh, dragging him through the mud as he foolishly and repeatedly refused the advice of his counselors. Because Pharaoh refused to listen to God, God clouded his judgment so that he couldn’t even think clearly. His heart was hard. What a sober warning to me, to humble myself before the Lord, soften my heart to His word and seek Him while He may be found.
Lord, Thou opposes haughty men,
To trust ourselves is such great sin.
We will find our hearts grown hard
If we turn deaf ears to Thy word.
Teach me, Lord, to count my days
That I will offer all my praise
To Thou who rulest earth and sea
And yet attends Thy ear to me.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
History reenacted itself today, at our bay windows. History, or at least, Shakespeare. The tragedy was that of Romeo and Juliet, star crossed lovers. Huddled in front of the wood stove, I was busily composing, arranging and modulating, when suddenly THUMP. Josiah, always eager for distractions during Math time, was out the door in an instant and returned a moment later with a limp female cardinal. He was just beginning a Hamlet-style soliloquy when another THUMP made us both jump. Again the door fanned, and Josiah returned, his other hand gently cradling the shivering form of our dear Juliet’s mate, his crimson feathers ruffled. What sad circumstances drove this innocent pair to seek to dash their brains out against the unyielding glass of our bay windows, I can’t even guess. The tragic scene ended with the burial of the female, who had clearly departed this vale of tears, and the return of the male to the wild once he regained his composure and ventured off of Josiah’s hospitable finger.
About noon, the drizzling rain caught a cold and drifted into snowflakes, spreading a delicate blanket over the pine forest, the yard, the road and anything else not too warm to resist. “Enjoy it,” I was told, when I boasted of what I’d brought home from Kansas with me. “It doesn’t happen often.”
I accomplished three things today: First, I finished our family newsletter, a task that somehow descended on me close to ten years ago. Secondly, I finished my arrangement of “We Three Kings”, complete with my new passion: snare drum, and sent it out accompanied by my Christmas Wishes, a day late. Thirdly, I spent the entire day in my pajamas. Which was the most unique, surprising, unpredictable? The last, of course.
Everything is so different from how I expected it to be. My closest friends are not the ones I’d thought I’d spend the most time with. My emotions have turned upside down. My schedule, my projects are not what I had in mind. Sometimes I can’t help wondering what other murky things lie waiting to be revealed—ugly, unexplainable, painful? Or do they only seem unpleasant because I can’t fathom them? We have lived here less than three months and already the earth begins to shift beneath my feet. What does the Lord have in mind?
Lord, ‘tis Thou who plans my path
And Thou wilt lead me with Thy staff,
But shadows lurk, and demons call,
I fear I’ll lose Thee, most of all.
Break my legs, Lord, if Thou must,
To teach this willful lamb to trust,
Then lift and carry me each day
That I may know this is Thy way.
About noon, the drizzling rain caught a cold and drifted into snowflakes, spreading a delicate blanket over the pine forest, the yard, the road and anything else not too warm to resist. “Enjoy it,” I was told, when I boasted of what I’d brought home from Kansas with me. “It doesn’t happen often.”
I accomplished three things today: First, I finished our family newsletter, a task that somehow descended on me close to ten years ago. Secondly, I finished my arrangement of “We Three Kings”, complete with my new passion: snare drum, and sent it out accompanied by my Christmas Wishes, a day late. Thirdly, I spent the entire day in my pajamas. Which was the most unique, surprising, unpredictable? The last, of course.
Everything is so different from how I expected it to be. My closest friends are not the ones I’d thought I’d spend the most time with. My emotions have turned upside down. My schedule, my projects are not what I had in mind. Sometimes I can’t help wondering what other murky things lie waiting to be revealed—ugly, unexplainable, painful? Or do they only seem unpleasant because I can’t fathom them? We have lived here less than three months and already the earth begins to shift beneath my feet. What does the Lord have in mind?
Lord, ‘tis Thou who plans my path
And Thou wilt lead me with Thy staff,
But shadows lurk, and demons call,
I fear I’ll lose Thee, most of all.
