joy?

I haven't written on here lately, not because I have not been writing, but because I have been using a different medium.  Tim gave me a gift, a typewriter, for putting my thoughts to the page in a more tangible form of expression than the world of cyberspace. The typewriter is the perfect mix of handwriting and typing... you still physically put the words on the page without the fatigue that comes from writing it out by hand.  It's pretty awesome, especially because I love tangible things.

Joy.  One very un-tangible thing.  And something that I do not understand most days.

Here is what I wrote on my typewriter last week....

As I walked downstairs to my room, I pondered this question:

On a given day, that is free from tragedy or extreme ecstasy, I can choose to think about hundreds of wonderful things or many terrible things about life.

Today, I want to think about wonderful things.  In spite of a particularly negative thought that plagued me in the kitchen.  Our softened water dries out my hair.

I think things like softened water make me waste that happier days we are given in life.  The days where nothing terrible has happened... the days where I am given a choice... a choice of joy or something more depressing.

I want to know what it means to be a joyful person.  That eludes me.  It is a difficult concept for me, because the days I need it most are the days I desire it the least.  Days where I am so destroyed emotionally, I can't even imagine happiness.

Definition. I think most people would say I'm confusing joy and happiness. Then what is joy?

Is it really something like peace, trust?

....So that was a typewriting entry, but I have still continued to think about joy.  I think it is funny that on the very same day something wonderful happens to you, on a day where a prayer is answered in a big way... you can still be a little down in the dumps in the very same breath of thankfulness.

A little disconcerting, isn't it? That was me yesterday.  A big prayer was answered for Tim and I.  We now know where we live and work and serve.  We were ecstatic.  And yet, I still found things to be a little annoyed with, a little afraid of, a little doubt.

You don't expect an attack on a happy day.  Where's the joy?

Obviously, joy doesn't come from me.  I know it comes from God.  And I need to ask Him for it.  Trust in Him, in the middle of difficult days, or even just boring days.

It reminds me of my early understanding of the fruit of the spirit.  I considered the fruits as a list of things that I could put on my wall and check off daily.  Gentleness, check. Peace, check. Self-control, half-check.  Goodness, fail.  I was very sad that I couldn't seem to have a day full of fruit.  More often than not my vine of self-works was a bit shriveled.

Finally I heard the truth... these fruits are not of yourselves, God grows them in you.  So, since joy happens to be on that list, why did I ever come to think it was about me?  It is God working in me if there is anything on that list present in my life, why don't I ask Him more often?

"These things I have spoken to you, that My joy may remain in you, and that your joy may remain full." John 15:11

That sounds like a joy worth having.  It is real.  It is Jesus.  Jesus, please give me Your joy.  Please take away the selfishness and sadness inside of me.  You are my Joy, You are my Peace.

to know and be known

Sometimes I go crazy.  Well, that's hyperbole.  I've got this issue, and I recently diagnosed myself.  It has something to do with thinking I'm an artist and something to do with being a writer.  I simply must write in order to think clearly.

It doesn't matter if I write about what is bothering me or stressing me out, to write is the thing.  To be able to clearly lay out my thoughts in precise or meandering sentences.  To know that my paragraph has made sense of myself to me, and hopefully to others.

Writing is a way that I express my desire to be known and understood.  I think everyone desires this.  I think that is why we need community, as I wrote about earlier.  And because we desire to be known, we do crazy things to get attention (think of yourself, celebrities, and jr. highers).... attention that we ultimately want from a God who feels far away.

It is strange to think that I am small.  That I live on an earth so big, I cannot be seen from space.  And this earth cannot be seen from other galaxies.  Yet, there is a God.  He created me, and He knows my every thought.  He created me to know things by five senses, and yet I cannot see or feel Him.  But He also gave me a soul, and my soul knows that He exists when I cannot touch Him.  He created me to desire Him, and I will spend eternity with Him.

Sometimes these thoughts overwhelm me with their beauty, and sometimes I get caught up in my smallness and forget them.  But the God who is greater than anything I can sense or imagine knows my soul.  I belong to Him.  I am known, and I am loved.

community: mercy

Last week was about me.  I prayed for me.  I thought about me.  I dreamed about me-centered things.  On one of those days I woke up grumpy.  No surprise, I had me for breakfast.

My mom asked me to go to the store for... I think it was flour.  I had a decision to make: Jewel or Dominicks?  I chose Jewel for three deep and compelling reasons.

1. There are self-checkout lanes

2. I didn't want to talk to anyone

3. I hadn't showered

So,  I jumped into the family van and drove to Jewel thinking about what a bad person I was.  I was deliberately avoiding human contact, and I wasn't going to change.

