Restoration and Holiness, Part VII: “Mourning Into Dancing”

By 18 May, I decided that I was strong enough to devote my every action and thought and word to the Lord for a period of three days. It was going to be wonderful, I told myself—so much time to worship. It would mean suspending some Internet activities and canceling a few engagements with family and friends, but it would be a pure delight.

It would be a joy, that is, if I could only forgive…

First, I had to forgive myself. Two days before, I had said something to Hannah that I felt was in direct violation of everything I was trying to accomplish in the Lord. I had not meant for my words to come out the way they did, but I could not seem to forgive myself for having said them. And despite the fact that I had a full grasp on the Scriptures which state that God is faithful and just to forgive confessed sin, I felt unable to accept even His mercy. So, the first evening of that time of devotion was spent unfruitfully, simply waring myself out with wonderings and tears.

But then dawned Monday, 19 May. Somehow, that morning brought with it a slight acceptance of the possibility of God’s forgiveness—one tiny crack in the thick walls I had built around my heart. And then, Good Samaritan called. Now, Good Samaritan would be the first to say that she does not agree with me on most points of theology, but she seems to enjoy hearing me talk and she has been used of the Lord on multiple occasions. Several times, I have mentioned some great and pressing concern, and she has paraphrased Scripture that fit perfectly with the situation. I once asked her about this and she told me emphatically that she had no idea that what she had said was Biblical, so I can only conclude that the Lord speaks through her, for His purposes. Case in point: One day, because I had no church or fellow brothers and sisters to turn to, I remarked to her, “Something was once said to me that has crushed me in the areas of all I have ever held dear. That faith I treasure is being threatened… And please don’t tell me to just forsake the One I love!” Beloved readers, don’t try this… God used it, but it isn’t the best of ideas. I was desperate, though, for some sort of advice, and I had run out of places to seek it. Well, Good Samaritan thought for a minute and then said, “You need to take some time to just do what you’ve always done to get back in the place you need to be. Don’t listen to the lies… Grab your shield and hold on to it.” My SHIELD!? In that moment, the Holy Spirit filled me with the joy that comes from being chastened and convicted, and with a knowledge of the armor of God—complete with the shield of faith. I took Good Samaritan’s advice, and the Lord restored me.

Now, all of that had been in July of 2011. But when Good Samaritan phoned on 19 May, I thought she could help me with general forgiveness. We had gotten to that point, and I assumed that she might have some helpful thoughts. Before I knew it, though, I had not only discussed my own wrongs but brought 2006 into the discussion. You know—Two Thousand Six, that year in which I underwent spiritual distress and trauma so all-encompassing that it changed my entire outlook on the things of God. Why I brought this up with her when I had told myself I would never speak of it to anybody, I cannot now fathom. I know only that her sympathetic silence served as a sounding board of sorts—a means of helping me come to my own conclusions about God’s power to heal and my need to forgive all the anguish I had experienced in the past eight years. In that moment, the Lord confirmed again that He would help me to forgive if I was willing—and that with forgiveness would come restoration.

And that is what I held onto that day long, long after I had hung up with Good Samaritan. All that afternoon, I considered my role in failing to release the pain that had been caused those many years before. Then, too, I began reading a book entitled TOTAL FORGIVENESS by one R. T. Kendle. The author brought up some interesting points. For example, I had always believed that to forgive meant to attempt to forget as literally and completely as possible—to mask the memory, deny it, crush it, bury it, and generally suppress it with all of my frail human strength. Rather difficult for someone who remembers lying on the water bed at her grandmother’s house at the age of six months… Forgetting is not in my vocabulary, and so I must be living in unforgiveness—must I not?

Not so, claimed this joyous book. When Joseph’s brothers came to him and begged forgiveness for their mistreatment of him, Joseph did not say that he deserved to have been brought to Egypt, or that his brothers had done no wrong. Instead, he acknowledged the deed and then chose to forgive it ANYWAY which, if you think about it, is really a greater measure of merciful living than simply denying that something upsetting was ever done. “What you did was evil, but God…” Acknowledgement, filled with love and a sense of the Lord’s plan—what a wonderful new perspective! From that point on, I determined to truly forgive—that is, not to hold what others had done against me. To sincerely desire the Lord’s blessing in their lives, and to ask the Lord for strength to think of both those who had hurt me and the incident itself without anger, bitterness, or even pain—as a fact rather than a tale of woe and anguish.

