Fan the Flame

Posted by Abigail

When we burned large brush piles, my brothers and I used to have contests to see who could get their fire going quickest with only one match.  Have you ever tried to build a fire?  The word “build” describes the process perfectly.  It takes careful insight, thought, preparation, effort and then careful nursing to get the embers blazing brightly.

 

Paul told his son in the faith, Timothy, to fan into flame the gift that had been given him—which appears to be evangelism.  If even a gifted evangelist had to be reminded to put on the heat, we should be encouraged that the work is the Lord’s, just as the glory is His.  I’m embarrassed to confess that I begged the Lord to send me someone else to lead in evangelism, claiming a lack of gifting and my timidity as excuses.  Paul spoke to me when he reminded Timothy that “God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power, love and discipline.”  Sharing the gospel isn’t about having the right personality.  It’s about recognizing that the power comes from the Holy Spirit.  It’s recalling God’s lavish love for us and in dwelling on it, overflowing with His merciful love toward others.  And it’s about disciplining ourselves to obey—by the Holy Spirit’s strength.  The Christian life is hard work.  It’s a battle.  Always.  Any day that I am not fighting, I must realize that I have likely withdrawn to hide.  And any day that I go to battle without seeking the Lord’s strength, I am sure to fail.  Sharing the gospel is certainly no less a battle and it requires discipline.

 

As April, Lauren and I have talked about Christ’s command to “go,” we’ve sought to add fuel to the fire, considering how we can best discipline ourselves to do what we know is right.  Accountability has proven to be a great fuel so far.  It seems that each time April and I are together, the Lord sends an opportunity to one of us, and the other is left excited, to pray and encourage.

 

We’re all agreed that prayer is an important element.  We’re told to pray that God’s kingdom come and His will be done on earth as it is in heaven.  Scripture is clear that God is delighted when His eternal message is proclaimed, and He delights to use the simple foolishness of the God who became a man, to save sinners and change lives.  Paul said, “Pray for us that we might speak the word boldly as we ought to speak.”  Often through prayer, I find not that God’s heart was changed, but that mine was changed.  I have to plead for the Lord to give me the agony He suffered for those who walk in ignorance and enmity with Him.

 

Studying God’s word is an absolute necessity.  Constantly I am faced with question after question about God’s character, His goodness, His love, the end of the world, what about so-and-so, sin, God’s purpose in pain and suffering and on and on.  Ladies, sharing the gospel will drive you again and again to dig into God’s word to find the powerful truth that sets souls free.  Perhaps this is even God’s purpose in calling us to share His gospel?  It keeps before our eyes the very mystery by which we were redeemed.  And when you’ve been in God’s word, you’ve been sharpening your sword, and you’ll find that the Holy Spirit takes over and does the fighting.  Time after time I’ve parried a blow with a scripture the Lord mercifully brought back to mind.  Time after time I’ve found the perfect answer later and had to store it away for another opportunity.

 

Meditate on the gospel.  Study the gospel.  Seek to understand Christ, His work, His purpose, His claims and His offer of salvation.  The more you study it, the more you will discover the riches of the glory of the inheritance in Christ.  People can tell if you believe what you say and you will find that each time you share the gospel, you learn something more.

 

Lauren is a homemaker, who has expressed to me that she doesn’t feel like she’s a great conversationalist.  “I can’t put people at ease and relate to them,” she told me once, but her passion for truth often opens opportunities for her.  She can’t bear to hear error spoken of the Lord.  When the Jehovah’s Witnesses knock at the door, she doesn’t feel disgust while peeping through the curtains.  She opens the door and invites them in.  Each time she tells me about another encounter, I shake my head.  I don’t know how she does it.  I remember the time the Mormons came for a presentation in her college dorm and she insisted she wanted to go talk to them.  I felt sick as we rode down the elevator and Lauren began asking the Mormon missionaries hard questions.  Our friend, Emily, sat beside me silently praying the entire time—her priceless contribution to the spiritual battle.

 

April is a gifted encourager and she has always sparked my fire by her simple way of sharing what the Lord has been teaching her–to anyone who will listen.  Someone asks her how she is and she opens up and tells them what she read that morning in Psalms.  Or how the Lord has shown Himself strong in her life.  Or how He has been convicting her of the eminence of eternity and His love for her friends that don’t know him.  Yahweh commanded the people of Israel to tell to their children His mighty deeds so that they might fear Him.  When put on trial, Paul’s defense was always simply his testimony.  Whether a person knows the Lord or not, hearing His power manifested to another can draw them to Him.  April’s words are worship to God, and overflow from a heart in love with Him, preaching to others the reality of His work in her life.

 

I wish I could tell you of some way I take opportunity for the Lord, but I still lack much discipline.  I find when I ask the Lord for opportunities, He gives them abundantly, with people who stop me to ask me questions or need my help.  One day I was almost late picking Papa up from work because a lady was pouring out her heart to me as I stood in her small sewing machine repair shop.  Anxiously, I smiled and nodded, then rushed away.  But Papa put my heart back in place when I told him about it.  He said something like, “If people talk to you, that may be opportunity from the Lord.”  To keep this in mind, I am trying to allow myself extra time running errands, to leave room for eternity.  All too often I find that the urgent edges out the important for priority.

 

Lauren, April and I are all different, and each of us has a different story with the Lord and a different way of sharing what He’s done.  As we’ve talked lately, I’ve realized how the Lord can use each gifting, each personality to share His gospel in a unique way.  Your story is unique, your person is unique—but you are Christ’s.  He is yours.  And He has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power, love and discipline.

April, Lauren and I have all found materials from The Way of the Master and Living Waters tracts to be very helpful in sparking conversations.

 

 

 

 

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Beginning in Jerusalem

Posted by Abigail

Shortly after writing “Gulping Raw Eggs,” April and I stopped to get gas at the Wal-mart station. Who do you suppose was manning the late night counter but the Wal-mart greeter who had stopped me and asked me so many questions about the Lord so long ago? And she had something to tell me. “My Christian birthday is October 23^rd!” And she bounced up and down. As we talked, I could tell that, Christian or not, she still needed a lot of truth! For an hour she pelted us with hard questions and we left feeling overwhelmed. At least we know, now, where to find her and we know her mind is still on eternity. Making disciples doesn’t stop with handing out tracts or a quick testimony, or even a great conversation!

Just like modern Christianity encourages lifestyle evangelism, it also encourages relationship evangelism. Relationship evangelism defined as becoming friends with unbelievers and spending time with them “hanging out” and hopefully an opportunity will arise for you to invite them to church. Do we ever consider how our unsaved friends may feel the day they discover they are our “projects?” All this time they thought we were just good ol’ pals and now this new element? And what if they just aren’t interested in spiritual things? Then what happens to the relationship?

The truth is, both thoughts are rooted in powerful truth, but the truth is often lost in the fear of offense. Lifestyle evangelism is important if it means that our lives reflect the gospel and give us opportunity to share it. Live in obedience and be ready to give an explanation for it! Relationship evangelism is important if we recognize that we ought to seek opportunities to develop eternal relationships. Share the gospel with those closest to us and be ready to develop a relationship if there is a response.

When Jesus gathered His followers together before His ascension to the Father, He told them, “All authority has been given to Me. Therefore, as you go, make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I’ve commanded you, and I am with you!” He reminded them that the authority came from Him. That as they went out from Him, they were to make disciples—not just share the gospel, but teach them to observe all that Christ commanded. To accomplish this, we must add both lifestyle and relationship into the equation.

