I described Freckles to Lauryn as “short, muscular, super cute and hyper.” “Hmm,” she said. “Sounds like the perfect Scott dog.” She’s absolutely insane and irresistibly charming. Impish. Adventuresome. Runs like the Energizer Bunny. I never thought I was a dog person. When I was much younger I loved cats—well, actually kittens. In fact, I so badly wanted one that, in spite of the knowledge that my parents would never approve, I circumvented their authority and had a chat with my Father about it. Lo and behold, a stray cat with a lame leg showed up on our doorstep. Dumped, no doubt. She was a charmer as well. In all honesty, she didn’t behave like a cat with a haughty “I own you, so there” attitude. She lived happily ever after with us until shortly after we moved into the country and she was killed by a neighbor dog. Popcorn was the only pet we’ve had in my entire life. Excluding the beta fish, that is. Fish hardly count. Now we’ve got a wired terrier and all I can say is, “we should have gotten a dog a long time ago.” Funny, though, how the ones that show up turn out to be the best pets. I attempted to teach Freckles to sit, but she seems to have associated the desired action with the pressure on her rump instead of the word. Now whenever I pet her she cheerfully plops her little bottom down and cocks her head to peer up at me with huge puppy-dog eyes.
In lieu of any real snow, Lydia and I sat on Mom’s bedroom floor tonight cutting out snowflakes. Mine turned out to have a rather African flair. If there’s such a thing as African snowflakes. Lydia’s, on the other hand, looked decidedly springish. Somehow it seems that we’re both missing the point. Or perhaps we’re just thinking longingly of warmer days. Our bedroom keeps a constant heat index of perhaps forty-five degrees. When we come out to breakfast in the mornings we can slide our hands up near someone else’s backside and they’ll holler about the cold radiating out. Patrolling the energy usage has been next to impossible. We run the electric fan in our bathroom for dressing and showering, but I still keep shaving off goose bumps. And we sleep under electric blankets with only our noses sticking out the top. In the morning our noses are red. Hale and hearty we both must be, for we’ve still not contracted a cold.
“Who did you want to talk to?” Tabby asked when she answered the phone and apparently couldn’t believe her good fortune when I insisted she was the woman and prepared to drop my explosive. “What do you think? Would you like me to take some engagement pictures for you this weekend?” A gasp. A strangle. An excited yelp. An explosion. “HHHHOW would you do that?” she finally demanded. “Oh,” I answered casually, “I have a super powerful telescoping lens.” It’s still hard to believe she’s really getting married. We’d become so close—always going through the same things, it seemed. Suddenly, no more. Nick wouldn’t even believe me when I tried to share the good news with him. “Cliff?” he asked, incredulously. “I was there all summer. I know Cliff. There was nothing happening there.” “I realized I have no clue what I’m doing or where to start planning a wedding,” Tabby confided. “Can I—well, will you help me?” I embrace my part as wedding planner extraordinaire. It sounds as though I’m supposed to be experienced, or something. I’m delighted. Tabitha Faye has been the best friend and deserves the best guy and the best wedding and the best happily ever after. I only wish I could actually be there to help her out.
I don’t know how Lauren could have ever kept her big secret from me. She’s bursting with new little tidbits all the time. “I figured out today that sleeping in is my worst enemy!” she announced. I could have told her that. Instead I dug out a pleasant assent from my storehouse of appropriate phone conversation pieces. Sadly, my storehouse is very limited. But it’s growing. Surely and steadily. Working at a pregnancy clinic has completely altered my thinking. Who’d have thought I’d somehow or other know so much about pregnancy? This little niece or nephew is another hard-to-believe. Lauren reminded me of the birthday card I'd sent her: “I heard you’re expecting…another birthday! Scared you, didn’t I?” Humorously, that would have been just about exactly in time for the little person’s creation. I should have sent it much sooner.
Fanatical is the perfect word to describe the woman I read about today—from Iran. She began as a fanatical Muslim. Praying until her body was swollen and sore, memorizing the entire Koran, pleading and begging to know Allah personally. Until the day she came face to face with a picture of Jesus and fell to her knees in broken repentance. After that it was one little thing after another, as she was able to learn about Jesus, be changed by Jesus and become fanatical about Jesus. She started sharing Jesus everywhere she went, with everyone she met and the Lord started turning lives upside down. She holds Bible studies in Muslim beauty parlors, disciples prostitutes, distributes tracts and hope in nearby cities, hosts a home church and reads and memorizes the Word every chance she gets. Oh, and she’s twenty. Twenty years old. Tears came to my eyes as I realized her devotion—to the truth. Her search had always been for the Truth. And when she found it, she poured her alabaster jar at the feet of the Master and lives a life of radical worship. I was humbled to be caught up in her simple story and realize how boring she would find mine. I want to be like her. I want to be carried away with the joy of the Lord, the power of His grace and the impact of His truth.
We’re in relatively little danger now, facing relatively little opposition. And still I’m a coward. But tribulation stands veiled on the threshold. Now I have a little time to practice before I may be called to perform this dance of life and death. Lord, strengthen me, empower me, discipline me, overwhelm me to share Your precious truth wherever I go.
Lord, we place a greater value
On that which costs us greater pain.
Yet that which costs us greater pain
Often yields a greater gain.
And so, it seems, I place the value
Of Thy secret now revealed
Much lower than my precious sister
Who, daily praises Thy blood spilled.
Teach me, too, to love so greatly
Recognizing that Thy grace
Is poured as richly on my shoulders
By the Lamb who took my place.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I should have mentioned that my lingering search for a treadmill and total-gym finally paid off and we no longer have need of anyone else’s workout room. Tonight we gathered in the parent’s suite in search of the toasty warmth and also eager to lubricate the treadmill belt. “It’s slipping still,” I informed Papa, and he bravely climbed aboard to try it out. Sure enough, it slipped throwing him forward, then backward until he looked to be doing an Indian war-dance. While Josiah tightened, Papa kept walking at break-neck speed. With an impish grin Josiah winked at us and then grabbed the edge of the belt, causing a ginormous slip which nearly sent Papa tumbling off. We held our collective breath to keep from laughing. “Whoa!” Papa exclaimed. “Better tighten that at least another quarter turn.”