As the days of dedication to God passed, I became more and more saturated in His mercy, His grace and forgiveness—and I resolved to shower all that I had received upon others. Then, too, there was an increased sense of His joy. And finally, there was Wednesday afternoon—Wednesday, 21 May, that is.

I had been in worship. Looking back, I cannot now recall what I sang unto the Lord, but I do know what the Holy Spirit ministered to me. I had read the Sermon on the Mount—had, in fact, so immersed myself in the teachings, the very words, of our wonderful Lord Jesus, that I felt closer to Him than I had since I received the baptism of the Holy Spirit. Now, I was singing unto Him with all of my heart, placing every need before Him in awe and reverence, reiterating deep within that He was all that I would ever need.

And then, to my heart, there came an incredible knowledge that the Lord would heal me, had healed me, would continue to heal me. I said in Part IV of this series that the Lord began showing me this earlier in the month, but the moments of 21 May were different. It was much like the man whom Jesus healed at the pool of Bethesda. First, He asked the man if he wanted to get well. There’s a minor parallel to what He did in my life at first, when I was given the hopeful possibility of being made whole in heart, mind, soul, and spirit again. But 21 May was like the healing itself—it was leaping and dancing, throwing my hands into the air and singing for joy, crying out in thankfulness and weeping for sheer gratitude—not quite like the man in John 5, who did not seem to comprehend the wonder of what had been done for him, but that is a theological discussion for another time.

In that instant, I knew that all my mourning, all the effects of 2006, all the painful associations I had ever accumulated as a result of the spiritual crises I had experienced, were being washed away. I was free. Whatever the Lord had given me when I first received His Holy Spirit, He had suddenly restored to me again. It was beyond words. What singing there was then, what pure and unalloyed wonder! The very fragrance of His presence permeated that moment (see II Cor. 2:14-15). I felt baptized, renewed, and filled anew, and coming away from that time in Him was like immerging from the Jordan River or some other symbolic place without bothering to dry off, just allowing that holiness to cling about me like the garment of praise that it was.

Proof of all that the Lord had told me came later that evening. In the past, I used to see a counselor in order to cope with a great deal of emotional anguish—caused, I am now sure, by the spiritual turmoil I was wearing like Christian’s loathsome burden in THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. That evening, his name came up in the conversation. Suddenly, and without giving it any thought, I found myself crying out, “Naomi, Naomi, very soon the day will come when I do not need him anymore!”

Now, those who know me understand that I am very, very quiet about certain things in the Lord—or, at least, I had been since 2006. If the Lord showed me something special either in His Word or most especially by His Holy Spirit, I might remark softly to one believer at a time, “I believe… now, we can’t know the mind of God… perhaps I’m misinterpreting here, but it seems that God may have told me… I think…” Saying something so definite—nay, proclaiming it from the rooftops as I did that evening—was so uncharacteristic that it stunned me even as I spoke the last syllable of that declaration. Certainly, if I had said something like this in the past, I would have been temporarily silenced by what Naomi said—”I pray it will be so for you soon–I really do.” But not on that precious day. There was no silence. Instead, in words that leapt over one another like gazellse in my hurry to speak them, I tried to explain: “But you don’t understand… God promised… He told me that all the mourning and sorrow were over, and He has healed me, and I won’t need to see this man anymore because He is my Wonderful Counselor!”

And what more can I say of that evening, that night? It was like being in the throneroom of God, like living in His manifest glory and presence, yet having just an iota of enough presence of mind to be able to communicate with others and go about my daily routine. It was ineffable.