It’s a bit daunting to consider, but Christ Himself laid down a battle plan for us. He told His group of faithful followers, “You shall receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you shall be my witnesses both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and even to the remotest part of the earth.” If you draw a map of this battle plan, you’ll discover something of a target, with Jerusalem in the center. Fanning out from that is the next area of target: Judea. Then Samaria. Then the remotest parts of the earth. Jesus had gathered His followers together in Jerusalem and told them this simple strategy: “Begin where you are.”

When Lauren and Nathaniel first moved to Tulsa, the neighborhood in which they landed wasn’t their ideal location. But as Lauren settled in and began to meet her neighbors, she discovered something: it was her perfect Jerusalem. She had several Hispanic neighbors who were eager to work on their English and help her with her Spanish. And a widow lady next door was a huge encouragement and blessing! Then came the Jehovah’s Witnesses to her door. With a huge grin on her face, she invited them in and began to share the gospel. Without even leaving home, she had a perfect opportunity for evangelism—lifestyle, relationship and simply sharing the gospel. She shared with me recently the exciting story of a neighbor who had moved away. Recently the man contacted Nathaniel to meet him for lunch—and shared how he had met the Lord. “I didn’t even feel like we were good neighbors,” Lauren told me, but this man had wanted them to know because of their outreach to him and his family.

As godly women, I don’t believe the Lord expects us to be heading up missionary journeys like Paul and Silas. He doesn’t expect us to dive into safaris at the furthest corners of the earth—at least not yet. Jim Elliot wrote in his journal, “Wherever you are, be all there.” Wherever you are, that’s your Jerusalem.

Keith Green, who stirred up the church with songs before I was born, wrote, “The world is sleeping in the dark that the church just can’t fight ‘cuz it’s asleep in the light! How can you be so dead, when you’ve been so well-fed? Jesus rose from the dead! And you? You can’t even get out of bed!”

As I challenge you, I challenge myself. Begin in your Jerusalem. Live in light of Christ, yes. Love in light of Christ, absolutely. And be Christ’s witnesses. As I look around me, I know I am surrounded by needy unbelievers–asleep in the darkness. I must live a life that shines like a beacon in the night. And I must stretch out my hands to offer them love and care. And I must tell them why.

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Gulping Raw Eggs

Posted by Abigail

I had a friend who decided it would be healthy to eat several raw eggs a day.  The first one slid down his throat with a horrible gurgle that made him gag and retch.  But the next one was easier.  He only gagged.  The third one he swallowed quickly and managed to survive.  After that it grew easier and easier.  Then, one day, he stopped eating them.  Just stopped.  Something caught his attention and distracted him and he quit eating raw eggs.

A couple of years ago I prayed something like this:  “Lord, You know I’ve never been outgoing and I’m just not a gifted evangelist.  If I’m to marry, please be preparing a husband for me who has a passionate heart for evangelism—who will lead out in sharing Your truth and make up for my deficiency.”

In His own way of answering prayer before we ask, the Lord turned my request on its head.  He began giving me opportunities to share the gospel.  Not just little open-cracked doors, but people who flung open the door, reached out and grabbed me by my collar to drag the gospel out of me.  A worker stopped me on my way into Wal-mart with a simple, “What a cute skirt!”  I smiled, easily “Well, thanks.”  Her next question, “Are skirts a religion thing for you?”  There’s no escaping that one.  “Not exactly,” I admitted.  “But my dad prefers them, so I wear them to honor him and the Lord Jesus.  Do you believe in Jesus?”  Her questions were relentless.  And she was completely ignorant of the gospel.  Like I said, reached out and grabbed me by my collar.  A waitress in the Waffle house watched me pray with my friend and later commented, “Your headscarf is beautiful.”  Hesitation.  She wanted to ask more.  “I’ve never seen someone wear a scarf like that.  Do you always wear it?”  And I had to explain, “Well, actually, I just love the Lord Jesus and I just try to obey His word.  I wear a head covering while praying in obedience to His teaching about His authority structure—which leads back to His authority.  What do you believe about Jesus?”  Everywhere I went, people began talking to me; stopping me to ask me questions; commenting on this or that.  A Japanese girl approached me in the campus library asking for help connecting her laptop to the internet.  I knew the Lord was handing me another opportunity, but this time I chickened out and tried to stifle my conscience.  “I can never understand the Japanese students!  How could I explain something so foreign to her?”

After that day I realized what had happened and I began to pray for more opportunities to share the gospel.  The Lord showered them on me.  When I was alone in town I would go “fishing” in stores and small flea markets.  Soon it seemed every conversation turned toward Christ’s redemptive work on the cross.  It became almost second-nature.

For me, sharing the gospel was like eating raw eggs.  When the Lord flung open the doors and chided “Forget waiting for someone else to be obedient” I gagged and sputtered, feeling lost and embarrassed and confused.  But the Lord started taking over and it got easier and easier.  Then something happened:  I must have stopped asking for opportunities.  I began to hurry through stores and avoid eye-contact.  My heart wasn’t open to spontaneity and numerous eternal moments passed me by on their way to the check-out.

When my friend realized he’d stopped eating raw eggs, it took him a while to work up the courage to get started again.  And when he did, it was like the first time all over again.  The gagging, the wheezing, the disgust.  Almost worse because he had thought it would be easier this time.

Recently I was reminded of the reality of eternity—an eternity with or without God and His goodness.  Like coals that have lain silent, the burning embers of a passion for the lost are beginning to rekindle.  Again I see souls walking past me in stores, instead of clothes stretched over skeletons.  About a month ago, my friend, April, and I were at the fair, watching a booth for the Crisis pregnancy clinic at which we both volunteer.  After closing up for the evening, we wandered the carnival area, people-watching, our hearts and thoughts wandering the same direction: “fishing.”  The Lord had been working in her heart the same way, reminding her that His precious gospel was not something to be hoarded.  That night, as we sought to open up conversations, I felt like we were chugging raw eggs.  Gagging, gurgling, and choking.  Afterwards I felt horrible.  But the nagging reminder that eternity is just around the corner hovered over both of us.

A few weeks later, we were in the bathrooms at Wal-mart when we bumped into an acquaintance of April’s.  As they spoke, April accepted the heart-challenge the Lord was giving her and gave her friend a tract, expressing that she’d been convicted lately that she should express her love for friends by sharing with them her hope for eternity.  “That was horrible,” she sputtered afterwards.  “I said all the wrong things.”  But that wasn’t the point.  The point is that she was obedient, and as I watched her obedience, the Lord continued to stir in my heart.

Ladies, I’m extending a challenge to you.  Here at Pearls and Diamonds we seek to encourage young women in lives of obedient worship.  Oftentimes we highlight lifestyle, which is an important part of obedience.  We talk about marriage and submission and loving our families and dressing modestly.  Modern Christianity advocates “lifestyle” evangelism.  But lifestyle never saves anyone.  All too often, when I am talking with the young women who come to the pregnancy clinic I hear this message:  “Yes.  I should go to church.  I should be a better person.”  That is the gospel that our lifestyle preaches.  Unbelievers scour the world critically and see “lifestyles”—which they equate with salvation.  But for them to attempt reformation would be fruitless—they lack the empowerment for true obedience.  “Without faith it is impossible to please God.”  And “Faith comes by hearing and hearing by the Word of God.”  The plea continues, “How shall they hear without a proclaimer?”