I also neglected to mention that Nick moved in with us yesterday after finishing up his last final. The agreement is that he’ll put in several hours of work per day. This morning he smelled strongly of Windex as he gave every window in the house a thorough shining.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have begun working out again. My bright idea today was sparked while at the Ware’s, cleaning house. A shiny, new shower head lay in the guest bathtub begging to be lovingly placed into its new home. Simple instructions decorated the back, so I slit open the package and installed it. And I did a lovely job, except for the part where it said to screw the hose to the head and finger tighten it. I only used me fingers. I promise! And I hadn’t really even begun to tighten when I heard a sickening “crack!” I waited in trepidation to tell Travis when he got home, but he just laughed and said he’d buy a new one. A better quality one. I crept home in relief.
We finished up Revelation last night and started in on an interesting study tonight. Papa is beginning to feel reinspired to work on a book about the church meeting and we get to help him! Sometimes I hear the words “First Corinthians” and am overwhelmed by an enormous faintness. Is there no other book in the Bible? Sunday night I struggled to pay attention as I heard again a teaching I’ve heard so many times. But today I skimmed through my journal from the first six months here in the not-so-sunny south and was overwhelmed, amazed and reminded of all that I had learned. This book is Papa’s vision. It’s his dream for ministry. I don’t really understand it. I lack his enthusiasm, his drive, his goals. But this is his vision. My joy, my place is in catching his enthusiasm, encouraging his dream and helping his endeavor.
Life stirs within this languid breast. A faint flame is flickering. I must catch it and fan it into a blaze! How have I been languishing and dying all this time? How have I been weeping for myself and avoiding all that is best?
“It takes courage to worship,” says Shai Linne, speaking of the High Priest of bygone days. But worship yields such fullness. Such joy. Such delight.
Here I am to worship.
Lord, I take the faltering step
To come inside the rended veil
To worship at Thy holy throne
To live again within Thy court
To rediscover joy in Thee
To pray with renewed energy
To hope for better things to come
To chase Thy Priest, the Lamb, Thy Son.
I also neglected to mention that Nick moved in with us yesterday after finishing up his last final. The agreement is that he’ll put in several hours of work per day. This morning he smelled strongly of Windex as he gave every window in the house a thorough shining.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have begun working out again. My bright idea today was sparked while at the Ware’s, cleaning house. A shiny, new shower head lay in the guest bathtub begging to be lovingly placed into its new home. Simple instructions decorated the back, so I slit open the package and installed it. And I did a lovely job, except for the part where it said to screw the hose to the head and finger tighten it. I only used me fingers. I promise! And I hadn’t really even begun to tighten when I heard a sickening “crack!” I waited in trepidation to tell Travis when he got home, but he just laughed and said he’d buy a new one. A better quality one. I crept home in relief.
We finished up Revelation last night and started in on an interesting study tonight. Papa is beginning to feel reinspired to work on a book about the church meeting and we get to help him! Sometimes I hear the words “First Corinthians” and am overwhelmed by an enormous faintness. Is there no other book in the Bible? Sunday night I struggled to pay attention as I heard again a teaching I’ve heard so many times. But today I skimmed through my journal from the first six months here in the not-so-sunny south and was overwhelmed, amazed and reminded of all that I had learned. This book is Papa’s vision. It’s his dream for ministry. I don’t really understand it. I lack his enthusiasm, his drive, his goals. But this is his vision. My joy, my place is in catching his enthusiasm, encouraging his dream and helping his endeavor.
Life stirs within this languid breast. A faint flame is flickering. I must catch it and fan it into a blaze! How have I been languishing and dying all this time? How have I been weeping for myself and avoiding all that is best?
“It takes courage to worship,” says Shai Linne, speaking of the High Priest of bygone days. But worship yields such fullness. Such joy. Such delight.
Here I am to worship.
Lord, I take the faltering step
To come inside the rended veil
To worship at Thy holy throne
To live again within Thy court
To rediscover joy in Thee
To pray with renewed energy
To hope for better things to come
To chase Thy Priest, the Lamb, Thy Son.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Burning sun scorches down on a weary child, decked in the armor of a warrior, wielding a mighty sword. Weeping, struggling to survive, crying out for help she watches as the mighty antagonist swings his murderous weapon. On her knees, with her face to the earth and her mind in heaven, she cannot be struck down. Her victor stands over her and destroys the enemy. That was me not so long ago. I fought. I bled. I wept. I prayed. And Jesus, Son of Almighty God, stood by my side and captured the victory. Ah, but the victory had no sooner been sealed than another foe from behind struck me a blow and I wheeled, blood and bile filling my mouth, my world reeling and crashing around me. I dropped my sword. My plea for help died on my lips and I watched as he struck me again—foul fiend. And again. And again. And battered me to the ground where I lay, eyes wide and staring, soul fluttering inside like a trapped moth, spirit dead. And I did not rise. The weight of defeat and darkness spread over my body like a paralysis and left me empty of everything but despair.
To rise again was too painful. To call for help required me to muster my voice. To grip my sword begged my intense concentration. Instead I lay broken and bleeding.
Until yesterday.
As I cleaned the neighbor’s house, the dam inside trembled. I hadn’t wept since the day the Lord had worked in two hearts for an outcome I thought was right. It seemed we’d won. A couple of days later my dreams crumbled when those for whom I'd prayed rejected what had happened and walked their own way. I was too weak from the battle. Used up. Empty. I sank to the ground and never rose.
Until yesterday.
Josiah came to join me and read me a rap song he’d just written. “Is it encouraging?” I asked him. “I need something encouraging.” Then the dam broke and the flood rushed through and down my face, burning my eyes and cutting paths in my cheeks. The tears started and wouldn’t stop. I spilled frustrations, discouragement, anger, doubt, confusion, helplessness. Some to Josiah, some only to the Lord.
And I cried for help. I pleaded for mercy. I begged to be raised from the dead.
Josiah went outside with my phone and I know he called Nathaniel. I finished cleaning alone, weeping, praying, whispering, pleading. Like a person rising from the dead, casting off the burial clothes, free to walk again, to stand again, to see again, to speak again. Free to love again. To feel again. To hope again. To ask again.
Yesterday the Lord picked me up off the battlefield, wounded, bleading and broken-hearted and bound my wounds and reminded me that in Him is peace, in Him is hope, in Him is joy. And in Him is the strength to seek Him.
Today my artificial happiness had vanished, words died on my lips and silliness vanished from my heart. I didn’t need them. They were only a cover for the deeper, darker despair that was eating my soul. Today things were different. Today supper actually looked appetizing. Today I was able to climb out of bed in the morning and face a new day. Today I rejoiced.