Break my legs, Lord, if Thou must,
To teach this willful lamb to trust,
Then lift and carry me each day
That I may know this is Thy way.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Kitchens have a nasty habit of growing smaller the longer you are trapped in them. Mom and I spent the day cooking. I managed to escape the kitchen now and then—for a bit of drumming while my meatballs burned and stuck to the pan, a run to my room to write down a phrase until the timer on my pumpkin bread called me back, for a walk while everyone else ate lunch, to clear out my head and eyes and enjoy the beautiful woods God made. Frankly, it is my firm belief that cooking and eating nearly classify as wastes of precious time. Yet, sadly I must confess, that I do both very well at times.
While in the woods I discovered a large cat paw print. Larger than a house cat. “No worries,” I told myself, and myself raised her eyebrows. “I’ve faced down a wildcat before.” Myself chuckled back, recalling the day so many years ago when I came face to face with a bobcat as he hunted in our old woods back home in Kansas. As we stared at each other, two fireballs of fur and fear, I stood up to my full height and began barking at the top of my lungs. The bobcat retreated in haste and I continued my walk. I was still chuckling to myself when a crash came from the woods and I jerked my head up in time to see three enormous white tails bouncing down the side of the hill.
Sleeper joined us for supper and to pick Nick up for the holidays. Papa surprised us all with a pop quiz on Christians and the Mosaic Law. I missed more than I care to confess, and we all enjoyed a hearty discussion of the matter, followed by some good teaching and some great quotes. I am grateful to be under a Law of Grace, by the blood of Jesus Christ. I am also increasingly aware of how little scripture I know by heart and how little I can draw upon when in a pinch. The foundation for my life is in that book—how can I hope to live a life pleasing to the Lord while so ignorant of His Word?
The disjointed ramblings I scribbled down last night--the workings of an exhausted mind, are beyond my own comprehension today. I cried myself to sleep last night, weeping for the others and myself and woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a train. Slowly I opened my eyes to discover they were not swollen, and then climbed out of bed to fix an early breakfast, pondering the many times I've been told no. As I worked, the thought came to me: No is not a punishment. The force of this simple statement hit me with such amazing ferocity that it nearly stole my breath. No is not a punishment. It’s not a divine spanking when the Lord says “no”. It’s not something to be dreaded. His plans always work out—for the good of those who love Him. For Him to answer my prayers with a “no” should not cause me tears, it should not disturb me or make me miserable. It should bring me peace, knowing that the Lord has heard and answered. And whatever He has is better. Don’t say it tritely. Really listen. I thought what I wanted was good. The Lord said, “no, I’ve got something better in mind. Because you are called according to My purpose.” Where is my cause for sorrow? Where is my excuse for depression? Where is my reason for pitying myself? When the Lord says “no” it is not a punishment, just a redirection. He’s simply blocking me off from the wrong direction and heading me in the right direction again.
Chains fell off my heart and mind. For the first time in a long time I felt completely freed of a burden I’d been carrying, which had grown heavier and heavier of late. Anything to which the Lord says “no” is simply not what He has for me, and I can accept that joyfully as His loving protection. The rest of the day I floated around on the joy of knowing I am a daughter of the King and my heart is like water in His hands, to turn wherever He wishes.
Later, I passed a picture of a much younger Abigail, reposing placidly on the bookshelf in the library. “Little girl,” I sought to advise the innocent-eyed child. “Life is hard. Living is dangerous. Loving is risky. The only true reward is in the Lord. Pursue Him.”
Lord, may I ever, always be
Content to know Thy will for me.
And when I know Thy will in full
Pursue it gladly, heart and soul.
And when Thy will seems distant still
Remind me, waiting, is Thy will.
And when Thy will is dim or worse
Remind me to pursue Thee first.
While in the woods I discovered a large cat paw print. Larger than a house cat. “No worries,” I told myself, and myself raised her eyebrows. “I’ve faced down a wildcat before.” Myself chuckled back, recalling the day so many years ago when I came face to face with a bobcat as he hunted in our old woods back home in Kansas. As we stared at each other, two fireballs of fur and fear, I stood up to my full height and began barking at the top of my lungs. The bobcat retreated in haste and I continued my walk. I was still chuckling to myself when a crash came from the woods and I jerked my head up in time to see three enormous white tails bouncing down the side of the hill.