That week, I asked the Lord to show me what to do with this counselor of mine. I try to serve the Lord in wisdom; I was not going to step out before Him. So, I asked that the Lord would use this man to propose our next steps—from one week to two, from two to even less than that. This is exactly what happened, and I rejoice to this day that He is strengthening me to walk with Him alone. Now, please don’t misunderstand—what I was doing was helpful, and it was used by God for a season; I am in no way opposed to it. I just know now that what the Lord is doing, He can accomplish with OR WITHOUT the help of those from whom I had formerly sought help. Rejoicing!

If I had ever harbored any doubts about my freedom in Jesus, they were all laid to rest on 31 May. I was reading Revelation that evening when I cam upon this from chapter III, verses 7-8: “The words of the holy one, the true one, [Who] has the key of David, [Who] opens and no one shall shut, [Who] shuts and no one opens. … Behold, I have set before you an open door, which no one is able to shut” (RSV, capitalization mine). I know that I am not a member of the church of Philadelphia, but in that moment, the Lord used this passage to speak to my heart. Those words were for me—a seal of sorts, a promise that what He had begun and was completing in me would not be taken away. So often, other Christians try to caution us against losing some spiritual blessing. Has that ever happened to you? You’re at a weekend youth conference and on Friday evening, not ten minutes into the service, the pastor or worship leader says something about keeping hold of God’s blessings when you return home on Sunday afternoon and going into Monday… have you ever experienced this? Well, another believer had warned me against growing faint-hearted when I was still atop my mountain, and I began to wonder. Was I going to slip, to slide, to revert to my former fleshly and faithless ways? Into the midst of all of this came that promise, and I no longer doubt that He Who began a good work in me will be faithful to complete it until the day of Jesus Christ (Phil. 1:6). He is faithful, and I have no need to fear, for if I should begin to fall, He is able to make me stand—His gifts and His calling are without repentance. Open doors.

Addendum: “Mourning Into Dancing” by Tommy Walker has been a heart-cry since December of 2004. I forgot the message, though not the song, in the intervening years. Now, the message of that praise chorus has woven itself into my very framework. “Where there once was only hurt, / He gave His healing hand; / Where there once was only pain, / He brought comfort like a friend…” The song is too beautiful to miss. It may be found on the album SONGS FOR WORSHIP: GREAT IS THE LORD. The word “for” in that album title should be represented by the number that is its homonym, but that seemed irreverent and insincere—the only thing that Integrity Music ever did wrong as far as album construction went—and I could not bring myself to write it. Now, go track down that song and rejoice with me, my beloved readers!

“Give Thanks”: The Epic Project, Wherein I Rejoice in Another Year in Jesus

Before I pen this post, allow me to say that what you are about to read is entirely Hannah’s doing. It wouldn’t have come to this were it not for that beloved sister of mine…

Back in 2011, we were doing our normal Thanksgiving things. I was rejoicing in the ways that the Lord had shown Himself to be my hiding place. We made macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes and green-bean casserole, a delicious basket of rolls… and—oh, yes—a turkey. We poured glasses of iced tea, set out plates adorned with sunflowers and I Corinthians XIII—not the most seasonal solution, but those plates were special to us—and sat at the table to pray. On the table next to my plate was the digital voice recorder. I had scarcely been without it since July of that year, and I had no intention of allowing Thanksgiving to go unscrapbooked. Well, we prayed, and then Jedidiah asked us to describe what we were all thankful for that year. Blessings were declared—we were thankful for God’s work in our lives, for each member of this exquisite family, for physical health… When it was my turn, I said:

“Last year, I was thankful for my spiritual life and that the Lord had gotten me through that year. It was so trying, and I was just determined that HE HAD GOTTEN US THROUGH THAT YEAR! and because things were looking better… that that would be kind of the end of most of our trials. I, I thought that. [Meaning: I really believed this, naively.] And this year, I’m thankful—yes, for the same thing, for my spiritual life… But I’m thankful that He has become my secret place. I’m not thankful because I think that it’s going to be the end of all trials. Maybe it is; maybe this is the last thing that we’re ever really going to have to go through… But I’m thankful that He’s going to get us through anything. I’m thankful that He’s shown me that, and that He’s taught me how to trust again. I’m thankful for the times when I had to really pray through … A plane trip that [Hannah] took when [she] went to see [an acquaintance]. … But that I didn’t have to panic about the whole airplane thing. [I am terrified of flying, and of having my loved-ones fly, but the Lord had sustained me when Hannah took that trip.] I’m thankful that He has taught me again how to trust and how to take refuge in Him—and, no, I’m not perfect at it, but I was certainly a whole lot less perfect at it last year, and all I really wanted [at that time] was for everything to go away. All I really want now is to see His glory.”