I walked through Jewel successfully avoiding any howdydo's and stood by myself scanning the flour.

"Do you play soccer?"

I was startled to see an employee named Slavisa standing twelve inches or so from my face.

"Uh, yes I do," I said.  The correct answer would have been, "I'm a has-been as of Winter 2009" but let's not argue over the details.

Slavisa and I proceeded to have a two minute conversation about soccer, and how we both don't like getting hit in the face with the ball.  I left Jewel and laughed as I got into the family van and thanked God for Slavisa.  Despite all my machinations, God decided I would have a conversation with someone, shower or no.

My Jewel adventure got me thinking about community. I often think of it as church potlucks, parties, soccer games, and picnics.  But it is more.  Community is scary because it means people get to see the real you, true community strips past the social facades we erect to keep people from knowing who we really are.

God knows we need to be with people.  God knows I need to be with people.  God uses people to show us how much we need Him, and God uses people to show us how much He loves us.

I realize that I avoid community because it takes work, and it can be messy.  It takes love and sacrifice, mercy and patience.

I want to be willing to serve people whenever God desires, sometimes it so hard.... when I've been thinking about me especially.  When I'm focused on me, it is harder to give other people grace, or the time of day.  Lately, to help, I have been thinking about this verse:

"Therefore be merciful, just as your Father also is merciful."  Luke 6:36

This verse helped me understand again that loving people and working in community is hard, and it requires mercy.  Since I know the lavish amounts of mercy God has bestowed upon me, I can ask Him to help me give other people love and mercy without measure.

And once I start conciously giving mercy to others, and praying for mercy, I realize how much mercy I recieve daily.  Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the goodness of the Lord I serve.

If you need a passage of scripture to help you pull your head out of the ground, I suggest Luke 6.  It worked for me... but really, you'd have to ask somebody in my community if it helped.

Give love, give mercy, live in community.

poetic honesty

I have this problem.  It's hard for me to tell people what my poems mean.  Someone asks me what the poem means and I freeze.  I think, "It says what it means.  It's all there."  

I quickly realize that I have written a poem... and poems are usually a little unintelligble if they didn't spring from your own mind.

Once I see, then I begin to hedge and hem.  "This poem is not really about me, it's a character... a figment of my dark imagination."  This is a lie that I have told one too many times.

So to all of you who have been befuddled by my lines, and more confused by my explanation of them, here is a better explanation for one of my poems that I have been reluctant to own until I admitted that it was, indeed, my child at our show on Saturday night.

I will write out the poem, and explain at the end.

----------

Chamomile

Lonely with my romance books

From my mirror despising looks

Chamomile, my constant friend

Lay me down at the days end

Corduroys

Holes in the legs

Coffee cups

Drained to the dregs

Faded books

Lining ledge

All my life

Never had edge

To my room, alone in bed

Things unsaid torment my head

Chamomile, my constant friend

Lay me down at the day's end

Lavender

On my pillow

Winter wind

At my window

Darkest night

Will slowly grow

Purposes

I hardly know

Long lost dreams will take their toll

Tease my heart and rend my soul

Chamomile my constant friend

Lay me down at the day's end

----------

I didn't want to own up to this poem at first, because I didn't feel like it accurately described me in the present time.  I am not lonely for love, or purposeless.  I am marrying my best friend, and I know what my purpose is... to serve Christ and seek His kingdom.  Because of these things, I distanced my self from my creation in interpretation, and only conceded that yes, I became a chamomile drinker in 5th grade.

I wondered if I was writing something that was too far outside of myself, something I didn't know, and I continued to tell people that it wasn't about me, it was some of my characteristics projected onto another character.  "Please, don't worry about me."

Then, on Saturday, it clicked.  A month after writing it, I realized that "Chamomile" is adolescent Abby.  When I moved to California from Illinois, I was desperately lonely, and questioned many things about life.  I was an avid reader of Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters (romance books) and I fell in love with the calming effects of chamomile tea.  I wanted to be loved, and I watched others date and enjoy popularity in sadness.

Yet, despite all this there was happiness in my life.  I wasn't completely joyless.  But sometimes you can't be happy if you don't confront the grief, madness, and pain in your life.  You can ignore it, but it's still there.  It's part of being fallen.

There is freedom for me in accepting these things and giving them to Christ.  He can heal me from the sickness I inherited at birth.  It is important for me to own up to my own shortcomings even if it makes other people feel uncomfortable.  If I don't confess the fact that I came from darkness, and now I am a child of light, of what use am I?  My danger is that I will allow my Christian background to disguise the fact that I died and Christ lives in me.  Knowing my weakness allows me to see the strength of Christ.  There is no other way.