Sleeper joined us for supper and to pick Nick up for the holidays. Papa surprised us all with a pop quiz on Christians and the Mosaic Law. I missed more than I care to confess, and we all enjoyed a hearty discussion of the matter, followed by some good teaching and some great quotes. I am grateful to be under a Law of Grace, by the blood of Jesus Christ. I am also increasingly aware of how little scripture I know by heart and how little I can draw upon when in a pinch. The foundation for my life is in that book—how can I hope to live a life pleasing to the Lord while so ignorant of His Word?
The disjointed ramblings I scribbled down last night--the workings of an exhausted mind, are beyond my own comprehension today. I cried myself to sleep last night, weeping for the others and myself and woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a train. Slowly I opened my eyes to discover they were not swollen, and then climbed out of bed to fix an early breakfast, pondering the many times I've been told no. As I worked, the thought came to me: No is not a punishment. The force of this simple statement hit me with such amazing ferocity that it nearly stole my breath. No is not a punishment. It’s not a divine spanking when the Lord says “no”. It’s not something to be dreaded. His plans always work out—for the good of those who love Him. For Him to answer my prayers with a “no” should not cause me tears, it should not disturb me or make me miserable. It should bring me peace, knowing that the Lord has heard and answered. And whatever He has is better. Don’t say it tritely. Really listen. I thought what I wanted was good. The Lord said, “no, I’ve got something better in mind. Because you are called according to My purpose.” Where is my cause for sorrow? Where is my excuse for depression? Where is my reason for pitying myself? When the Lord says “no” it is not a punishment, just a redirection. He’s simply blocking me off from the wrong direction and heading me in the right direction again.
Chains fell off my heart and mind. For the first time in a long time I felt completely freed of a burden I’d been carrying, which had grown heavier and heavier of late. Anything to which the Lord says “no” is simply not what He has for me, and I can accept that joyfully as His loving protection. The rest of the day I floated around on the joy of knowing I am a daughter of the King and my heart is like water in His hands, to turn wherever He wishes.
Later, I passed a picture of a much younger Abigail, reposing placidly on the bookshelf in the library. “Little girl,” I sought to advise the innocent-eyed child. “Life is hard. Living is dangerous. Loving is risky. The only true reward is in the Lord. Pursue Him.”
Lord, may I ever, always be
Content to know Thy will for me.
And when I know Thy will in full
Pursue it gladly, heart and soul.
And when Thy will seems distant still
Remind me, waiting, is Thy will.
And when Thy will is dim or worse
Remind me to pursue Thee first.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
I have not a blow dryer to my name. Mom very generously gave me the one from Josiah’s bathroom, but he showed up demanding its immediate return. I can’t quite visualize the necessity of a blow dryer for ½ inch long hair, but I returned the item in question to its rightful owner and added a blow dryer to my rather lengthy wish-list. My wish-list being defined as the running list of items I think, “Oh, that would be nice to have”, but never get around to buying. Buying things is such a waste of time and money, anyway.
Josiah informed me of an interesting conversation he had with Zach, after the Bible study last night. A very lengthy discussion of being careful around girls led Zach to comment: “But I never worry about Abigail. Dude, she’s just like a sister. No,” a pause. “Worse. She’s like a mom.” The concept of such filial affection from a twenty-two-year-old is rather novel, but I suppose it’s better than the alternatives.
We reported a jail-break today. Our sticky, spotted salamander escaped his cage sometime this afternoon and is now at large in our house. He is armed and extremely dangerous, and it will be a pity should he be squished.
The price of produce these days is almost steep enough for a black diamond ski slope. My grocery list vanished somewhere between Dollar General and the Supermarket. In this world of modern conveniences, I called home and strolled the store, stocking up as Mom relayed the list over the phone. When I think of the inventions of my lifetime, I am struck with awe: cell phones, internet, computers not to mention electronic gadgets like mp3 players, CD players, DVD players, ipods, iphones, PDAs and all the ridiculous sorts of toys that have complicatedly simplified our lives. At any given moment, the average person could erupt with multiple alarms. Once upon a time, people lived tranquil, quiet lives, and had good excuses for not keeping in better touch.