As I expressed in “Lest We Worship Godliness”, when I’m surrounded by positive peer-pressure, it’s almost easy to live a “holy lifestyle.”  It’s comfortable, for those of us raised in solid families, to talk about homemaking, grocery shopping, baby raising, home schooling and even theology.  Make no mistake, I am quick to agree that the value of woman’s position is preserved through the bearing of children—if they continue in faith and love with a pure heart.  But Paul said our good works are to adorn the gospel—lend it credibility for changing hearts and lives!  And it is the gospel that lends our lives credibility.  What was Christ’s last request before ascending to the Father?  He reminded all His disciples, men and women, of the authority that had been given to Him.  Then He said, literally, “As you go, therefore, make disciples…and I am with you always.”

“As you go…make disciples.”

As you go, open your heart to spontaneity.  Open your heart to purpose to share the only eternal possession you have—Christ.  Pray for openings—in spite of opposition.  The eggs get easier and easier to swallow—unless you stop.  Watch the souls around you traveling their weary way to hell and weep for them, mourn for them, catch hold of them and plead with them!  Do you remember what it is to be lost?  Sometimes I forget, but God’s word is sure to remind me: I was cut off from grace!  We were enemies of God.  Imagine your hope, your joy and your peace with God gone, then look into the eyes of that woman walking past you in the grocery store.  Forget excuses of wasting her time—the message you hoard is eternal!  Paul said he implored men to be reconciled to God!  Through God’s grace you hold the key to the narrow gate: Jesus Himself.

How shall they hear without a proclaimer?

Note:  I do not recommend eating raw eggs, ladies.  I do, however, recommend sharing the gospel. 

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Lest We Worship Godliness

Posted by Abigail

Most of the words I hear pass in one ear, bypass my brain, and float out the other ear leaving no great impact. My younger sister, Lydia, reminds me of this fact frequently when she says, “Now look at me and tell me what I said.” At the moment I can recap something of the main idea of what she told me, but half an hour later, all has vanished into the dim hallway of horrors which is my memory. But every once in a great while, a sentence, a phrase, an idea will snarl and snag and remain forever lodged in the soil of my mind and a slow germination will take place. Years ago, long before Lauren and Nathaniel had an “and” between their names, long before Lauren and I had breeched the careful gap of unspeakables that was Nathaniel, back when we were in the first flush of infatuation at having found a likeminded girl, she made a very simple statement: “Godliness without God is godlessness.”

The other day I met that phrase again, in the guise of a young woman. She was dressed very modestly, with a sweet expression on her face and a slim, gold wedding band on her finger. “What do you want to do?” I asked when she explained that waitressing was only temporary. “Be a stay-at-home wife and mom. And homeschool.” Yes, she’d been homeschooled, too. And she and her husband were hoping soon to add a baby to their happy home. I beamed, thinking how alike we were—and how rare it is to find another young woman who wants to live a godly lifestyle. So I asked, “Do you serve Jesus?” She smiled and dropped a bomb-shell. “Actually, I’m a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.” Translation: She’s Mormon.

In that one revelation I was reminded of Lauren’s words: “Godliness without God is godlessness.”

That phrase has echoed in my hallway of horrors, casting its shadow over my lurking corners of self-righteousness ever since. As I read and as I write it is easy to become caught up in the rush of religious material, holy living and set-apart lifestyles. It is easy to embrace radical holiness, while neglecting the Holy Spirit who empowers. It is easy to accept the parts of Christianity that are lovely, appealing, and nostalgic—pre-packaged for easy consumption. Especially when surrounded by folks who practice the same things. It is comfortable to settle into a lifestyle of predictability and forget about the war that rages. It’s easy to boil godliness down into a look, an act and an art.

But Christianity isn’t simply a return to history. Clothing isn’t Christian. Lifestyles aren’t Christian. Vocations aren’t Christian. Buildings aren’t Christian. Habits aren’t Christian. Need I continue? People are Christian. Hearts are Christian.

Jesus’ chief complaint against the Israel of His day was not modesty, family values or work ethic. It was this, “Rightly did Isaiah prophesy of these people—they honor me with their lips, but their heart is far from me.” Ladies, the truly unique thing about the woman of God is not her lifestyle. Sadly, many religious people ape a godly lifestyle. The truly unique thing about a godly woman is not her dress. Even some of the enemies of the true God subscribe to modesty. The truly unique thing about a woman of God is this: she is a woman of God. She belongs to God. She’s been purchased by the prodigal grace of Christ to walk in newness of life—redeemed to an intimate relationship with God. The Mormon women don’t have that, in spite of their lifestyle. The Muslim women don’t have that, regardless of their modesty. Just because you were homeschooled or you wear dresses or you have long hair doesn’t mean you have that.

The good woman who lives the right lifestyle apart from dependence on God’s grace is just as godless as the woman who shakes her fist at heaven, denies God’s existence and lives to glorify herself. One worships godlessness; the other worships godliness.

Godliness without God is godlessness.

Hebrews tells us, “Without faith it is impossible to please God. For he who comes to God must believe that He is and that He is a rewarder of…” of what? Those who homeschool? Those who dress modestly? Those who are at-home wives or daughters? He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him. The Samaritan woman brought up the age-old debate of where and how we are to worship God. Jesus responded that God seeks for worshippers who worship in Spirit and truth.

All too often, I retreat into my inner sanctum of self-evaluation, take off my haloed mask of pretense and discover that I am a hypocrite—an actor on the stage of time and history. Like the Greek actors—the hypocrites of old—I hold a mask before my face, recite lines and play a part for all to see. The audience claps, cheers, laughs, weeps. But I am only pretending.

And they smile and nod and say kind things like, “She’s such a godly girl.”

Because I wear the right clothes and do the right things and say the right words and spend time with the right people, write the right articles and uphold the right values and sing the right songs. I live a life of obedience. But ladies, sometimes obedience is easier than submission. And sometimes submission is easier than sacrifice. And sometimes sacrifice is easier than intimacy. Because obedience, submission and sacrifice can sometimes become ingrained habits. But intimacy requires a raw and open heart. And when intimacy fades—it is easier to fabricate a mask from our ingrained habits than it is to pursue the true form.

And on the days when my heart is as distant from God as eternity is from yesterday, no one knows. No one knows except for the Lord and me. Because I look the same and act the same and dress the same.

I have achieved the visual standard of godliness, regardless of my heart condition.

But godliness without God is godlessness!

Do you see what I’m saying? I’m not trashing the importance of wives at home, loving their husbands and children. I’m not seeking to overthrow teachings of modesty. I’m not tearing down marriages and families that are serving and loving each other. I’m just saying that when we elevate these ideals, when we hold them up as standards of godliness, when we focus on peddling results instead of preaching the cause, we create a false religious system. We create idols that should be the outcome of worshipping God. And the world perceives our priorities. I can’t even tell you how many people I have talked to that answer the question “Do you know Jesus?” with “I should start going to church” or “I should try to be a better person.” Godliness, pursued as an end, turns into a dead end–literally.