The lonely, crazy Abby is daily dying again to Christ.  My flesh is fallen, but Jesus in His grace is sanctifying me.  This is my story, of my Jesus I will sing.

love's roar

I just wanted to share a poem that recently became the lyrics for a song Tim and I recorded together. The poem came out of a time of weakness a couple weeks ago. I hope you enjoy it.

You said love, You said peace
My eyes saw stains upon my heart
You said there's grace, You said I'm free
And still I stay, and still I grieve

I knocked myself down to the floor
Before You could raise me up
You stretched Yourself, Your tendons tore
And still I lay there, bruised and sore

I draw my lids, and scar my mind
I lose myself, I weep and cry
Why do You care, will I still find?
You thunder, roar, and yet are kind?

I do not know You, I said I did
I claimed Your name and said forgive
I rise and seek my sins to rid
And still I'm weak, and still I live

You said it's finished, I changed your name
Your sins forgot, your sins are gone
Why don't you trust, your life is mine...
I am Love, My roar divine.

If you want to hear the song for these words you can go to our myspace.
http://myspace.com/timothyandabigail

humble love

Last week it felt like my sins and struggles were delivered to me on a platter. A platter with dead carcasses and flies. Dirty flies.

I could hardly bear it. It is much nicer to have makeup on when you look at the mirror to your soul. Unfortunately for pride and ego, that mirror strips past your facades and shows your wretched nakedness. All your glory, all your stains.

My prayers were full of "I need Yous" and "Please." I realized, re-realized that I need God in the most desperate of ways. I was faced with my weakness and I prayed more fervently than I had in a long time.

The amazing thing was, in my weakness, I felt closer to God than I had felt in a while. I realized that He was using my desperate, despairing, dumpiest of days to draw me closer to Him. I was seeking Him hourly, rather than for a fifteen minute debrief once a day. And all the while, I knew that this crazed seeking was not of my own doing... it was God's work. I was humbled, please keep me humble Lord.

God also showed me how easy it is for me to love something other than Him. I love someone on earth so deeply, I am afraid to love God more. I worry that allowing God to take the throne, and knock out my idols, will destroy me. I become enraptured with the things of this earth, and the loves of the present... and I forget that I will never love those dearest to me the way God loves them... if I don't love Him first.

But this is painful. But it is good. Open heart surgery. I give God all of my heart, and He allows me to love others the way He does. The way is narrow, and few find it.

Take my weaknesses Lord, use them as You wish. Keep me humble, please don't let me go. Take my heart, my love is Yours.

straitjacket

I am constantly unconciously categorizing things in my own crazy i-think-i'm-an-artist way.  This is beautiful, haunting, moving, repulsive, crazy.  This is do-able, this is impossible.  This is possible for some, out of the question for me, etc., etc.  I place constraints on myself and others based on how well I understand the situation based on my experiences and knowledge.

The most unfortunate of straitjackets is the one that I put on God.

I underestimate His power.

I give out straitjackets based on my comfort level and knowledge of the situation.  I realize that my knowledge and understanding of God is limited and finite... I am always trying to re-box Him when He tears apart the wrapping paper.

But this is not the God I serve.  He is not tame, He cannot be conquered intellectually any more than He can be conquered physically or spiritually.

These mis-understandings cause confusion in my theology, they allow me to both doubt my salvation and think I have done something to earn the salvation I think I have lost.  A funny couple.  Of course I will doubt a salvation I have earned myself, the Lord knows I have done nothing to deserve it.  Filthy rags, filthy rags.

My religious legalism wraps its tentacles around my mind, and tries to put a leash on the power of God.  I think that I must do certain things to be pleasing to Him.

Then it happens... my secret sin knocks on my door, I let it in.  Suddenly, my forgiving Savior becomes a dictator bent on revenge.  I am afraid of Him.  I plead for forgiveness and feel like I cannot be forgiven.  I mentally brow-beat myself, and drag myself through the dirt.  Is this yet another form of pride, a pride that thinks my self-hate will somehow gain forgiveness?

If I feel terrible enough, maybe He will forgive.

This is not Jesus, this is someone created in my own head.  Jesus died on the cross to save me from the sins of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  No amount of confession or self-loathing will bring about my salvation.  He lavishes grace upon my life, and forgets my sins when I ask for forgiveness the first time.

Why is it so hard to accept His love?  I am continually missing the God who is there, who walks beside me, carries me, the Savior who never lets me go.  

Lord, let me know Your love.  Let me feel Your presence.  Give me grace, help me give grace to others.  Please open my blind eyes, and let me see Your lovely face.  I love You.

does it sink in?

Good Friday.  A day we specifically remember Jesus' death on the cross.  It is strange to think of what it would have felt like to be there on the first Good Friday... a day that was anything but good living in the midst of it.