And tonight I could face my journal. Tonight I could reflect on the day knowing that the Lord was with me—not because I am worthy but because of His great love.
Child of weakness, I give you this wisdom without a price:
Seek thy strength in the arm that delivers.
Seek thy peace in the hand that calms hurricanes.
Seek thy help in the fingers that scattered the stars.
Seek thy joy in the presence of Almighty God.
To rise again was too painful. To call for help required me to muster my voice. To grip my sword begged my intense concentration. Instead I lay broken and bleeding.
Until yesterday.
As I cleaned the neighbor’s house, the dam inside trembled. I hadn’t wept since the day the Lord had worked in two hearts for an outcome I thought was right. It seemed we’d won. A couple of days later my dreams crumbled when those for whom I'd prayed rejected what had happened and walked their own way. I was too weak from the battle. Used up. Empty. I sank to the ground and never rose.
Until yesterday.
Josiah came to join me and read me a rap song he’d just written. “Is it encouraging?” I asked him. “I need something encouraging.” Then the dam broke and the flood rushed through and down my face, burning my eyes and cutting paths in my cheeks. The tears started and wouldn’t stop. I spilled frustrations, discouragement, anger, doubt, confusion, helplessness. Some to Josiah, some only to the Lord.
And I cried for help. I pleaded for mercy. I begged to be raised from the dead.
Josiah went outside with my phone and I know he called Nathaniel. I finished cleaning alone, weeping, praying, whispering, pleading. Like a person rising from the dead, casting off the burial clothes, free to walk again, to stand again, to see again, to speak again. Free to love again. To feel again. To hope again. To ask again.
Yesterday the Lord picked me up off the battlefield, wounded, bleading and broken-hearted and bound my wounds and reminded me that in Him is peace, in Him is hope, in Him is joy. And in Him is the strength to seek Him.
Today my artificial happiness had vanished, words died on my lips and silliness vanished from my heart. I didn’t need them. They were only a cover for the deeper, darker despair that was eating my soul. Today things were different. Today supper actually looked appetizing. Today I was able to climb out of bed in the morning and face a new day. Today I rejoiced.
And tonight I could face my journal. Tonight I could reflect on the day knowing that the Lord was with me—not because I am worthy but because of His great love.
Child of weakness, I give you this wisdom without a price:
Seek thy strength in the arm that delivers.
Seek thy peace in the hand that calms hurricanes.
Seek thy help in the fingers that scattered the stars.
Seek thy joy in the presence of Almighty God.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
“You’re still discouraged?” Lauren asked me. I hate that I simply can’t shake this heavy feeling of despondency that has settled over my shoulders like a wet blanket. I struggle for truth. I read and read. But I don’t write. Not really write. What would I say? I feel shallow when I talk to people. Lost on the surface of a mirror—just reflecting them back, blocking out any view of deeper inside myself. I laugh a lot. I talk more than I used to. I’m hyper and prattle to Lydia in ridiculous voices. But I feel empty. Lost. Frozen. My heart has become a lump of ice that burns with intense cold inside my chest. And I’ve become secretive again, shutting people off from me. Even Tabby. Because Tabby and I are no longer at the same place. She doesn’t really need me any more. I don’t begrudge her anything—I’m thrilled to see what the Lord is going to do. I just don’t have much to tell her any more and it’s easy just to listen to her tell me about what’s going on in her life. Nothing painful or difficult anymore. She doesn’t really need me.
My dreams and hopes are dead. My thoughts are tangled in a web of should and should not, must and must not, might and might not. I don’t even know where to begin to unravel them. Intense loneliness overwhelms me, no matter who I’m with. Somehow I have withdrawn from the Lord or He has withdrawn from me.
When one has known the presence of the Lord, when one has sat at His feet and heard His voice whisper truth, distance is as deadly as hell. People speak kindly to me, but their voices are from another world. My mind drifts from everything at hand and wanders aimlessly across the scope of the universe searching for something I’ve lost. My heart is full of knowledge, but where is the One I love? In His presence is fullness of joy. In His right hand are pleasures forever.
I am not in His presence and I am miserable.
I wandered the length of the galaxies spread
And found it was formless and empty instead
For only in Thee do all things exist
In the world Thou hast made, it is Thou I have missed.
Sightless, my eyes flicker over creation
I breathe without thinking, yet each inhalation
Leaves me still gasping and wheezing for breath
For a soul wand’ring from Thee is dancing with death.
Ah, Father, Thou sees me, wherever I am.
Like the shepherd who follows the wandering lamb
Please find me here lost and alone and afraid,
By the debt of the Passover Lamb, my debt paid.
Capture my heart once again with Thy grace,
Electrify with Thy redeeming embrace,
And lead me in ways that will bring Thee delight.
Teach me the path that’s both pleasure and right.
My dreams and hopes are dead. My thoughts are tangled in a web of should and should not, must and must not, might and might not. I don’t even know where to begin to unravel them. Intense loneliness overwhelms me, no matter who I’m with. Somehow I have withdrawn from the Lord or He has withdrawn from me.
When one has known the presence of the Lord, when one has sat at His feet and heard His voice whisper truth, distance is as deadly as hell. People speak kindly to me, but their voices are from another world. My mind drifts from everything at hand and wanders aimlessly across the scope of the universe searching for something I’ve lost. My heart is full of knowledge, but where is the One I love? In His presence is fullness of joy. In His right hand are pleasures forever.
I am not in His presence and I am miserable.
I wandered the length of the galaxies spread
And found it was formless and empty instead
For only in Thee do all things exist
In the world Thou hast made, it is Thou I have missed.
Sightless, my eyes flicker over creation
I breathe without thinking, yet each inhalation
Leaves me still gasping and wheezing for breath
For a soul wand’ring from Thee is dancing with death.
Ah, Father, Thou sees me, wherever I am.
Like the shepherd who follows the wandering lamb
Please find me here lost and alone and afraid,
By the debt of the Passover Lamb, my debt paid.
Capture my heart once again with Thy grace,
Electrify with Thy redeeming embrace,
And lead me in ways that will bring Thee delight.
Teach me the path that’s both pleasure and right.