Every time Paul began to preach a sanctified lifestyle, he had preceeded it with an important message—the gospel! God’s saving and sanctifying work in our lives! How do we live godly? Romans 12 tells us to present our bodies living and holy sacrifices…and not to be conformed to the world by renewing our minds. Paul had spent the previous eleven chapters talking about God’s great redemption and His free gift to all who believe. How do we renew our minds? By worshipping God! By keeping the glory and grace of Yahweh before our eyes. We were redeemed to an intimate relationship with the Holy Creator of the universe! Let’s live like it! Not just outwardly, but pursuing Him, praising Him, seeking Him, worshipping Him…and talking about Him.

Do you know Yahweh? I’m not asking if you look like a Christian. I’m not asking if you live like a Christian. Do you know Yahweh intimately? Do you sit at His feet, listening to the words He says? Do you pour over the love letters He has written you? Do you get so excited you can’t stop talking about Him? As a child of your Abba, remember that the joy in obedience is in sitting in your Father’s lap. As the Bride of Christ, the joy of submission is in depth of intimacy. As lovers of God, let’s love God. As worshippers of God, let’s worship God. In pursuing holiness, let’s pursue the Holy One.

Because godliness without God is godlessness.

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Three Runners

Three runners in a grueling course
All took the same hard way,
And one and all they made the choice
To reach the end that day.

The first decided that he would
Enjoy the pretty sights
And settled for a leisure jog
To bring him in by night.
He saw no reason to rush hard
And miss the runway’s pleasure,
But for each minute that he gazed
He lost the prize’s treasure.

The second ran with bursts of speed
But stopped along the way
And throwing himself on the ground,
“Just resting” he would say.
And stopped at every fountain
“Just a drink to keep me going”.
But the fountain at the end
Was so much sweeter in its flowing.

The third one ran as if for life
So fleet his desperate racing.
He looked not at the flowers
And he passed the first with pacing.
He did not stop at fountains,
Or to even catch his wind.
So he passed the second also
And was first to reach the end

To the casual observer
It would seem that he had passed
All the joy that was in running
And in reaching home at last.
The first who ran more steady,
But who gazed upon the way,
Also crossed the finish line
Before the end of day.
But the wreath they laid upon his head
Was not so very rare,
For his mind was filled with flowers
He had seen while running there.

And the second finished also
Feeling fresh and feeling fine,
But the fountain at the end
Was not so fresh nor so sublime.
For the waters he had tasted
Had oft cut his thirsting back.
So the well of life was tainted
By the water on the track.

But the third received with pleasure
Both the wreath of flowers fair–
Thought he’d never smelled them sweeter
As they placed it on his hair–
And he drank with much thanksgiving
Of that rare and sparkling fount.
Having tasted of no other
He relished a large amount.
And because he had not lingered
He much better loved the end.
And the thoughts of treasures boosted
As he found his second wind.

Though the other two had finished
Ere the night had settled in,
They had only run to finish,
He had run the race to win.

Copyright 2005 by Abigail

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Non-stick cooking spray?

When I read the care information…

…for the set of pots and pans we received as a wedding gift, I found that cooking sprays that you buy in the store are not recommended—they actually can harm your cookware (and some would argue they’re not good for you anyway). Instead, the instructions suggested taking a small squirt bottle and filling it with the oil of your choice. So, I tried it and it works quite well. I keep a little bottle of olive oil near the stove (not too close, you’re supposed to keep stored oil away from heat sources), and whenever I do stir-fry or cook eggs I just grab it and spray the pan. It won’t come out in an even mist, but it allows you to control the amount of oil you put in the pan and coats it well enough. I found a small squirt bottle for less than a dollar in the bathroom/beauty supplies section of a local grocery store.

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Root of Rebellion

Posted by Abigail

With the great response to “Identity Crisis“, I thought you ladies might enjoy a peep into the past–a look at the literary outcome of my first Identity Crisis, when I was about sixteen.

There it is again: those horrible feelings of rebellion, that I seem completely unable to stifle. The “I don’t care what my parents think, I don’t want to do it!” is back in full force, and I can’t seem to quench my snotty attitude. I love my parents—I really do—but this is more than I can handle! I’m just so sick of obeying!…Why?

In the midst of such feelings the tears come, and in the desperation aroused by my frustration and depression I beg the Lord to show me my sin. Where could I have gone wrong, that such emotions could gain a stronghold in my heart? Am I wrong to blame my parents? Am I wrong to seek my own way?

I want to share with you an answer to my perplexing questions—a cause for my strange feelings of dissatisfaction, the result of these feelings, and a solution to my frustration with my parents. These emotions are not the natural result of my parents’ actions. They are not caused by tyranny, overwork or flustering requests. They are caused by myself—in reality, they are the product of my own imagination.

Let’s begin with the cause. Rebellion starts with dissatisfaction—a dissatisfaction with myself. I am not pleased with who I am. Whether or not my frustrations ring true, I have come to feel that I am inadequate in some way.

I may be dissatisfied:

• With my appearance—I feel ugly, fat and unattractive. My face is broken out, my hair is straight and limp or frizzy, my nose is too long.
• With my wardrobe—I feel out of place in modest clothing, my outfits don’t fit well, or they simply do not flatter me. I am frustrated trying to find cute, comfortable, modest clothing that doesn’t look old ladyish and isn’t miles too big; I envy others around me.
• With my personality—I feel insecure, unconversational and uninteresting, I feel like a dead-beat, a bore. I feel like I simply don’t fit in—anywhere.
• With my intelligence—I feel stupid and slow. I am a failure: I just don’t have it. Others expect more of me than I can give; others are smarter than I am.
• With my talents—what talents? I am not actually good at anything. I try, but I simply have no time to work at or practice anything because my parents…whoops! Feeling a little rebellious am I?

Lastly, when I have become entirely dissatisfied with myself, my life, and anything else about me, I become unhappy in my spirit because I am starving it. But what stands in the way of my changing these areas that I feel unsuccessful in? Shall we say my parents, and the fact that I don’t run my own life? I can’t just turn the house topsy-turvy because I wake up in the morning feeling ugly.

And my parents? “Honey, you look fine!”

Ok, so I’m not so pleased with myself. Now let’s move on to step two—link this all together, and explain what the result of disatisfaction is! How in the world do “fat days” affect my obedience to my parents?

I have noticed, that when I am not satisfied with myself, it becomes very difficult for me to believe that anyone else is satisfied with me.

I hear “Honey, you look fine” but I know she is thinking, “Well, you really ought to lose about 10 pounds, and I don’t know what we’ll ever do about your acne! I really wish you would bring your math scores up, and stay on top of your chores, and your attitude stinks. I think you need to get right with the Lord.”

“I already know that, now would you just shut up!” I feel attacked, before my parents even say anything, because in my mind I am already defeated.

I am a failure. I have failed my parents.

I am a loser—a rotten loser. How could anyone like me? How could anyone enjoy spending time with me? Why would anyone want to put up with me?

I can’t do anything right. My family must think me a burden. I’m just a hump on a log, a disgrace to mankind. <sniff>

I haven’t stopped loving my parents. I haven’t lost a desire to do well, to please them, to honor them.

I have merely given up.

I’m beat. Striving for success feels pointless. I can’t please my parents! Why try? I can’t succeed in anything! Why try? I can’t please God! Why try?

And all she said was “You look fine.”

She never expressed any dissatisfaction with me, or anything I had done. I imagined it, and the insecurity washed over me, causing the rebellion spring up.

It’s just not fair! I try to please them—they don’t care! Think of all the things I do, yet I get scolded for the one tiny responsibility that I happen to forget. It never ends—the same jobs over and over again, and nobody ever thanks me, nobody realizes how much I do! I am so sick of trying to be good! I am so sick of myself! I am so sick of this place! I am so sick of everything I do! I am so sick of my family! I just want out of here!