The perfect Man, the Healer, the Teacher... the Innocent is falsely tried and hanged on a tree.  The darkness of that injustice, the darkness in the hearts of His followers.  They had dropped everything for the last 3 years, to follow Jesus, the Son of God.  Now this?

I wish I better understood the cost, the price that Jesus paid for my life.  Sometimes I get a glimpse of it. when I realize the depth of my own sins... I make a terrible mistake, an error that seems irremedial...  He paid for even this?  The weight of that sin was lifted by His sacrifice two-thousand years ago... what pain did it cost Him to bear the sins of the world?

If you have trouble imagining His suffering, I encourage you to look at a painting of Christ crucified.  It gets me everytime.  My Jesus, Lover of my soul... tortured for my sins.

Dwell on His sacrifice, marvel at His love.  The Prince of Peace, broken for you.  Lord, help us remember.

kingdom of heaven

"Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.  Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

my tiny culture

Today I had class. History and Structure of the English Language. If it sounds difficult, you're on to something.

My professor was talking about how we interact with other cultures linguistically, and how we often judge each other's intelligence and other things based on dialects.

This got me to thinking about my own culture. You know, the white Midwestern, I-Don't-Have-A-Culture culture. Like my previous blog about stereotypes, my culture is a lens through which I see the world, cracked as it may be. I am constantly trying to temper this lens and others lens I have acquired with the ultimate worldview, the Gospel.

I am amazed at my cultural smallness, and my inability to easily connect with other cultures because of the strong ties I have to the things of my own upbringing. My tiny, tiny brain starts to ache with all the -isms of this world, cultural customs, and callings. This realization has given me a new-found awe for the infiniteness of God. A God who knows every heart, every person, every tribe, every city, every culture. A God who knows everything, but is bound by nothing.

I will never be able to see things from God's viewpoint of my own volition. I wish there was a mountain tall enough to stand on and see the world accurately. I would climb it and wait for the clouds to part, and watch the sun shine upon the world's idiosyncracies, glories, and sins. Unfortunately, greats heights don't discern the heart of man or the mind of God.

Fortunately God has given me His Word, something I continue to study and wrestle with. He has also given me Himself through the sacrifice of His Son, and now I am His.

When I start from Scripture, rather than my culture... scales fall off my eyes. Things that I was fearful of before, whether death, people who are different than me, or even my own ignorance are declawed in the presence of an Almighty God. I'm amazed by His glory.

tim and abby sing

In the last month I haven't written at all because I discovered a new hobby, singing with my fiance Tim. Everyone has told me, "Abby, I didn't know you could sing." To which I intelligently replied, "Neither did I."

We have recorded four songs and posted them to a myspace, and on Saturday we had our first show at La Spiaza. This was old hat for Tim, a seasoned performer, but it was a new, exciting, and slightly terrifying experience for me. My cheeks burned red, and my hands were ice cold, but we had a lot of fun. The audience was comprised of family, friends, and a few coffee drinkers who happened to stop by.

We played some Tim Ophus originals, Tim and Abby songs, and covers. Hopefully, we will be getting another gig soon, I'll keep you posted.

If you are interested in hearing the tunes, check out this page:

http://myspace.com/timothyandabigail

I've been focusing on lyrics lately, but I'm hoping to be updating my dear blog more often, especially as my final semester in college is coming to a close.

Peace and love.

where passion and will collide

I often wonder where God wants me to go. Some days I wish He would give me a list or itinerary, one I that I could use to make sure I am in the center of His will. I want to serve Him with my gifts... I want to give Him all of me, but I worry. I worry that service won't pay the bills. I worry that my desire to serve the Creator is selfish... or imprudent?

Which leads me to the dilemma, how does one discover God's will, when your own will and societal pressures are screaming for attention?

It is difficult to make life decisions when there are things that seem prudent and safe, and others that seem, well, a little dangerous. I am wondering if this is what it means to follow Christ, a little danger, a little earthly uncertainty in exchange for heavenly security.

Jesus told His disciples to not lay up for themselves treasures on earth, and he told them not to worry about earthly possessions (Matthew 6). I know these passages like the back of my hand, but they don't sink into my heart. Do I really trust that God will take care of me if I seek to serve Him in the areas I am passionate about?

I'm okay with losing the battle and the war of the wills to God. His will has always proved itself in my life to be perfect, good, and exactly what I needed... even when I had a better idea.