December 1, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Josiah and I walked through the entrance to Wal-mart laden with return items—a couple of crock-pots, a coffee grinder and a pair of jeans—from the family’s shopping spree on Black Friday. “We have half a million returns,” I smiled apologetically at the lady stickering returns. “I only count four,” Josiah commented dryly. The lady tossed us a sympathetic smile. “That’s all right,” she said, taking the first box from my arms. “When I got married…”
Of course, getting us to Wal-mart required effort. People are like the clocks of old—some run more quickly than others. I’d warned Josiah we were leaving at eight. Right after breakfast and chores. Eight o’clock rolled around and I walked out the door, purse slung over my arm, keys in hand. I opened the garage door myself. I loaded all the returns into the back of the pick-up. Then I backed the vehicle out of the garage and sat waiting. And waiting. And waiting. It’s a funny thing, this waiting business. Seems like my whole life has been spent waiting. Papa used to be the timely one. The first one in the car waiting on the rest of us. Soon I learned to be out the door as soon as he hollered “Let’s go!” Now I’m the one who waits in the car for everyone else. Even Papa gave up on being out early. I get supper on early, call everyone and wait. While the food grows cold. We make plans to start projects at a specified time and I emerge from my den and wait. While everyone else leisurely finishes up whatever they were doing when the deadline rolled around. I wait for others to finish their tasks so I can do mine. Sometimes I just do both because I get tired of waiting. This morning as I sat in the truck, waiting, I could feel the tendons in my neck growing tighter and tighter. I have a schedule, you know, Josiah. It’s planned out perfectly so we can get everything done perfectly. You know we have a lot to get done, Josiah. And we’ve got to get started on time, you know, Josiah. Josiah, I did tell you what time we needed to leave? How long ago did I holler “Let’s go”? How long have I been waiting? Why is my whole life filled with people who keep me waiting?!
Then, as if they sun had burst through the foggy clouds, came my moment of truth. Uh, duh, Abigail. You’re life is filled with waiting because you still haven’t become good at it. And Yahweh knows that practice makes perfect.
I managed to make it to the Doctor's on time. And then we appeared at the home of Miss Judy and Amber to finish much of the work which we had begun, making their apartment a home. The pictures hanging on the walls and the curtains in the windows add so much warmth and coziness to that little abode. Josiah and I were on a mission today to hang a couple of shelves in Amber’s room—and string up some curtains—lime green, tied back with purple ribbons and a sheer overlay of silver stars. Makes me think of pickle and jelly sandwiches smothered in fairy dust. It matched the rest of her room perfectly. But we didn’t finish on schedule. Quite. “Are you almost done?” I demanded as Emily called, wondering if we were going to make it for lunch. We finished our work in a flurry and made a mad dash for the pick-up and on to campus. And we made it. Barely.
Then, as predictably as the tide, we were back out and on the road home. I still had to clean the Ware’s. I try to make a racket coming in and holler “knock, knock” in case Travis is still home. As soon as I stepped in, I noticed the dark form of a head and shoulder slumped over the couch. Great. He was sleeping. I hate trying to figure out how to wake sleeping people without scaring them. For me, the slightest noise sends me bounding from bed, but I've developed a reputation for sneaking up on people--accidentally. Travis had slept through my vacuuming before. I cleaned the back bathroom and came back out into the living room. There he still reposed. But just then Josiah called. “Hey,” I whispered. “Come over here. Travis is asleep on the couch and I don’t want to scare him.” After all he was an Air Force courier in active combat. No telling what he’d do if threatened. Plus, he just had heart surgery. Josiah arrived post-haste and walked straight up to the snoozing form, scooped it up and displayed his find. “Here’s Travis,” he announced, holding up a black hooded sweatshirt.
It was late when I talked to Jacinda. But later still when we finally hung up as I drooped in a near-slumber posture. I’ve heard others accuse her of not talking. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t talk, but the world is full of people who don’t listen. They assume that those who won’t compete with them simply can’t talk. Jacinda is a wealth of interesting thought-patterns and lovely revelations. Some find her harsh, but she’s at least as harsh on herself as she is on anyone else. She always seeks to speak truth and she proclaims her own faults with more fervor than she ever would anyone else’s. She’s quick to challenge herself and her attitudes and even quicker to seek the Lord in all things. So I let her talk. I love to hear her vent. She says she hates journaling, but when she talks to me I hear her heartbeat as she works through issues, sorts out her feelings, digs for the truth and finally triumphs. “I don’t talk to anyone else like I do you,” she told me, and I grew warm all over. Even if I needed two-by-fours to prop my eyelids open, her words permeated my mind and sent a smile shivering all over my body. Maybe she is struggling with the shallowness of the girls at training. Maybe she is struggling with developing deeper relationships and feeling like others won't open up to her. But I love hearing it all, because that’s the thread of feeling running through Jacinda’s heart. And I feel privileged to reach out and touch it. People don’t realize what they are missing when they don’t listen. The first warbled notes of a fledgling sparrow, proclaiming the Creator’s genius. The veiled tears behind the standard, “fine, thank you, how are you?” The wonder and delight of a child touching an animal. The hesitation in a voice that wishes you would ask more. The heart throb of one of God’s precious children—that only He hears with perfect clarity. In this vast world, I am privileged to hear a tiny bit of what He hears. And all of it is important to Him.
I listen to His creation, but how often do I listen to Him? In those moments between perfect scheduling and frustration, while I wait for that person who is chronically late or wonder when this important event will finally come to pass, my own thoughts clamor for my attention, ranting and raging and railing on the one who keeps me waiting. Forgetting that it’s actually One who keeps me waiting. Because nothing gets off of His schedule. And I forget to tune my heart to hear the subtle truths He would teach me through my frustrations, through my circumstances, through my surroundings. That singing bird is a work of His genius—it trusts Him entirely for every breath it takes, for every moment it flies through the glorious air. He keeps me waiting because He would have me ready—not to do a host of all-important things, but to listen. To hear His voice in the quiet moments of meditation, when He gently reminds me of the truth of His word.
Lord, aren’t Thou, who made the ear
Worth the time it takes to hear?
Thou who spoke the final word,
Must forevermore be heard.
Teach me such an attitude
To listen, with my heart renewed
To hear whatever Thou might say
And hearing, hasten to obey.