Like a slow burning fuse, the bitterness builds up until I snap.

And everyone stares at me in holy horror.

I can’t help it! I just feel ugly today!

Is it it possible that maybe I can help it? I believe there is a solution, if I will accept it.

But what can I do? I didn’t plan the rebellion. I didn’t want to explode. I don’t even know where these feelings came from! I’ve been submissively trying to cut out my rebellion, haven’t I? I’ve crushed it down every time it tried to rise, haven’t I? I haven’t been trying to nurse resentment, have I? So why in the world can’t I conquer myself?

There is a reason—a good one, even. I can’t cure my problem, because I am attacking the symptom, not the cause. Every time a weed of rebellion popped up, I cut it down. But the root of bitterness and dissatisfaction continued to grow. Rebellion will come up again in other areas, and I can keep cutting it out, but the root will keep growing until it explodes. I need to attack the root, and the first step is locating it.

Thankfully, I now know where the problem lies, due to much prayer and fasting. This doesn’t mean that stamping it out is easy. There are many things about myself that I am unable to change—ever.

• I will never be taller than God intended me to be. I can’t change the shape of my face, or the build of my figure.
• Modesty is a must, though my culture makes it very difficult and awkward.
• My personality is there—it is my identity. I can hone it, but I can never change it.
• My intelligence has a limit. I can work hard, but I will never be a genius. It just isn’t there.
• If I just don’t have certain talents, I just don’t have them!
• I can’t change the unchangeable.

But I can be yielded. I may not be satisfied with myself through the eyes of the world, but I need to remind myself who I am through Christ.

Why would He love me? I can’t see a logical reason, but He does. He sees the future, and he will perfect me…in His time.

Basically, my rebellion boils down to a lack of trust. I am not trusting God to work through my parents. I am not trusting God to complete what He has begun. I am not trusting God to change me. I am not trusting the God who made me.

I simply need to shift my focus from what I can’t do, to what He has done, and the weed will wither and die—from the root up.

The rebel can submit.

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Identity Crisis

Posted by Abigail

I knew that coming home from Nathaniel and Lauren’s house might be difficult. I’d been away for two weeks, basically managing another home while poor Lauren struggled to survive gestational pemphigoid. So I’d steeled myself. The truth is that God created people to leave and cleave—not to leave and come back and leave and come back. But sometimes we must stretch ourselves to serve others. Mentally I’d reminded myself that my home ran on a different schedule—not just whatever schedule I wanted to create. Like an expert pilot, I glided into the landing without a bump.

But what I hadn’t prepared for was my Mom’s homecoming. See, we’d traded places, and while she took care of my sister-in-law and nephew for a week, I ascended to the throne of Scottsburrow as Queen by proxy. When she returned a week later, it was as if Richard the Lionhearted had come home and I, the pretender, was back to the millstone. Or so it felt. Suddenly tasks I’d been successfully completing for the past three weeks were being scrutinized and redesigned. One morning, two days after her return, I broke down and started crying. “Seriously, can’t you even trust me to make a salad? I’ve been running this house for a week and you come home and act like…” Like what? Like you own the place?

I felt like a newlywed daughter when her Mom comes to visit and takes over the kitchen. Except for one problem: it was Mom’s kitchen. Not mine.

It’s a sad fact that, the older I grow, the more difficult it seems to share working space with my Mom. People who quiz me about being a grown daughter in the home or press me about being single ask all the wrong questions. Actually, I have plenty to keep me busy. And I’m not in a hurry to find a man. But sometimes, I sure would like some elbow room. And I’d like to put things where I would put them to find them, instead of having to think like someone else to find them. When my biological clock starts ticking, it almost invariably sounds like an egg-timer.

The truth is, ladies, I don’t believe it was God’s perfect intention for adult daughters to be at home. Judging from the science of the matter, I suspect His original intent was for us to marry much earlier than is the current mode. However, I know for certain that He works through our circumstances and in my case, I am quite sure that I am exactly where I should be, in obedience to Him, when I’m standing in the middle of my mother’s kitchen.

The difficulty facing me is actually not that I need my own kitchen, but that I need to be reminded of the laws of ownership.

Throughout my entire life I have struggled against the “bonds”, trying to snatch the pen to rewrite both the story and the byline. In my early teens this identity crisis took a different form as I wrestled with God over an unalterable fact: I am a woman. That might seem obvious to you, but to me it seemed an obvious mistake. What in the world was I supposed to do as a woman? Have my own cutesy little kitchen with gingham curtains? If I’d simply been given that elusive Y chromosome, I’d have been a man, able to decide my own destiny, chart a path for my own life and serve God! In fact, I knew exactly what I wanted to be! I’d have gone to the dirtiest, lowest, poorest, most violent streets and neighborhoods and poured out God’s love and truth. I would be able to give myself entirely to God!

Then one day I had the rare enlightenment that scripture and the Holy Spirit conspire to bring. “Shall the clay say to the Potter, ‘Why did you make me like this?’” In that misty, moisty morning, staring into the cool, blue sky I had an epiphany. I rephrased my wish to express the true tones behind my sentiments. “If only God had made me a man, I could really be what He wants me to be!” Actually, I could do what I want to do. A simple truth arrived home on the whisper of a fall breeze. Serving God means submission to His will.

He made me a woman. I must be the most obedient woman I can be. For now, at least, that doesn’t include street-preaching in the ghetto.

That was my identity crisis. Well, my first one. My most recent one came when my Mom arrived home to invade the cozy little nest I’d been maintaining. I’d been enjoying managing “my” home and suddenly I felt as if I’d been cast out on my ear. I didn’t fit into my own house. And just as suddenly I wanted to get out and have my own kitchen. My own laundry room. To do things my own way. And then came the despairing reminder that marriage simply transferred my allegiance. Instead of being stuck in my Mom’s kitchen, I would still be subject to some man telling me what to do and when to do it. I’d almost thought the old thought of complaint, the “I’ll never get to do things my way” thought, when the horror of my attitude bombarded me like a stampede of overweight elephants.

I despised God’s order of authority, forgetting that even Jesus was under authority. He’d praised the centurion for understanding this elusive truth. Jesus didn’t please Himself. He pleased the Father. And with that realization came the reminder of God’s authority, laid out by the pen of Paul. “Children, obey your parents.” And then, “I want you to understand that the head of every woman is a man, and the head of the man is Christ and the head of Christ is God.” Children are subject to their God-ordained authority. Women are subject to their God-ordained authority. Men are subject to their God-ordained authority. Even Christ learned obedience through the things He suffered. All things are subject to God.

I shame-facedly admit that, but for the grace of God, I’d have been a feminist. Thank You, Lord, for Your great mercy. But the fact of the matter is that when we reject any tiny part of God’s authority system or God’s creation or what God has done, we reject God’s authority over us. We deny God’s ownership of us and of all creation. Because it’s not my life that could have been so wonderful if I’d been a man—it’s God’s life that He created in a way far different than I would have. Wonderfully different. With a divine purpose that will likely keep me forever wondering. And it’s not my Mom’s kitchen—or my kitchen. It’s His. And He has put my Mom in charge of it, for now, and He has placed me under her. And someday when I have “my own” kitchen, it will still belong to Him. I will still be under His authority structure. I will still be His creation.