D-town is a town of trust. So many of the shops are so careless—it would be so easy to lift something. Strangely, the thought has entered my head on multiple occasions lately. Not actually to steal something, I don’t believe, since there’s no struggle or deliberation involved, but almost more of a shock at how easily I could pocket something and continue on my merry way. Only, I would be rather less than merry. I remember the only time I ever took something from a store—it was a fake flower, lying forlornly on the cold, tile floor, and my four-year-old mind reasoned that it would never be missed or cared about. Surely the Hobby-Lobbyists would just sweep it up and throw it away anyway. So I rescued the poor blossom from an untimely demise. Mom discovered my heroic effort halfway out to the car and turned me around, marched me back inside and made me return the flower with an elaborate apology. Something like, “Sniffle…I’m sorry I took this…sniffle…it was on the floor…sniffle, sniffle…I’ll never do it again. SNORT.” Why do I do what is right? Why do I shudder at the thought of taking something that is not mine? Is it a fear of punishment that keeps the thought spinning through my mind, polishing it like a stone in a tumbler, but never allowing it to hatch? Is it my conscience that would never allow me to enjoy something taken through deceit? Is it a fear of disappointing my parents? A horror of displeasing my Heavenly Father? All these facets are in place to keep me from sin—like a hedge of thorns around me, keeping me on a path of purity. It’s the same way with many sins—lying, sexual sins, sins of excess, rebellion. But how often I forget that these same hedges guard the pathway to keep me from secret sins? I trample my conscience, I push away fears of punishment from the One Who sees what is done in secret, and I indulge in sins that stain my heart—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life. I shrink in horror from breaking the commandments against lying, murdering, stealing and fornication and glibly go my way, trampling underfoot the two greatest commands: to love God first, and my neighbor as myself. Oh, that I would shrink from impurity of heart as quickly as I shudder at impurity of actions.
Lord, Thou art a perfect Master,
Which would seem a huge disaster,
Had Thou not been born of dust
So as to sympathize with us.
May my life not be a lie
As studied to please human eye
But lived in perfect purity
To bring delight to even Thee.
Josiah informed me of an interesting conversation he had with Zach, after the Bible study last night. A very lengthy discussion of being careful around girls led Zach to comment: “But I never worry about Abigail. Dude, she’s just like a sister. No,” a pause. “Worse. She’s like a mom.” The concept of such filial affection from a twenty-two-year-old is rather novel, but I suppose it’s better than the alternatives.
We reported a jail-break today. Our sticky, spotted salamander escaped his cage sometime this afternoon and is now at large in our house. He is armed and extremely dangerous, and it will be a pity should he be squished.
The price of produce these days is almost steep enough for a black diamond ski slope. My grocery list vanished somewhere between Dollar General and the Supermarket. In this world of modern conveniences, I called home and strolled the store, stocking up as Mom relayed the list over the phone. When I think of the inventions of my lifetime, I am struck with awe: cell phones, internet, computers not to mention electronic gadgets like mp3 players, CD players, DVD players, ipods, iphones, PDAs and all the ridiculous sorts of toys that have complicatedly simplified our lives. At any given moment, the average person could erupt with multiple alarms. Once upon a time, people lived tranquil, quiet lives, and had good excuses for not keeping in better touch.
D-town is a town of trust. So many of the shops are so careless—it would be so easy to lift something. Strangely, the thought has entered my head on multiple occasions lately. Not actually to steal something, I don’t believe, since there’s no struggle or deliberation involved, but almost more of a shock at how easily I could pocket something and continue on my merry way. Only, I would be rather less than merry. I remember the only time I ever took something from a store—it was a fake flower, lying forlornly on the cold, tile floor, and my four-year-old mind reasoned that it would never be missed or cared about. Surely the Hobby-Lobbyists would just sweep it up and throw it away anyway. So I rescued the poor blossom from an untimely demise. Mom discovered my heroic effort halfway out to the car and turned me around, marched me back inside and made me return the flower with an elaborate apology. Something like, “Sniffle…I’m sorry I took this…sniffle…it was on the floor…sniffle, sniffle…I’ll never do it again. SNORT.” Why do I do what is right? Why do I shudder at the thought of taking something that is not mine? Is it a fear of punishment that keeps the thought spinning through my mind, polishing it like a stone in a tumbler, but never allowing it to hatch? Is it my conscience that would never allow me to enjoy something taken through deceit? Is it a fear of disappointing my parents? A horror of displeasing my Heavenly Father? All these facets are in place to keep me from sin—like a hedge of thorns around me, keeping me on a path of purity. It’s the same way with many sins—lying, sexual sins, sins of excess, rebellion. But how often I forget that these same hedges guard the pathway to keep me from secret sins? I trample my conscience, I push away fears of punishment from the One Who sees what is done in secret, and I indulge in sins that stain my heart—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life. I shrink in horror from breaking the commandments against lying, murdering, stealing and fornication and glibly go my way, trampling underfoot the two greatest commands: to love God first, and my neighbor as myself. Oh, that I would shrink from impurity of heart as quickly as I shudder at impurity of actions.