Josiah and I walked through the entrance to Wal-mart laden with return items—a couple of crock-pots, a coffee grinder and a pair of jeans—from the family’s shopping spree on Black Friday. “We have half a million returns,” I smiled apologetically at the lady stickering returns. “I only count four,” Josiah commented dryly. The lady tossed us a sympathetic smile. “That’s all right,” she said, taking the first box from my arms. “When I got married…”
Of course, getting us to Wal-mart required effort. People are like the clocks of old—some run more quickly than others. I’d warned Josiah we were leaving at eight. Right after breakfast and chores. Eight o’clock rolled around and I walked out the door, purse slung over my arm, keys in hand. I opened the garage door myself. I loaded all the returns into the back of the pick-up. Then I backed the vehicle out of the garage and sat waiting. And waiting. And waiting. It’s a funny thing, this waiting business. Seems like my whole life has been spent waiting. Papa used to be the timely one. The first one in the car waiting on the rest of us. Soon I learned to be out the door as soon as he hollered “Let’s go!” Now I’m the one who waits in the car for everyone else. Even Papa gave up on being out early. I get supper on early, call everyone and wait. While the food grows cold. We make plans to start projects at a specified time and I emerge from my den and wait. While everyone else leisurely finishes up whatever they were doing when the deadline rolled around. I wait for others to finish their tasks so I can do mine. Sometimes I just do both because I get tired of waiting. This morning as I sat in the truck, waiting, I could feel the tendons in my neck growing tighter and tighter. I have a schedule, you know, Josiah. It’s planned out perfectly so we can get everything done perfectly. You know we have a lot to get done, Josiah. And we’ve got to get started on time, you know, Josiah. Josiah, I did tell you what time we needed to leave? How long ago did I holler “Let’s go”? How long have I been waiting? Why is my whole life filled with people who keep me waiting?!
Then, as if they sun had burst through the foggy clouds, came my moment of truth. Uh, duh, Abigail. You’re life is filled with waiting because you still haven’t become good at it. And Yahweh knows that practice makes perfect.
I managed to make it to the Doctor's on time. And then we appeared at the home of Miss Judy and Amber to finish much of the work which we had begun, making their apartment a home. The pictures hanging on the walls and the curtains in the windows add so much warmth and coziness to that little abode. Josiah and I were on a mission today to hang a couple of shelves in Amber’s room—and string up some curtains—lime green, tied back with purple ribbons and a sheer overlay of silver stars. Makes me think of pickle and jelly sandwiches smothered in fairy dust. It matched the rest of her room perfectly. But we didn’t finish on schedule. Quite. “Are you almost done?” I demanded as Emily called, wondering if we were going to make it for lunch. We finished our work in a flurry and made a mad dash for the pick-up and on to campus. And we made it. Barely.
Then, as predictably as the tide, we were back out and on the road home. I still had to clean the Ware’s. I try to make a racket coming in and holler “knock, knock” in case Travis is still home. As soon as I stepped in, I noticed the dark form of a head and shoulder slumped over the couch. Great. He was sleeping. I hate trying to figure out how to wake sleeping people without scaring them. For me, the slightest noise sends me bounding from bed, but I've developed a reputation for sneaking up on people--accidentally. Travis had slept through my vacuuming before. I cleaned the back bathroom and came back out into the living room. There he still reposed. But just then Josiah called. “Hey,” I whispered. “Come over here. Travis is asleep on the couch and I don’t want to scare him.” After all he was an Air Force courier in active combat. No telling what he’d do if threatened. Plus, he just had heart surgery. Josiah arrived post-haste and walked straight up to the snoozing form, scooped it up and displayed his find. “Here’s Travis,” he announced, holding up a black hooded sweatshirt.
It was late when I talked to Jacinda. But later still when we finally hung up as I drooped in a near-slumber posture. I’ve heard others accuse her of not talking. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t talk, but the world is full of people who don’t listen. They assume that those who won’t compete with them simply can’t talk. Jacinda is a wealth of interesting thought-patterns and lovely revelations. Some find her harsh, but she’s at least as harsh on herself as she is on anyone else. She always seeks to speak truth and she proclaims her own faults with more fervor than she ever would anyone else’s. She’s quick to challenge herself and her attitudes and even quicker to seek the Lord in all things. So I let her talk. I love to hear her vent. She says she hates journaling, but when she talks to me I hear her heartbeat as she works through issues, sorts out her feelings, digs for the truth and finally triumphs. “I don’t talk to anyone else like I do you,” she told me, and I grew warm all over. Even if I needed two-by-fours to prop my eyelids open, her words permeated my mind and sent a smile shivering all over my body. Maybe she is struggling with the shallowness of the girls at training. Maybe she is struggling with developing deeper relationships and feeling like others won't open up to her. But I love hearing it all, because that’s the thread of feeling running through Jacinda’s heart. And I feel privileged to reach out and touch it. People don’t realize what they are missing when they don’t listen. The first warbled notes of a fledgling sparrow, proclaiming the Creator’s genius. The veiled tears behind the standard, “fine, thank you, how are you?” The wonder and delight of a child touching an animal. The hesitation in a voice that wishes you would ask more. The heart throb of one of God’s precious children—that only He hears with perfect clarity. In this vast world, I am privileged to hear a tiny bit of what He hears. And all of it is important to Him.
I listen to His creation, but how often do I listen to Him? In those moments between perfect scheduling and frustration, while I wait for that person who is chronically late or wonder when this important event will finally come to pass, my own thoughts clamor for my attention, ranting and raging and railing on the one who keeps me waiting. Forgetting that it’s actually One who keeps me waiting. Because nothing gets off of His schedule. And I forget to tune my heart to hear the subtle truths He would teach me through my frustrations, through my circumstances, through my surroundings. That singing bird is a work of His genius—it trusts Him entirely for every breath it takes, for every moment it flies through the glorious air. He keeps me waiting because He would have me ready—not to do a host of all-important things, but to listen. To hear His voice in the quiet moments of meditation, when He gently reminds me of the truth of His word.
Lord, aren’t Thou, who made the ear
Worth the time it takes to hear?
Thou who spoke the final word,
Must forevermore be heard.
Teach me such an attitude
To listen, with my heart renewed
To hear whatever Thou might say
And hearing, hasten to obey.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
“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.
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.