And in the same ponderous truth of nature that proves that life is not a totem pole but a circle, I will belong to God. And He will belong to me. In a personal way, God has promised to be my God. He will be my Creator, my Master, my King—and my authority. In my longing to have something to call “my own”, He is the only thing I can claim, and all creation belongs to Him. I just need to understand where my identity lies.

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The Absent Hen

Posted by Abigail

Once upon a time there was a very beautiful hen, the pride and joy of the farmyard. Always she had an encouraging word for everyone, a smile, a pat on the back. Watching her from the farmhouse window one spring morning, the farmer thought to himself, “How wonderful it would be to have a whole brood of chicks just like my little hen!” This goal in mind, he set her on a soft feather-lined nest.

The little hen was so excited when the first egg appeared, warm and brown beneath her. It was so smooth and round and perfect. She vowed she would raise it to be a perfect chicken, to scratch and cluck and lay eggs for the farmer.

Soon her nest was filled with eight beautiful eggs, each one seeming more special than the last. Clucking delightedly to herself, the hen would settle in at night to think about all the things she must do the next day. And always, always she had an encouraging word for everyone around the farm-yard.

Then tragedy struck. Not the little hen, but Old Mrs. Goose woke up one morning to find all of her eggs broken, their jagged edges pricking up out of the hay. As she wept, the little hen was right there to comfort her. She scratched up corn to bring Old Mrs. Goose and sent her sympathetic notes.

Not long later an old duck came down sick and the little hen rushed to her side and stayed by her night and day for three days until she was well.

When she returned to her nest she discovered a terrible thing: one perfect, round brown egg was missing. Where could it have gone? How could it have been taken? She had loved those eggs and cared for them and sought the best for them. And she had left them warm and comfortable and well-provided for, hadn’t she? What more could eggs need? Sadly she shook her head and settled back onto her nest of seven.

The little hen visited all the other hens. Some of them had nests, some did not. All of them were delighted to see her. But one old hen, glad as she was to see the little hen, dared not even get off her nest to visit. “Pardon me, Little Hen,” she said gently, “but I’m afraid my eggs might grow cold.”

“What a pity,” clucked the little hen. “She is such a capable hen and she could be doing so much good for others. Her eggs will keep.”

When she settled back onto her nest that night, there was a frightening crash. One of the perfect round, brown eggs had gone bad and exploded underneath her! All that remained was an empty, shattered shell and a nauseating, lingering stench.

“This is terrible!” moaned the little hen, holding her nose as tears came to her eyes. “It must have been a bad egg to begin with! I did everything I knew to do!”

“What a tragedy!” said all the barn animals, sadly. “That hen is such a good hen, so kind to everyone, so eager to help and she has such a fine nest of beautiful eggs. And she STILL gets to much done!”

But the farmer said, “I wish that hen would stay on her eggs.”

When two sheep decided to take the plunge and get married, there was the hen overseeing the festivities. The cows complimented the lovely hay arrangements. The goats thanked her for the lovely things to eat. The barn fowl cheered her efforts and threw grain on the newlyweds as they rushed out to the pasture. The rejoicing continued late into the night.

During the reception a tiny chirp came from one of the round, brown eggs. The little hen could not hear it over the sound of music and dancing. A tiny crack appeared in the side of one of the eggs as a little chick began to peck its way out of the shell—too early! Soon it had shaken off the pieces of shell and began searching for its mother. No one was there to tell the little chick that a nesting box is too high for a little chick to climb out of. It tumbled from the nesting box and lay still. Tired but happy the little hen walked slowly back to her nest. In the hay below she discovered the tiny, stiff form of her dead baby chick.

Again the barnyard mourned. “How can this happen to such a good hen?”

Not one of the warm, brown eggs ever hatched.

A slithering black snake ate one while the little hen was attending a first-freshening cow at her calving. A raccoon stole another while she was chatting with Mr. Turkey over afternoon tea. During the late frost, one froze and cracked while the little hen was sitting on Mrs. Duck’s eggs for her. One cracked and broke late one night as she turned them after returning home from a visit. She was just too tired and was a bit rougher than she’d meant to be.

The last egg was picked up and placed in a basket by the farmer’s daughter who was collecting abandoned pullet eggs for a picnic.

When the hen began to lay again, the farmer quietly instructed his daughter to pick up the little hen’s eggs. He sighed as he spoke, “No use letting that little hen keep eggs she won’t stick around to hatch.”

The hen hardly seemed to notice that her nest was always empty. She was so busy ministering to the other barn animals that she even stopped laying eggs at all.

The other animals watched in admiration as she fluttered about here and there, doing this and that, always with an encouraging word and a smile or a pat on the back. “What an amazing hen! She’s the best of her kind!”

But the farmer said sadly to his daughter as they watched the little hen scratching in the dirt, “Not much worth in a hen that won’t hatch eggs. Pretty little thing, and so cheerful and full of energy, but doesn’t do what she’s made to do. Guess I won’t be getting any fine chickens from her. She means well, but her focus is all wrong. See, those other animals? They’ve got me. She does so many things that are nice—but don’t have to be done. Times are hard sometimes, but really, they can get along without her. In the grand scheme of things there are lots of other animals that could pitch in and do what she does to help. But not a creature in this barn can hatch her eggs.”

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Three Beautiful Blessings

I’m sitting here at my desk, eating some satisfying oatmeal and enjoying the fact that my house is clean. The bathrooms have been scrubbed, the spiderwebs swept away, the furniture dusted (except for a few missed spots where little hands couldn’t reach), the floors vacuumed and mopped where needed. Ah…it’s a good feeling.

And just what is my secret to being eight months pregnant and enjoying a nice, clean home? Three beautiful blessings. Three sweet sisters, ranging in age from 8 to 17.

Not long into my third trimester fatigue began to set in (actually, it just increased—I’ve been tired this whole pregnancy!). I don’t sleep through the night, and during the day I end up having to take a one to two hour nap. And if I ever try to plow through a day with no nap and little rest, moving from task to task, I end up wiped out the next day. My big belly and achy hips mean I move more slowly, wear out more quickly, and can’t fit into places that I used to (example: one side of our bed is only about 12 inches from the wall—this means making the bed is quite the challenge!).

Add to my regular responsibilities all the little things that must be done to prepare for our son’s arrival: wash baby clothes, research baby products, write thank you notes, read up on natural childbirth and godly parenting, get the baby/guest room ready, figure out how to organize baby items and where in the world to put them, find a pediatrician, pack for the hospital… Yes, I am preparing for motherhood!

Now don’t get me wrong, I love being pregnant, even with its added challenges and limitations! But about a month ago I began to realize I just couldn’t keep up. Groceries, meals, laundry, bills, and budgeting have taken priority over cleaning to be sure. So when I heard through the grapevine that one of the families we knew at church loved opportunities for their girls to serve, I gave it some thought. And when I hadn’t gotten around to housecleaning for several weeks I became desperate enough to ask!

Asking for help was quite humbling. It’s not like I can’t dust or scrub or vacuum or mop (though my back tends to dislike the latter). Each time before the girls have come over I’ve thought to myself, “Why am I doing this? Can’t I take care of these things? I’m not incapable.” And that’s true—many women in my position just clean where they can and keep moving. I could, too. But once the girls get here and we get to talk and laugh and listen to music while they clean and I tackle things like deep-cleaning the kitchen, doing laundry, and paying the bills, I begin to realize what a blessing I’ve been given. Not only do I get my house cleaned, but it affords me the time to do some things that I might not have otherwise been able to do that day. And aside from getting things done, we’re all encouraged by each other’s fellowship.