Lord, Thou art a perfect Master,
Which would seem a huge disaster,
Had Thou not been born of dust
So as to sympathize with us.
May my life not be a lie
As studied to please human eye
But lived in perfect purity
To bring delight to even Thee.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Imagine one of those little, bug-eyed chihuahuas. Once they start shivering, they simply can’t stop. That’s a pretty good visual of me right now. This house is pretty drafty, not to mention sprawling, and we’ve not been here long enough to accumulate a stash of seasoned firewood. This morning dawned bitterly cold, albeit sunny, and the temperature inside was no great improvement on that outside. Before he left, Papa gave me the task of calling into the faithful Dial-a-trade to see if my extraordinary radio talents could scare up any seasoned firewood. Which done, I worked at my desk, a faithful secretary, awaiting the truckloads of incoming phone calls I knew would be rolling in. The phone rang and I answered, politely. “Yeah,” came a high-pitched drawl from the other end. “I’ve got me some good, seasoned pine here, I’ll sell ya for seventy-five a rick.” “I’m sorry,” I answered, “I don’t need pine, I need a hardwood that’ll give more heat.” Across the line came gales of laughter, and a familiar voice. “This is the Papa. She fell for it, Gene!”
Our newest guest acquisition comes as a spotted salamander, discovered in a cold, little heap by Mom as she gathered an armload of firewood for her bedroom stove. The little fellow was quickly transported inside where he alternately curls into a ball in the sunshine on the floor or hides under anything handy—Josiah’s math book, my sweater and the big pillow. My mind goes back to article I once wrote on the Siberian Newt—a salamander who’s been known to freeze alongside woolly mammoths, only to scurry away again once thawed.
I dove into Sibelius after supper—a supper consisting of my first attempt at Indian food—to orchestrate my Christmas wishes. Arranging “We Three Kings” has proven challenging. I can hear so much more in my head than I can get down on paper, such is my limited knowledge of the intricate workings of music. In other words, I might be a great composer, if only I knew anything about writing music. Please take note of the obvious sarcasm before you pity my ignorance. The song itself is one which I used to think trite and childish—especially since the myth of three wise men simply springs from the three gifts. But the line, “King and God and sacrifice”, denoting the spiritual significance of the three gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh caught my attention this year and set me pondering. Interesting how I’ve heard it said that Jesus was prophet, priest and King. He was also King and God and sacrifice. The parallels are breathtaking: King of Kings. Prophet and God—speaking for Himself about Himself, because He needs no greater testimony. Most outstanding, both priest and sacrifice. The old testament speaks of the need for spotless gifts, for purified priests, for sacrifices offered to make the priest holy enough to enter the Holy of Holies. In Jesus we have a priest, the only perfect man, entering the Holy of Holies to sacrifice Himself. On the altar, before God, He laid aside all that was divine and holy, took on all that was wicked and sinful, and gave His own life, the ransom for many. When He cried out, “It is finished! Paid! Done!” the curtain covering the most Holy Place was torn in two pieces, from top to bottom, permitting access to those sprinkled by the precious blood of the Lamb of God. Today, though I may not present Him with gold and frankincense and myrrh, I can recognize Him as King and God and Sacrifice, and worship Him for His worthiness to fill all three offices.
Lord, Thou left Thy throne on high,
To shroud Thy deity and die,
The sacrifice for every sin,
That, sprinkled, we might enter in.