I want to serve God, in the most radical and mundane of ways. I'm okay with whatever He is calling me to, as long as I am close to Him. He is my passion, my life is no longer my own.

studs terkel's post-script to the world

Studs Terkel, Chicago native and famous oral historian passed away on October 31 of last year. Four days later his book “P.S. Further Thoughts From a Lifetime of Listening,” was published. Author of sixteen other books and a disc jockey for 45 years, Terkel made a living out of listening to people tell their stories, and telling those stories to the world.

It is hard to know where to start when reading Terkel’s large body of work. Although “P.S.” is his last book, it is a good first read for those new to Terkel.

The book is a compilation of previously published essays and works that Terkel claims in his preface were, “scattered, torn sheets of wrinkled paper under the desk, behind the bookcases, beneath the couch, tossed in boxes, everywhere.”

Because of the “scattered” nature of this book’s creation, it has an eclectic nature that reflects Terkel and his interests well. One of the essays “Dreamland,” is autobiographical. Terkel writes about his youth and his brother’s mishaps with girls he brought home from Dreamland, a dance hall where black jazz bands played. This essay gives the reader a good picture of Terkel’s boyhood in the 1920’s, and reminds one that life isn’t pristine in any decade.

The greatest essay in the book is Terkel’s interview with author James Baldwin. In the essay the reader can see how skilled Terkel was as an interviewer by the questions he asked Baldwin.

The interview took place in 1961, and Baldwin has just published his book “Nobody Knows My Name.” In the interview, Baldwin reflects on the pain he suffered as an African American in the United States by not having an identity.

He said this identity must be discovered by both blacks and whites, and commented that, “the American Negro is the key figure in this country. And if we don’t face him, we will never face anything.”

This interview is intriguing because it is written at the heart of the civil rights movement, and it is on a subject that was important to Terkel, who also wrote an excellent book called “Race” where he interviewed white and black Americans about their thoughts, feelings, and experiences with race.

When one reads the Baldwin interview, and also the book “Race,” it is easy to initially feel as though the problems of race are solved, until the reader sees him or herself reflected in one of the interviews. And that is the point, by talking to everyday people, Terkel gives Americans a glimpse into their own hearts, and holds up a mirror to their inner personalities.

Terkel, who described himself as an agnostic in an interview on National Public Radio, came to different conclusions than the average evangelical Christian. However, despite his differences in worldview, Terkel has given America, and the world, a piece of its story through his interviews. Any reader desiring to better understand race and the American people should give Terkel’s books a try. They are worth a listen.

chicago's own: andrew bird

4 out of 5 stars

Not often do songwriters use words like facsimile, tenuousness, and nomenclature, unless you are Andrew Bird. But don’t let the academic vocabulary turn you off to Andrew Bird’s new album, Noble Beast. Bird, a native of Chicago and graduate of Northwestern University released his 5th studio album on January 20th. Noble Beast reached the iTunes Top Ten albums over the weekend, proving this album a great, if not popular purchase.

Bird, a classically trained violinist, is known for mixing many different styles of sound into his albums, making it hard to classify him into a specific genre. He uses folk, pop, jazz, and classical elements along with his trademark whistling, a skill he uses more extensively in his earlier albums Andrew Bird & The Mysterious Production of Eggs and Armchair Apocrypha.

Bird’s high brow vocabulary and eclectic musical style make some critics believe his music is too inaccessible, but that is part of the beauty of his music. The rhymes Bird chooses are poetically compelling, not necessarily because of their meaning, but because of their musical quality. Axis, waxes, and taxes or three, elasticity, and astronomy become lovely coupled with Bird’s haunting melodies. Enjoy the lyrics simply for their sound if their meaning escapes you.

This album requires more than a casual listen. To really enjoy this album it has to be given a chance to be more than background music so the listener can understand its subtleties.

For example, the song Not a Robot, But a Ghost has three distinctive movements that make it sound like three different songs during the first listen. But a closer listen reveals the cohesion of the piece, and the fact that lyrics are the same and repeated though the music changes.

The whole album flows well together, and just gets better with each play.

Bird is a local sensation, and although he tours around the world, he is particularly favored in Chicago. His tour for Noble Beast comes to Chicago in April at the Civic Opera House. Originally scheduled for one show on April 10th, tickets are now on sale for a second show on April 9th after tickets sold out in the first 15 minutes for the 10th.

Bird performs solo and layers his music by recording melodies and rhythms he plays or whistles to create a fuller sound. It is great experience to hear his music come together piece by piece live. Bird was asked about his live performances in an interview on National Public Radio.

"Every night," he says, "I am rewriting all my songs for the audience."

If you want a chance to hear Andrew Bird reinvent himself live, check and see if tickets are still on sale for the April 9th show. If not, give the Noble Beast a chance. Its well worth the time spent to get to know Andrew Bird and his peculiar vocabulary.

adventures in journalism

If anyone has been reading this blog lately, they have probably been reading the same post over and over or have noticed that nothing new has been posted for a long time. It's been a dead blog for the past month.