I share this to praise the Lord for the blessing of His people and to encourage you to think about what you could do to help someone in Jesus’ name. It’s summer time. And that means many of you younger ladies have some extra time on your hands. Are there people in your church or in your neighborhood who could use a hand? Are any sick, disabled, or just worn out from all of the responsibilities that they have to juggle? Are there any pregnant ladies, elderly folks, or single moms in your life? Or even mothers with a few young children? Can you clean, prepare a meal or treat to share, write an encouraging note, offer to watch the kids, or just be pleasant company to those who are lonely? I encourage you to make the most of your time this summer and make someone’s day a bit brighter. You may never know what a beautiful blessing you can be!

No Decrease in Increase

Proverbs 31:11 “The heart of her husband trusts in her, And he will have no lack of gain.”

The heart (inner man/mind/will) of her husband (lord) trusts (has confidence) in her.

This is a secure trust because she is reliable and he knows it. He can entrust the management of his home and money and children to her because he is confident in her ability to care for these things and see that in each area there is an increase. She not only maintains their home and possessions, she beautifies them, improves upon them. She not only refrains from spending money carelessly, she makes a good return on it by using it wisely and even investing it so that it increases. She not only cares for the basic needs of her children, but she trains them to be a blessing to their father. This woman is not a minimalist when it comes to her responsibilities. She is what we might call an over-achiever. What her husband entrusts to her she will not only be careful to preserve, but will also improve upon it!

This concept is expressed again in the second half of this verse: “And he will have no lack of gain.”

The Hebrew word for gain here refers to spoil, goods taken in victory. Basically, she makes him successful. He has no decrease in increase. Because of her careful management, he is not limited in growth potential, but is actually set free to succeed beyond his current sphere. He may have limitations on his time because of the work that he does, but his wife makes sure that she has no part in slowing him down. He is able to dedicate more time to God’s word because she has taken care of the physical, practical needs of their home. He has more time to invest in his children because he does not have to baby-sit his wife. He has more opportunities to serve and to lead because he can safely trust that his wife has taken care of what he has entrusted to her. He should even have more time and motivation to dote on his wife, deepening their relationship, because she is such a blessing to him. And more than just sparing him time and energy, this godly woman allows her husband to move forward in confidence because he is not at all worried about things at home—she creates a worry-free environment for him by managing her responsibilities well. He may have to deal with undependable people all day at work, but when he comes home he is at ease because of the faithful, fruitful labor of his wife. Being in her presence is a great comfort to him.

I think that this verse pretty well sums up the rest of the passage (aside from the statement at the end that she “fears the LORD”). We see the virtuous woman’s character and hard work and over-arching goal presented in this verse in very general terms. As we move on from here, we will see how this specifically works itself out in her day-to-day living.

It’s hard for me to let this sink in. This kind of idealism isn’t popular today—we don’t like to think about such a woman because her example reveals that we need to change! And what an example this woman is for us—what an example she is for me! May God prune me, taking away my selfishness so that I can serve and thrive like this godly woman. I must seek to be all that God has called me to be so that I can prop my husband up and help him to be all that God has called him to be! Oh, do I ever need help with this! May God grant us grace that we all would grow in our service to Him—from the inside out.

One Man Against a Lion

Between the spheres of heaven and hell,
Each man must climb the staircase.
And if he has a family
He must guide them in the right.
Prowling in the streets of time,
Seeking wand’ring little ones
There slinks the stealthy lion
Who’d devour in the night.

A wall between that fiend and they
The husband and the father stands
For his treasured family
He must wage a war and win.
And for the souls of every one
That’s given in his care
He’ll render an account to God
If they be lost to sin.

Ah, what a task for any man
To stand between a beast and prey
But if his precious family
Resists, what crushing blow
Might overthrow the very heart
That sought to keep them safe
And tried to teach their tender minds
The way which they should go.

Wives and children, let us gather
Round behind the man we love
As a faithful family
Submitting to his care.
That, when the raging beast attacks
And seeks to drive our guardian back
He’ll find we press him
Forward on the stair.

Copyright 2006 by Abigail

When God’s Will meets Woman’s Emotions

Ladies, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything of substance. Actually, I’ve been working on a two-part article about emotions and controlling them and a series on the will of God. And then something happened today which brought the two into head-on collision and gave me a huge reminder of just how silly I am. I’d like to share my story, so that when I get my articles written and posted you’ll know that truly I am writing reminders to myself–like the sticky notes I leave on my desk.

Reposted from Abigail’s personal blog.

See, it’s like this: it doesn’t happen often, but when it does, beware. Today I was riding an emotional rollercoaster–and it looked like a suburban. It’s been building up for a couple of weeks. No, actually, it’s been building up for a year. A year’s worth of build-up can be pretty nasty. And to top it off, several things this weekend resulted in a complete drop-out in the careful nest of my emotions–mostly due to relief, partly due to confusion and a lot of bewilderment. Why did I have to go through all that misery, confusion and pain, trying desperately to do the right thing–and there’s no point to it?

Then along comes the reminder that I still haven’t sold the suburban. That suburban that I’ve had for a year to sell. That one goes like this: Papa gave me the suburban (sort of) to sell with a caveat. See, the money I get from the suburban is supposed to pay for my wedding. Whenever. That’s the missing link for all those people who keep pestering me to find out when I’m going to get married. I can’t until I sell this suburban. (That’s a joke…I think.) The problem is that I never wanted the suburban. In fact, it was kind of embarrassing, so I never explained to anyone why my parents gave me a suburban. In olden days girls had countries or lands or cows for dowries. I have a suburban. It’s not very useful to drive in the meanwhile and if I never sell it, it’s not exactly the kind of vehicle I care to start out with. In fact, on the surface it feels like the kind of gift where the giver says, “You know, I’ve got this thing I don’t want anymore. And someday soon, I’m going to have to pay for her wedding. So, why don’t I just give her this thing I don’t want anyway and tell her to sell it and pay for her own wedding.” And I feel just that valuable. Which isn’t very.

Is that the truth? Tell me, dear Searcher of Hearts, since when were emotions dependent on reason or truth? My wish-wash emotions aren’t terribly interested in the truth. So this gift I have has been weighing on my will, mind and emotions for a year now. And I’ve tried everything that doesn’t cost money out of my pocket in order to sell it. Oh people are interested until it comes down to a price and then they aren’t. At least not in a reasonable price. Or they’re super interested, but wait? You live in D-town? That’s too far to drive. Nevermind. More trouble than it’s worth.

And today Papa expressed his frustration that we still have a suburban. You must understand, this suburban and I are both still at home for one simple reason: the right person just hasn’t come along yet. The right person who needs just this special vehicle (which is really not so much special as not in demand) and is willing to pay the price. Yet here we are, still paying tags and taxes, trying to keep clean and spiffy and advertised something that no one wants. And here I am, trying to sell a suburban to pay for a wedding when no one even wants to marry me.

How pointless is all of that?

I fought tears and crashing emotions all the way to work where I dropped Papa off and wished him a good day and noticed that the gas was on empty. I hadn’t even been the last person to drive it, but I would get to fill it up–and I was already late for Choices. I drove away feeling frustrated, lost and unloved.