Monday, November 24, 2008
I nearly blushed as I called Sherry to let her know I wouldn’t make it in to Choices tomorrow. “I have a pretty badly sprained ankle,” I explained. “And I’m supposed to stay off of it.” “Now, Abigail, how did you do that?” she asked me. “Were you skateboarding?” She knew it would have to be active. Unusual. And unladylike. Actually, I was doing a toe-touch off the roof of the tool shed into a pile of leaves higher than my head. And I’d been doing it safely for the past several hours, along with Josiah, Tommy and Lydia. I’d even been cautious, stuck to dives and crazy jumps instead of flips like the boys were pulling. Perhaps the slow drizzle left the leaves a little slippery. At any rate, I’m holed up for the next couple of days, alternately heating and icing my right ankle and thinking of all the wonderful things I would rather be doing. “Poor Abby,” Tabby giggled over the phone when she found out my plight. “I’d hate to see how hyper you’ll be tomorrow.” Half way through the afternoon my ankle suddenly began to feel stifled. A raging rejection of inaction surged through it and it begged for freedom to stretch. I indulged it. Pain and relief flooded simultaneously. Even a bird with a broken wing still longs to fly. “You’re such an impatient patient,” Tabby chided. I felt as if the entire day had been wasted. At least I got the Pearls and Diamonds blog revamped, caught up and archived.
I’ve not scribbled faithfully since my laptop screen went out nearly three months ago. I quit writing and I started talking. Suddenly all the thoughts and feelings and emotions I’ve been charting and graphing in the pages of my journal had nowhere to go. So they started spilling out my mouth. For the past several months I’ve felt as though I am teetering on the dangerous precipice of revealing my heart. My family has heard more of my frightening mind than in the rest of my life! And my mind is undoubtedly more frightening these days. Confusion reigns supreme. I’ve given up on making plans. Or even goals. Or even dreams. Right now I could fling my possessions to the wind and leap onto a plane headed for Alaska—if it weren’t for my ankle.
Who knows? Tomorrow I might do just that. Things change that quickly, you know.
Like Tabitha. When Cliff appeared on the scene over the summer she worried and fretted and avoided. “Just be his friend,” I encouraged her. “Just be his friend,” her dad encouraged her. Then suddenly she knew for sure he was interested. And just as suddenly her fear melted like the morning mist and was gone, replaced by wonder. Then curiosity. Then friendship. And now courtship. He can hardly concentrate on anything. While she was gone for two weeks he pined away and lost weight. He pours cereal in his cup and milk in the cereal box. He calls her every night he can’t see her and sees her every night her parents will allow him in the house. And he knows all about me, since I’m her best friend. Things just happen that fast.
Our family has grown. She might be Jack Russell Terrier or she might just be a mutt that happens to look and behave like a Jack Russell, but she’s captured our hearts from the first day she came slinking up to the back window, pleading for acceptance. Another stray and we’ve taken her in and are trying to train her. Isn’t that just how we always do? “What are we going to call that dog?” Papa asked the day after she arrived and we all knew we’d be keeping her. Later, he dubbed her Freckles. “Chase me,” she begs with every fiber of her body as soon as we step out the door. “Come play with me!” Mom was hanging laundry on the line when Freckles swiped a stocking cap from the basket and led Mom on a wild chase through the meadow. But when it comes to a trek through the woods, she’s all business—alert, silent and as stealthy as a Comanche. We walk outside in the morning and whistle, eager to see her wriggling form come dancing from under the porch—well, half of the porch. She’s already established. Things just happen that quickly.
Glenn’s been down twice in the past few months—the first time with just his boys to work on the house. Just a couple of weeks ago he brought his whole family for a week-long stay. Little Hannah kept me laughing constantly and Rachel was a closed book that slowly opened to let me peek inside. I’ve never seen anything like her piano playing. She plays so hard the piano weeps with exhaustion. I wept when I thought of wearing skirts the entire week—in the cold, in the rain, all day, every day. Skirts just aren’t my thing. But I made it. Joyfully, even, I do believe. And only half cold most of the time. The poor Schriebers all left sniveling, coughing and snorting. And they left the deck half torn off.
Poor Josiah was left in charge of building it back and it has proven to be nothing short of toil and tears, frustration and frenzy. In short, it will build in him godly character or drive him insane.
Amber and her mom have switched places entirely. Judy has come face to face with the saving grace of the Lord and has dived in head-first. She’s listened through the entire New Testament and spends time in prayer. The highlight of her day is her daily phone call with Mom, reviewing her over her memory verses. Amber on the other hand is struggling between the forces of good and evil. Of course, in some way or another, aren't we all? And I blame myself for her spiritual dryness. It seems I have an uncanny way of assuming anything that is not perfect, easy or beautiful is a fault of mine. I forget that Yahweh is in perfect control.
Exciting news rolls in from Tulsa with Nathaniel and Lauren and their church family. The Lord is casting His shadow across their little church and stirring them up to obedience. The men are taking serious steps to make Him the center, the church is reaching out to the surrounding neighborhoods, spreading the gospel and seeking to disciple. Several families have decided to headcover and more are interested in studying First Corinthians. “If this is how the church should be,” one man said during small group, “how do we do it?”
With Papa’s crazy work schedule, only having a holiday every other weekend, our meeting has switched over to Saturday night. The positive is that we often have more than just our family and Nick. The negative is that there is very little fellowship afterwards and no one comes out during the week or on Sunday anymore. Loneliness is curling it’s long, icy fingers around our little home.
Lord, change is just a part of living,
Part of Thy plan’s perfect giving,
Yet throughout eternity
There is no changing found in Thee.
This is such a comfort here,
Among the days of doubt and fear
To know Thou art always the same.
And knowing, praise Thy changeless name.
I’ve not scribbled faithfully since my laptop screen went out nearly three months ago. I quit writing and I started talking. Suddenly all the thoughts and feelings and emotions I’ve been charting and graphing in the pages of my journal had nowhere to go. So they started spilling out my mouth. For the past several months I’ve felt as though I am teetering on the dangerous precipice of revealing my heart. My family has heard more of my frightening mind than in the rest of my life! And my mind is undoubtedly more frightening these days. Confusion reigns supreme. I’ve given up on making plans. Or even goals. Or even dreams. Right now I could fling my possessions to the wind and leap onto a plane headed for Alaska—if it weren’t for my ankle.
Who knows? Tomorrow I might do just that. Things change that quickly, you know.
Like Tabitha. When Cliff appeared on the scene over the summer she worried and fretted and avoided. “Just be his friend,” I encouraged her. “Just be his friend,” her dad encouraged her. Then suddenly she knew for sure he was interested. And just as suddenly her fear melted like the morning mist and was gone, replaced by wonder. Then curiosity. Then friendship. And now courtship. He can hardly concentrate on anything. While she was gone for two weeks he pined away and lost weight. He pours cereal in his cup and milk in the cereal box. He calls her every night he can’t see her and sees her every night her parents will allow him in the house. And he knows all about me, since I’m her best friend. Things just happen that fast.