And by Thy sacrifice to claim
A people called by Thy own name.
Three times holy, Great I am:
Worthy God and King and Lamb.
Our newest guest acquisition comes as a spotted salamander, discovered in a cold, little heap by Mom as she gathered an armload of firewood for her bedroom stove. The little fellow was quickly transported inside where he alternately curls into a ball in the sunshine on the floor or hides under anything handy—Josiah’s math book, my sweater and the big pillow. My mind goes back to article I once wrote on the Siberian Newt—a salamander who’s been known to freeze alongside woolly mammoths, only to scurry away again once thawed.
I dove into Sibelius after supper—a supper consisting of my first attempt at Indian food—to orchestrate my Christmas wishes. Arranging “We Three Kings” has proven challenging. I can hear so much more in my head than I can get down on paper, such is my limited knowledge of the intricate workings of music. In other words, I might be a great composer, if only I knew anything about writing music. Please take note of the obvious sarcasm before you pity my ignorance. The song itself is one which I used to think trite and childish—especially since the myth of three wise men simply springs from the three gifts. But the line, “King and God and sacrifice”, denoting the spiritual significance of the three gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh caught my attention this year and set me pondering. Interesting how I’ve heard it said that Jesus was prophet, priest and King. He was also King and God and sacrifice. The parallels are breathtaking: King of Kings. Prophet and God—speaking for Himself about Himself, because He needs no greater testimony. Most outstanding, both priest and sacrifice. The old testament speaks of the need for spotless gifts, for purified priests, for sacrifices offered to make the priest holy enough to enter the Holy of Holies. In Jesus we have a priest, the only perfect man, entering the Holy of Holies to sacrifice Himself. On the altar, before God, He laid aside all that was divine and holy, took on all that was wicked and sinful, and gave His own life, the ransom for many. When He cried out, “It is finished! Paid! Done!” the curtain covering the most Holy Place was torn in two pieces, from top to bottom, permitting access to those sprinkled by the precious blood of the Lamb of God. Today, though I may not present Him with gold and frankincense and myrrh, I can recognize Him as King and God and Sacrifice, and worship Him for His worthiness to fill all three offices.
Lord, Thou left Thy throne on high,
To shroud Thy deity and die,
The sacrifice for every sin,
That, sprinkled, we might enter in.
And by Thy sacrifice to claim
A people called by Thy own name.
Three times holy, Great I am:
Worthy God and King and Lamb.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
I spent much of my day balancing on a rickety ladder, stuffed up a skylight, with the brilliant sun shining in my eyes and paint dripping on my head. The result was two neatly painted skylight chutes, a happy Papa and a relieved me.
Overnight the clouds dissipated and the morning dawned glowing with the warmth of the sun. In my Bible reading this morning, I read about the man born blind, whom Jesus healed. I love the sunshine, and I can’t imagine how anyone could not love it’s warmth and light, or how anyone could possibly not see the light, or at least see the colors in the world, and know the sun is shining. But Jesus said people are blind to the light. Only He can heal them. But I should be bringing them to the light—pointing them to the light so that it can pierce the darkness in their souls and Jesus can heal them.
The DVD last night talked about the people we know who don’t know Jesus—especially our loved ones. Someone's been on my mind lately. Today the Lord brought her up again, reminding me of ways I could reach out, truths to share and the perils of remaining quiet. I spent an hour on my knees in prayer for her.
Then I got up, went back to my chores and did nothing the rest of the day.
How is it, I can read the Bible, burn with conviction and then get up and walk away is if nothing happened? I spent hours in the Word today, poring over it, yet my heart is still cold and hard and I am slow to obey. “Tomorrow,” I say. “Tomorrow I will step up and obey the Lord. I will have more time tomorrow. Today I’ll just prepare myself by praying about it while I do other things.”
It’s like the men who came to Jesus offering to follow Him and He gave them tasks. And they said, “Me first.” Jesus asked me to share His truth with Aunt Helen and I said, “I will Lord, but permit ME FIRST to go and paint that skylight.”