Remember, emotions are not always reasonable. Or based on truth.

Trying to talk truth into my weeping soul, I began reminding myself, “Nobody promises results, Abigail. You’re just supposed to do your best and seek to do what’s right anyway.”

“Yeah,” I argued with myself, “But that’s just not fair. I’ve tried so hard! I’ve been honest and forthright! I’ve researched, I’ve posted ads, I’ve tried to please my parents. I don’t get why hard things always happen to me. Why I’m always frustrated and hurt and confused. What am I doing wrong?”

That was a rhetorical question, you know. When I ask, “What am I doing wrong?” I don’t expect an answer, or I expect to hear “nothing.” Because, clearly, no fault lies with me.

Instead a verse in Philippians drifted over the current of my complaints. “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks. This is God’s will for you.”

Great. The good ol’ rejoice always passage. Smiling is God’s will for me.

But the truth began to sink in deeper than my level of self-pity. In everything give thanks…in all honesty, I had always resented that suburban. I had viewed it as a burden, something I hadn’t asked for, which would be sold to pay for a designated purpose I never sought. Gee thanks. Some gift. In all my recalling, I could never recall being thankful for that suburban. In all my recalling, I could recall being irritated about trying to park it, or having to park it at the library for advertising and walking to Choices, or having to wash and vacuum it or having to get gas. I certainly was not grateful for that gift. A generous gift from my loving parents.

Then began the sermon. I’m very eloquent when I preach at myself. “Abigail, be grateful! You be grateful! Be grateful!” I signaled and shifted into the turn lane on Main street. “You be grateful for this suburban!”

And the suburban died. Right there in the middle of the busiest intersection in town at two o’clock in the afternoon, this suburban that I was going to be grateful for died. And it wouldn’t restart.

Two possibilities–absolutely no gas, not even fumes. Or the battery, which we’d just replaced and had worked on, since the battery light was on. Becky called to tell me there was no power at the clinic and we were closed and I sniffled into the phone as I explained where I was anyway. Kindly she offered whatever help she could. Then I called Mom to see if Josiah could tell me anything about what my next course of action should be. I didn’t relish braving oncoming traffic while checking on the battery if I just needed more gas. I tried starting it again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even on empty, surely I could have made it that last block to the gas station.

Then I heard sirens and saw the flashing blue lights. By now I had tears streaming down my face. So much for being grateful, I was ready to call a wrecker and have this stupid car towed. And plan a fifty dollar wedding. Fifty years from now. I feel terribly sorry for the police man who approached my door. He probably has enough to do dealing with one emotional woman at home. When I opened my door I was both laughing and crying. And I know I must have looked like a tiny teen who didn’t know squat about cars. He quickly noted the for sale signs and asked, “Are you just test-driving?” Ludicrous. I don’t WANT this car. Can’t you tell that just from looking? (I’m sure my parents never guessed. I still need to be sure I’ve thanked them.) I tried to explain my situation as best I could and he nodded in sympathy. “Can you start it for me?” Which I did and nothing happened. Then he said, “Do you have it in park?” Well, no. I’d been driving when it died. And I was already emotionally nuts by then. Of course I didn’t think to put it in park. I shifted into park and turned the key. And it started. “I feel stupid,” I said and laughed and snorted and choked on tears. “You’re okay,” he smiled. “See if you can make it to 2nd and Arkansas and I’ll follow you.”

I made it. And filled up. And went home. And washed the suburban. Vacuumed it. And sprayed that silly foam on the tires to make them shiny. Because everyone is looking for a car with shiny tires, you know. Then I posted up some new ads. And I whispered, “Thank you for this suburban. I don’t understand. I don’t get it. It doesn’t seem fair. It hurts. It’s annoying. I don’t see the point. But thank you.”

Because I don’t have to understand. Things don’t have to go right. Things don’t have to make sense or have a point. But I have to be thankful. That’s God’s will.

Now, the temptation is to say, “Look, Abigail! You learned your lesson! You’re thankful now! God can bless you now!”

But the Lord is not a genii in a bottle. Rubbing Him right doesn’t earn me three wishes. Doing the right thing doesn’t equal getting what I want. I assure you, I want to sell this suburban. Trust means doing the right thing and believing that He sees it, is pleased and will reward it–sometime. Someway. His way. I can’t make anyone buy that suburban. I can’t make things happen by believing–that’s humanism, paganism–not Christianity. But by believing, sometimes I can see things that are happening in a new light–I can believe God’s promises that He will withhold no good thing from those who walk uprightly, that He works all things for the good of those who love Him, that trials produce proven character and that His will for me is my sanctification–that I would be made holy like Him. With those promises in mind, I can look squarely at anything thrown my way and say “Okay. Thanks.”

Thank you, Lord, for an excellent reminder.  Please make me holy.

And…when You get around to it…please sell my suburban.

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Love is a verb

The following entry in one of my old journals–nearly five years old–turned out to be a convicting reminder of the simple practices of love.  In five years, I fear I have not greatly improved in this area at all.  Yet, God is faithful to remind me–even through the medium of my own pen.  –Abigail Joy

I need to exert more effort in loving by:

*Not talking about myself

Esp. accomplishments, things I think I did well, funny things I did or said, speech contests, things I have written, things I have made, things I want to do.  Instead I will ask questions about others.

(This will allow others to have the glory instead of trying to gain it for myself)

*Taking time to think positively

Instead of allowing myself to dwell on negative circumstances, or other’s negative traits, I need to intentionally look for the potential good and for good qualities

(This will raise my estimation of others, make treating them with respect easier and lower my own self-righteousness)

*Taking time to serve

Esp. small unnoticed things for which I won’t be thanked and tasks that I dislike.

(This will turn my mind from my own agenda and make me less resentful when asked to go out of my way for someone else)

These three simple things should help make me more loving by fostering patience, kindness, humility, gentleness, service and endurance and should help eliminate angry outbursts, grumbling, sudden selfishness, taking offenses, rudeness, impatience and envy.

Love is a verb.

I must take action!

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A Lesson From a Rose

“I’d like a little rose to place
Upon my dresser in a vase.”
The pleading eyes of amber hues
How could that look a man refuse?
“Just wait a bit,” the father smiled,
While looking fondly on his child.
“When gone are all the wintry snows
We’ll go and pick a perfect rose!”
The child turned her face away,
“I’ll go and pick one anyway.
My father has great things on mind
And though means only to be kind,
Still I have seen the scarlet blooms
And if I do not take one soon
They’ll wither and then turn to slime
Before my father finds the time.”
So saying, she her small steps took
Down to the arbor near the brook.
She gazed long moments at the wall
All covered with the buds still small
And wondered which the blushing sun
Would mark out as the perfect one.
Her dimpled hand reached out to take
The tender bud yet unawake
Still nodding in the morning light
Before the summer kissed it bright.
Into the vase the small flower went
Without the slightest accident
And soon it graced the dresser top.
It never bloomed, but drooped then dropped.
A flower with perfection’s plan
Was ruined by impatient hands.
The father saw the child’s choice
And though he never raised his voice,
He sighed that it should never come
To fullest beauty in the sun.
He’d raised that rose with her in mind
But his love’s gift she’d undermined
And what, if left to him, would be
The perfect bloom of purity,
Because once plucked it withered there
Was never seen in beauty rare.
How often we grasp much too soon
And seize God’s blessings ere they bloom.

Copyright 2005 by Abigail

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