Our family has grown. She might be Jack Russell Terrier or she might just be a mutt that happens to look and behave like a Jack Russell, but she’s captured our hearts from the first day she came slinking up to the back window, pleading for acceptance. Another stray and we’ve taken her in and are trying to train her. Isn’t that just how we always do? “What are we going to call that dog?” Papa asked the day after she arrived and we all knew we’d be keeping her. Later, he dubbed her Freckles. “Chase me,” she begs with every fiber of her body as soon as we step out the door. “Come play with me!” Mom was hanging laundry on the line when Freckles swiped a stocking cap from the basket and led Mom on a wild chase through the meadow. But when it comes to a trek through the woods, she’s all business—alert, silent and as stealthy as a Comanche. We walk outside in the morning and whistle, eager to see her wriggling form come dancing from under the porch—well, half of the porch. She’s already established. Things just happen that quickly.
Glenn’s been down twice in the past few months—the first time with just his boys to work on the house. Just a couple of weeks ago he brought his whole family for a week-long stay. Little Hannah kept me laughing constantly and Rachel was a closed book that slowly opened to let me peek inside. I’ve never seen anything like her piano playing. She plays so hard the piano weeps with exhaustion. I wept when I thought of wearing skirts the entire week—in the cold, in the rain, all day, every day. Skirts just aren’t my thing. But I made it. Joyfully, even, I do believe. And only half cold most of the time. The poor Schriebers all left sniveling, coughing and snorting. And they left the deck half torn off.
Poor Josiah was left in charge of building it back and it has proven to be nothing short of toil and tears, frustration and frenzy. In short, it will build in him godly character or drive him insane.
Amber and her mom have switched places entirely. Judy has come face to face with the saving grace of the Lord and has dived in head-first. She’s listened through the entire New Testament and spends time in prayer. The highlight of her day is her daily phone call with Mom, reviewing her over her memory verses. Amber on the other hand is struggling between the forces of good and evil. Of course, in some way or another, aren't we all? And I blame myself for her spiritual dryness. It seems I have an uncanny way of assuming anything that is not perfect, easy or beautiful is a fault of mine. I forget that Yahweh is in perfect control.
Exciting news rolls in from Tulsa with Nathaniel and Lauren and their church family. The Lord is casting His shadow across their little church and stirring them up to obedience. The men are taking serious steps to make Him the center, the church is reaching out to the surrounding neighborhoods, spreading the gospel and seeking to disciple. Several families have decided to headcover and more are interested in studying First Corinthians. “If this is how the church should be,” one man said during small group, “how do we do it?”
With Papa’s crazy work schedule, only having a holiday every other weekend, our meeting has switched over to Saturday night. The positive is that we often have more than just our family and Nick. The negative is that there is very little fellowship afterwards and no one comes out during the week or on Sunday anymore. Loneliness is curling it’s long, icy fingers around our little home.
Lord, change is just a part of living,
Part of Thy plan’s perfect giving,
Yet throughout eternity
There is no changing found in Thee.
This is such a comfort here,
Among the days of doubt and fear
To know Thou art always the same.
And knowing, praise Thy changeless name.
Friday, October 3, 2008
“Trust in Yahweh with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight. Do not be wise in your own eyes, fear Yahweh and turn from evil. It will be healing to your body and refreshment to your bones.” ~Proverbs 3:5-8
Has it only been a year since I drove the dusty Tempo from the S Family’s house, down Crooked Branch Road and up our driveway for the first time? Only a year is gone and yet gone is a year of death and resurrection, of old and new, of past and present. Gone far behind us is Papa’s “ideal” job at Parkway Dental. Gone also the little home fellowship we began with the S Family. Gone are the days when I babysat for four blond, energetic kiddos. Gone are the days when I hung out on campus in the Sweetest Suite or walked into the Cafeteria at the side of Lauryn or Jacinda. Gone are Friday nights with Taylor and Nathan or Sunday afternoons with the gang. Gone are Wes and Audrey and their little Wednesday night Bible study. Because life doesn’t stay the same and things move on and people change.
Before me lies a future no more certain than the past has been, yet full of hope. Resurrected are my once buried dreams to live among the people lost in darkness that I might be able to show to them the true light. In a few months, my whole life has become a perfect preparation, a surprising equipping to do exactly what I’ve always desired—serve the low-income, low-education, sin-trapped people of the urban United States as serving Christ. Recreated are my relationships with my family—my father is my trusted friend, my mother has become a sensitive confidant, Josiah is a brother I can lean on and Lydia is a sister in Christ.
And Yahweh, in His supreme wisdom has been teaching me about wasted emotion—especially anxiety. My emotions, He reminds me constantly, are given as a precious treasure, to worship and enjoy Him forever. Yet how often I squander them in fear, guilt, anger, confusion, frustration and worry. What will tomorrow bring? Once Jesus sat on a sunny slope in the land of Israel and boldly proclaimed that it doesn’t matter! Quit worrying about tomorrow, He reminds me. Tomorrow has plenty of worries of its own. Instead of being wasteful of my emotions, I am to turn them to singing and praising and offering thanks. Then I will worship and enjoy Yahweh, even as He has intended. I turn to glance behind me at the past year, thinking how much emotion I have wasted worrying about situations that seemed cloudy or unclear, how many tears I spent weeping because I didn’t have the answers to quiet my soul. That was never what Yahweh intended. He intended me to enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise, saying each day was the day He had made. I will rejoice for He has made me glad!
A year of death and resurrection. And isn’t that the meaning of life? The sting of death is only in hopelessness, but while there is life there is hope. My hope is in knowing the Lord works all things for the good of those who love Him. To this promise I confidently cling and plunge ahead through each day, wondering what He’ll do next. But not allowing that question to consume me.
What will He do next?
Lord, Thou sought to teach me trust,
Faith in Thy good word is a must,
Yet often I flung down Thy word
And turned to other sounds I heard:
The sounds of fear and worry’s call
That tempted me to slip and fall
Yet Thou were always near to save
And resurrect me from each grave.
Has it only been a year since I drove the dusty Tempo from the S Family’s house, down Crooked Branch Road and up our driveway for the first time? Only a year is gone and yet gone is a year of death and resurrection, of old and new, of past and present. Gone far behind us is Papa’s “ideal” job at Parkway Dental. Gone also the little home fellowship we began with the S Family. Gone are the days when I babysat for four blond, energetic kiddos. Gone are the days when I hung out on campus in the Sweetest Suite or walked into the Cafeteria at the side of Lauryn or Jacinda. Gone are Friday nights with Taylor and Nathan or Sunday afternoons with the gang. Gone are Wes and Audrey and their little Wednesday night Bible study. Because life doesn’t stay the same and things move on and people change.