Time for excuses. I have been writing reviews for my school paper, and generally school puts a damper on my artistic endeavors... hence, the state of neglect.

I have decided to post my reviews and other articles I write on this blog, along with my more traditional posts.

I estimate that 20 or so people read my school paper including those who write for it, so maybe I could bump the readership up to 25 by posting on here.

I hope you enjoy them.

grace repeller

I have written before about how I used to be terribly afraid of hell. My fear of of fire, darkness, and utter loneliness kept me awake at night. I became superstitious and systematic in my spirituality. I read certain verses before going to sleep because I felt more secure after reading them. I said certain prayers to God and prayed against the powers of hell.

It was compulsive. Legalistic. I was afraid of removing something from my routine, it might just send me to.....

I wanted so desperately to go to heaven and be with Jesus. But I was afraid that He wouldn't let me in. I must have committed a secret sin against Him... one that would keep me away from my loved ones and my God for eternity.

I kind of thought nobody else struggled with this, but I have come to learn otherwise- other people also struggle with eternity uncertainty... especially in Christian circles with those of us who came to Christ at a young age.

Frankly, we possess a goodness that repels.

Or, at least a faulty understanding of who we are. We have lived a grace-filled and grace-covered life for so long, we think somehow we get to heaven by pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps. The blessings we received, we must have somehow merited. And then we sin. Our errors stare us down. Our goodness is no longer sufficient in our own eyes.

I thought God couldn't love a once-redeemed sinner like me. You gave me grace once Lord, now it is my turn to earn it. My goodness made me think that somehow God chosen me, Abby the Pharisaical Christian. My prayers, my Bible, my pleading with God must make me more desirable.... He must have mercy.

He has had mercy. His name is Jesus. He has forgiven every sin.

Even yesterday's? Even yesterdays, and the ones to come. Can I trust Him that He will never let me go?

For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39

For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast. Ephesians 2:8-9

If you are anything like me, you skipped reading those verses because you have heard them before. You know the promises, but they haven't sunk into your soul.

Ask God for knowledge of His grace. I have been on a sort of quest for the past few months to understand what it means for me, Abby, to live in God's grace. Daily I understand it a little more. I think it will take a lifetime. But I don't mind, eternity with the Giver of grace will follow.

after His heart

For one of my classes I had to answer this question:

Commemoration: If you were to write your epitaph, what would it be?

This is a weird exercise. Part of me feels like if I live to be eighty-five, I know exactly what will be on there. My family will say something nice about me like beloved wife, mother, and grandmother. It will look much like all the other gravestones in the cemetery... all those stones, representing not even one day of the years that were lived by the body resting underneath it.

Forgotten stories. How would I sum up my story in a few words or sentences? I don't know what my "short story" would be right now, but I know what I would wish it to be in the future.

"Abigail was a woman after God's own heart. She loved Him until the end, and she will rest in His love for eternity."

I stole the "woman after God's own heart" from King David. His epitaph was that he was a man after God's own heart. I always liked this because David had some major errors during his lifetime (he happened to murder a man and take his wife). I realized that I could still pursue God with the intensity of King David, even though I have made and continue to make some severe blunders.

God's grace will enable me to pursue Him passionately, knowing that His grace and mercy cover me, and His love will hold me close until I am called home to be with Him.

So many things threaten my quest to pursue God's heart. Worries about the future and things I can't control often cause me the most distress, and keep me from focusing on the true source of peace and security.

What does the Lord require of me? To act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with Him. Love the Lord my God with all my heart, soul, and mind.

A gravestone means very little. It marks the place where my shell will lie. Many people hope they die well. I want to live well.

I will love Him until the end.

stereotypes, stories of sin, and brother mike

Generalizations.  It is always frustrating when someone assumes that they know you, because you fit a type, a file in their classification scheme.

I lived in California, and I was homeschooled.  Let's file me.

You lived in California- Check one of the following=

• Movie star
• Valley girl
• Surfer
• From the O.C.

You were homeschooled- Check all that apply=

• Nerd
• Denim skirts
• Complete homework in pajamas while eating cookies.
• Nerd

Somehow the above don't mix, I don't fit any of the descriptions (maybe nerd), and I become unclassifiable.  Or, the exception.

"Other Californians I've met were stuck up, but not you."

"You're cool, tell your parents they did a good job, you're not like other homeschoolers."

Other.

Whose the other, the generalization?  The generalized individual.  The more I meet people from groups I have generalized, the less I can classify them.