But I’m torn. My father asked me to paint the skylight. My father asked me to weed the yard. My father asked me to have supper on time. My father asked me to e-mail pictures to a co-worker. All those things got done—those temporal things. And the spiritual thing did not. Am I blaming my father for my lack of devotion? For my disobedience? The Lord won’t fall for that one. Especially since I now sit here detailing my day (in which I feel like I accomplished absolutely nothing) and still not writing that e-mail.
I don’t know what to say.
Jeremiah 1:4-10
“Now the word of Yahweh came to me saying,
“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you,
And before you were born I consecrated you;
I have appointed you a prophet to the nations.”
Then I said, “Alas, Lord Yahweh!
Behold, I do not know how to speak,
Because I am a youth.”
But Yahweh said to me,
“Do not say, ‘I am a youth,’
Because everywhere I send you, you shall go,
And all that I command you, you shall speak.
Do not be afraid of them,
For I am with you to deliver you,” declares Yahweh.
Then Yahweh stretched out His hand and touched my mouth, and Yahweh said to me,
“Behold, I have put My words in your mouth.
See? I have appointed you this day over the nations and over the kingdoms,
To pluck up and to break down,
To destroy and to overthrow,
To build and to plant.”
It’s not about whether or not I’m wise and learned and clever with words. It’s about my obedience—to go where the Lord sends and to say what He says. He says, “Don’t feed me that ‘I’m too young’ junk.” After all, I’ve just got to point the way to the Ancient of Days.
Lord, Thou asked a difficult thing
Since I have owned Thee as my King.
Thou asked that I would share Thy truth
Despite my fear—in spite my youth.
So Lord, I choose to speak Thy word,
May it be, in my hand, a sword
To separate the heart and mind
And lose the lost for Thee to find.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
My room is in a semblance of order, my journals are unpacked and the yard is beginning to take on a less run-down look. These changes subtly hint at hours of hard labor. It seems we never stop. We can’t stop. Every time I sit down feeling satisfied with one finished job, I glance around me to discover several more demanding my attention. And every night this week we’ve been up late “socializing” with the many friends we have down here.
Yesterday the well ran dry. I had just finished showering and everyone else was trooping in to get cleaned up for the Bible study at Wes and Audrey’s. We’d finally gotten the conversion kit and switched the dryer over to propane so we’d been doing laundry. And then the washing machine quit filling half-way. It recovered after about half an hour, but we’ve been trying to be more conservative since: space out dishwashing, laundry and showers more evenly throughout the day.
When we got home late last night, the hot water heater had gone out and so Papa was up until midnight trying to fix it. From my room next to the laundry room I listened in a sleepy daze as he worked, wondering what in the world was going on.
I woke up this morning feeling like I’d been run over by a mountain goat, fixed breakfast and tried to take a much-needed-but-often-missed-of-late fast. Then I headed out to rake up and haul the hefty blanket of leaves and pine needles spread across our yard. I was so tired I could hardly think straight.
So Josiah’s teasing about my driving as I backed the pick-up to haul was not appreciated.
And one stately pine tree went unnoticed—until it gave my bumper a resounding kiss.
I was out the door in a moment, frustrated and worried. Josiah reached me at the same moment I burst into tears and took me in his arms, telling me it would be okay, reminding me how often he had backed into trees—or garage doors.
My first driving mishap. The tears felt refreshing.
Our very helpful neighbor came over today while we were working and stayed for lunch. As a retired airman, he’s full of stories and pleasant.
The yard is full of mountains—molehills, rather, and we had our first successful mole-hunting expedition. Papa’s sharp eyes spotted a mound of moving dirt near the back patio, which a swift stomp put a stop to. Josiah grabbed a handy rake and dug out a corpulent, silky mole, stunned in the midst of his tunneling expedition.
That mole’s single-mindedness inspired me. Even though those around him get irritated with his tunneling philosophy or his mound-making perseverance, that mole just keeps steadily doing what he was intended to do: dig tunnels. We gawk at him for being ugly, blind or having big hands, but those are all tools that God have him to better accomplish his task.
My task is to glorify God. What tools has God given me to accomplish His purpose—in spite of opposition?
Lord, I pray to know Thy will.
Thou hast bid me linger still
In the pages of Thy word:
There Thou made Thy purpose heard.
Centuries, spelled out in days--
Filled with never ceasing praise.
Eternal glory Thou dost seek
Repeated since creation’s week.