Before me lies a future no more certain than the past has been, yet full of hope. Resurrected are my once buried dreams to live among the people lost in darkness that I might be able to show to them the true light. In a few months, my whole life has become a perfect preparation, a surprising equipping to do exactly what I’ve always desired—serve the low-income, low-education, sin-trapped people of the urban United States as serving Christ. Recreated are my relationships with my family—my father is my trusted friend, my mother has become a sensitive confidant, Josiah is a brother I can lean on and Lydia is a sister in Christ.
And Yahweh, in His supreme wisdom has been teaching me about wasted emotion—especially anxiety. My emotions, He reminds me constantly, are given as a precious treasure, to worship and enjoy Him forever. Yet how often I squander them in fear, guilt, anger, confusion, frustration and worry. What will tomorrow bring? Once Jesus sat on a sunny slope in the land of Israel and boldly proclaimed that it doesn’t matter! Quit worrying about tomorrow, He reminds me. Tomorrow has plenty of worries of its own. Instead of being wasteful of my emotions, I am to turn them to singing and praising and offering thanks. Then I will worship and enjoy Yahweh, even as He has intended. I turn to glance behind me at the past year, thinking how much emotion I have wasted worrying about situations that seemed cloudy or unclear, how many tears I spent weeping because I didn’t have the answers to quiet my soul. That was never what Yahweh intended. He intended me to enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise, saying each day was the day He had made. I will rejoice for He has made me glad!
A year of death and resurrection. And isn’t that the meaning of life? The sting of death is only in hopelessness, but while there is life there is hope. My hope is in knowing the Lord works all things for the good of those who love Him. To this promise I confidently cling and plunge ahead through each day, wondering what He’ll do next. But not allowing that question to consume me.
What will He do next?
Lord, Thou sought to teach me trust,
Faith in Thy good word is a must,
Yet often I flung down Thy word
And turned to other sounds I heard:
The sounds of fear and worry’s call
That tempted me to slip and fall
Yet Thou were always near to save
And resurrect me from each grave.
It's almost 2009...
And Josiah has encouraged me several times not to abandon this poor, little, lost blog. He wants me to start posting again from my journals...which is actually a little frightening. Not nearly so much now that no one is reading along...:) So I've revamped, reformatted, and I think I'll start rewriting.
Blessings in the Beloved Son of God,
Miss Abigail Joy
Blessings in the Beloved Son of God,
Miss Abigail Joy
It's been a year...
...Not since I posted last. Not quite. But since we moved to Arkansas. Which is almost as hard to believe as the fact that Lydia is almost as tall as I am. (Which means she's almost five foot tall. Not very impressive.) And almost as hard to believe as the fact that Josiah is now eighteen. Or that Papa has been working crazy hours for ConAgra for several months now. And Jacindarella is about to move to Bolivia for two years.
I thought I'd been promised a quiet summer, so I prepared for surprises and they certainly came. Receptionist for Choices PRC soon turned to graphic designer (when they discovered I could design t-shirts for the upcoming walk) and from there I became Public Relations (how does this always happen? I wind up smiling, shaking hands and talking to people) and I finally accepted a position as Administrative Assistant. Whatever that means. The secret is that Sherry mistakenly believes me to have computer skills. That's just the busyness I can tack a title to.
We've done some remodeling here and some landscaping there. No longer does the house have so many pink tones and the trim is real wood now. My trusty laptop screen is suffering from burn-out--the backlight, I believe. Don't ask me to explain how that all works. I've got a new screen on the way and am hooked up to the school monitor in the meanwhile, so it all works out.
The Lord's been faithfully teaching me. More than I can ever hope to regurgitate. About faithfulness--in the little things, because He is faithful in the little things. "Trust in the Lord and do good. Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness." About wasted emotion. Because God created me with emotions so that I would worship and enjoy Him forever, but I tend to waste my emotional energy on fear, discouragement, guilt and anxiety. Instead of being wasteful, I should be filled with the Spirit, singing and making melody in my heart, giving praise and thanks to Yahweh! He's been faithful to give me constant reminders to be a good steward of my emotions as well as time and money.
Josiah's been pestering me to get back to blogging--especially sharing from my journals. Hmm. I'll have to think on that one. For the meanwhile, I realized I had just dropped off the face of the world. I'm doing well! VERY WELL. Very in love with Jesus. Very busy!!
If I never post again, you can keep up with me a little at the blog I share with my sister-in-law, Lauren: Pearls and Diamonds.
Blessings to ya'll!
Abigail Joy
I thought I'd been promised a quiet summer, so I prepared for surprises and they certainly came. Receptionist for Choices PRC soon turned to graphic designer (when they discovered I could design t-shirts for the upcoming walk) and from there I became Public Relations (how does this always happen? I wind up smiling, shaking hands and talking to people) and I finally accepted a position as Administrative Assistant. Whatever that means. The secret is that Sherry mistakenly believes me to have computer skills. That's just the busyness I can tack a title to.
We've done some remodeling here and some landscaping there. No longer does the house have so many pink tones and the trim is real wood now. My trusty laptop screen is suffering from burn-out--the backlight, I believe. Don't ask me to explain how that all works. I've got a new screen on the way and am hooked up to the school monitor in the meanwhile, so it all works out.
The Lord's been faithfully teaching me. More than I can ever hope to regurgitate. About faithfulness--in the little things, because He is faithful in the little things. "Trust in the Lord and do good. Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness." About wasted emotion. Because God created me with emotions so that I would worship and enjoy Him forever, but I tend to waste my emotional energy on fear, discouragement, guilt and anxiety. Instead of being wasteful, I should be filled with the Spirit, singing and making melody in my heart, giving praise and thanks to Yahweh! He's been faithful to give me constant reminders to be a good steward of my emotions as well as time and money.
Josiah's been pestering me to get back to blogging--especially sharing from my journals. Hmm. I'll have to think on that one. For the meanwhile, I realized I had just dropped off the face of the world. I'm doing well! VERY WELL. Very in love with Jesus. Very busy!!
If I never post again, you can keep up with me a little at the blog I share with my sister-in-law, Lauren: Pearls and Diamonds.
Blessings to ya'll!
Abigail Joy