Brother Mike was my other.  He begged at the corner of our intersection in California.  He asked my dad for a dollar once to get a hotdog.

I was afraid of him.  He was homeless, he wanted my money, he had a mental impairment...he was dangerous.

One day we were trying to cross the street quickly because Brother Mike was coming toward us.  We had a whole envelope full of money.  We were selling lollipops to fundraise for my brother's wrestling team.

We almost got hit by a car in our attempt to get away from Brother Mike.  He shouted to us from across the street.  "You kids be careful okay?  You almost got yourselves killed!"  And kept walking.

It blew my mind, and destroyed my stereotype.

I have been reading the book Race by Studs Terkel.  In one of his interviews he talks to a woman who has become bigoted in her opinions of African Americans because of her experiences in law enforcement.  At one point, Terkel asked her about her friends that were black, she replies:

"They're exceptions.  Absolutely.  And all the people from my church.  It's ninety-five-percent black."

His follow-up question concerns her colleagues, she replies:

"--Are exceptions.  Oh absolutely."

Were these people exceptions?  Or were they just the people who got to tell her their story?

Everyone has a story, a story of fallenness... no matter what race or gender.

Everyone sees the world through a lens based on their story, and each of our lenses is cracked and irreparably scratched by sin.

It is difficult to generalize when we begin to hear the stories of the other.

Jesus took the time to love people, because He already knew their stories.  He reached out to the generalized, the downtrodden... the ones without a voice because, "We all know what those people are like, we know their kind Jesus."

Zacchaeus.  Tax collector.  "We know him Jesus. He rips us off on every tax return."

Jesus replies, "Zacchaeus, make haste and come down, for today I must stay at your house."

Adultress.  About to be stoned by the religious leaders. "We know her Jesus.  She has sinned against the community, and against You."

Jesus replies, "He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first."

To the woman, Jesus says, "Go and sin no more."

Every criminal has a story of sin.  As well as every churchman, every atheist, every child.

C.S. Lewis' classic devil Screwtape says, "It does not matter how small the sins are, provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out into the Nothing. Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick. Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts."

We all are on a slope to hell, whether gentle or steep, until Jesus steps in.

I wish I took more time to hear people's stories, rather than assume I knew who they are based on the color of their skin, their clothing, their neighborhood, their education, their political associations, their church denomination, etc.

I am hopeful that my generalizations, my stereotypes, can be destroyed.  But only if I get to know the other. 

If we all get to know the others in our lives, maybe we would hurt each other less, and love each other more.  

If someone says, "I love God," and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God whom he has not seen?  And this is the commandment we have from Him: that he who loves God must love his brother also.  1 John 5:20-21

acute competitor's syndrome

I have tried so hard.  I want to be a woman of peace- gentle, forgiving, and quiet.  But Scrabble brings out the ugliest parts of my character.

Well, Wordigo to be exact... a sort of speed scrabble game, if you will.

I have always been, well, a little too competitive.  Several posts back, you might recall my infant card stacking during a game of Candyland....

I beat mom and Grandma handily at Monopoly Jr. a couple years after the Candyland incident, and earned the name "Miss Moneybags" for my ruthless acquisition of properties and hotels.

This last summer I routinely creamed the kids I nannied at Boggle, and became slightly peeved when Jordan finally beat me at a card game.

What monster stares at me from the Pretty Pretty Princess mirror?

Don't blame me, I have ACS.

You might not want to run with me, both my dog Jemima and I have a similar tic.  We have to be in front.  We go down the prairie path together jockeying for the best position.  Luckily age is starting to slow me and Jemima down.

I wish I didn't have to win.  I become flustered when I lose, it's like my self-worth... wait a second.

Embarrassingly enough, when I take a look at my competitive nature, I realize that I thought winning would make people love and respect me.

If I just got perfect grades, people would think I was the smartest.  If I won the 400m and lowered my time by a second, I would be the fastest.  If I was the best, people would love me, and those who already loved me would love me more.

I could be great, a superkid.

I never thought the above in the most clear of terms, but I have always relished the triumph of momentary excellence.  But excellence isn't everything, neither is triumph.

Don't you know child that the only great one is God?  And your successes are but dust?

All flesh is grass, and all its loveliness is like the flower of the field.  The grass withers, the flower fades, because the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass.  The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever. --- Isaiah 40:6-8

If I throw away my trophies and awards a few months after I receive them, I doubt God cares much for them either.

I should remember that Jesus died for me, the fleshy sinner, stripped of all my masks and honors.  His love is that strong and unfathomable.

If I spent less time during board games caring about the score, maybe my loved ones would know how much I loved them.

Scrabble scores fade, love endures forever.

the provider

I am always slightly embarrassed when asked to name an attribute of God, mostly because I'm afraid of it sounding too basic, or because naming connotes understanding... and often I don't understand.

God is holy.  God is love.  God is just. 

Sometimes these ideas are too abstract, it is easier to understand an attribute of God when we have some story to go with it.  An example of His faithfulness, justice, or loving-kindness in our lives makes it easier to understand what type of God made us... powerful, but good and merciful.

I talk about God in the abstract all the time, but lately, I have been understanding an abstract God in a very concrete way.

My God is faithful, and He provides.  He is the Provider.

Sometimes we shy away from this aspect of God, fearing that we will turn into money-grubbing wolves that rub our buddha bellies hoping for health, wealth, and happiness.  That would be a mistake.

On the other extreme, we forget that God does not leave us alone to fend for ourselves in the world's unstable economy.  He cares for the sparrows, and He cares for us.

I have been reading Genesis lately, and I was asking for a new revelation.  I have read it so many times, I feel like I could recite the stories verbatim (okay, not quite).  It felt dry, like a story told a few too many times.

Then I started thinking about Joseph.  Through the most terrible of circumstances, God provides for him.  He is betrayed and sold into slavery by his brothers, bought as a servant, rises to high position, is accused of raping the master's wife, and then thrown into jail.  

Eventually Joseph gets out of jail because God helps him interpret dreams, and he becomes second only to the Pharaoh in Egypt.  

God brings his brothers to him because of a famine, and he is ultimately reconciled and reunited with his family.

When Joseph forgives his brothers he knows that God is the one who take care of them, 

"But now, do not therefore be grieved or angry with yourselves because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life." --Genesis 45:5

A story betrayal, prison, and famine doesn't exactly sound like a story of provision.  But it was, and it stands out as one of the most incredible stories of God's providential care in the Old Testament.  If you haven't read it, I encourage you to check it out.

Despite the assurances of Scripture, lately I have worried.  I am finishing school. How am I going to start paying off loans, paying for insurance, etc?  I become focused on the necessity of a job, and forget to ask for one.

Maybe God will make me wait, maybe not... can I trust the Provider?

I don't know if I understand all of this yet.  I know many starve, and many feast.  The rain falls on the just and on the unjust.

But I do know that God has taken care of me up until this point in my life, spiritually and physically.

Can I trust that He will continue to do so into the unknown?

Someday I may be hungry.  I may be driven from my home.  I may be betrayed.  But what I do know is that God can decide  to provide for me, like He provided for Joseph and his family in spite the worst of circumstances.

"Or what man is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?  Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent?  If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!" --- Matthew 7:9-11

I will trust Him.  My Father is good.

thin pants

Pavarotti sings in the background, while a homeless man walks slowly over to the nearest open chair to peruse a magazine for a few hours, until the staff escorts him out the door. 

It’s routine; everyday he comes and picks up this month’s Sports Illustrated or whatever else catches his eye and reads it through as many times as he can before closing.  Mundane… yes.  Boring… maybe. But, it’s better than spending the whole night outside.

He spent the last couple dollars he begged a couple days ago, not sure what he dropped the cash on, the days start to blend together.  He has a stash of teabags he picked up from the soup kitchen; he gets free hot water from the coffee corner by the magazine shelves. 

His body aches, the chill goes right through his pants and freezes his bone marrow…they are thinner than they were last winter. 

He feels the stares, stupid high school students….maybe they’re in college, he is too old to know anymore.

He was in high school once, so long ago.  He won valedictorian before being expelled, or best smile in the yearbook.  One of those.  Whatever it was, it was a good thing.  Those kids would respect him if they knew.

The store clerk with tight pants tells him he can’t bring his bags into the café.  They don’t realize.  He went through a puddle yesterday and the wheels of his cart are frozen. 

A smiling man told him there was soup kitchen nearby and handed him a tract.  The soup kitchen’s already closed.  The tract says something about winning, at least, it had some athlete on the front.  “Sheesh,” says the man to himself, “I haven’t won a thing since valedictorian.”

People try to help him sometimes.  Most of the time they avoid eye contact.  They know he’ll ask, and they only have a twenty.

A voice crackles over the store speaker, “Please make your final selections and make your way to the register.”

Tight pants grabs the man’s arm.  “It’s time to go.”

Outside the store there is a nativity scene.  “See that shepherd over there?” says the man.

“Sure,” says Tight pants.

“That’s me.  Living off the land, living outside.  They just took all my sheep.”

“Right,” says Tight pants, dropping the man’s arm.

The man wanders with his bags towards the nativity, pauses, and then walks off toward the road.

Tight pants never saw him again. 

The man passed away during the night, it was too cold… his pants were too thin.