As you may have deduced from the disjointed nature of that speech and from the excessive use of brackets, I just listened to the recording of that moment and inserted a transcript of it here. Well, toward the end of that speech, everyone was embracing and weeping, so overjoyed at Who He is. After the emotion of the moment had died down, though, I was teased for quite some time because I had not done the typical minute-and-a-half cataloguing of earthly and spiritual blessings and left it at that. “You gave a speech!” “A message!” “What was that—a mini-sermon without the pastorship?” Yes, yes it was. Furthermore, I am convinced that 2011 would have been a one-time event were it not for some of the teasing. However, Hannah’s remarks have made me feel that the 2011 speech should be an annual tradition, and I have done my best to make it so ever since. Last year, I believe I spoke on being set free from a paralyzing depression and gradually restored thereafter.

I have been contemplating all of this for over a week. I plan to carry on the tradition this year, but would like to do it with deliberate umph. If I believed in the use of PowerPoint, I would create one—but I don’t, and never will. PowerPoint is for business meetings. It is not appropriate for church, because it should not be used in worship of any kind—and, at their core, these little speeches of mine are worship. So, no PowerPoint. Instead, I plan to use actual, tangible objects to illustrate my life, placing them on the table one at a time and expounding on their significance. I may also employ music.

And now, my beloved readers, you are going to be a part of my brain-storming session. Commencons!

“Back in April, 2012, I accompanied you on a number of errands. At one point, we stopped at [a diner] for chocolate malts. As I waited, I found a paper napkin. [At this point, I will reach into the bag I will have brought and retrieve a paper napkin. I will probably unfold the napkin as I talk.] Suddenly, I was caught up in what that napkin would look like if I unfolded it—how the thin, fragile paper would resemble the intricacy of Bible pages. And, oh, to think on the Word of God! For the rest of the day, my heart was enveloped in a knowledge of His presence. This, I learned, is what it is to pray without ceasing. It is possible—Paul was not employing hyperbole when he told us to do that. And for months after, the them of prayer without ceasing continued to envelop me. It was as though the Lord was taking a passage I had only ever read and applying it directly to my heart. It was shortly thereafter that I realized that my life is really comprised of themes—great, overarching ideas that characterize certain eras in my spiritual life.

“This year has been no different. First, there was the era of rest—from November of last year to early March of this year. [I have a candle decorated with four crosses. The lid, too, has a cross cut into the top, and the effect is like that of a lantern. The candle itself is highly fragrant and would detract from the food aromas that will be filling the dining area, so I will simply bring the lid, holding it up and emphasizing the cross.] There are many things in life that I am not all that good at—thinking holistically when my brain wants me to be so concrete about life, engaging in intense emotional or physical exertion and finding work a pleasure, certain types of paperwork, talking to others… But one thing I am good at is knowing how to rest. I’m good at listening to worship music in many different languages, loving the Old Covenant as well as the New, connecting mundane words and phrases with the things of God… Resting. Being rather than doing. Of course, there used to be quite a tension in my heart between what I knew I was called to do and what I felt others expected of me. The classic Mary and Martha tension—but, you know, Jesus loved them both. And gradually, I learned to do what I needed to do without tearing myself away from worship, and I learned that worship and rest comprised a glorious calling that should not be spurned. This was when I learned to devote one specific day to Him each week, and when I wrote and refinded that allegory. [The allegory is entitled “Your Grace Is Sufficient” and is present on this blog.] I’m so thankful…

“From early March to early May, the overarching theme was honesty. By this, I don’t mean simply not lying, or even just telling the truth—but a sense of purity, holiness, and sincerity that penetrates every facet of life. [I have an old-fashioned-looking glass bottle with a quaint latch and an artistic handle. I call it the Iced Tea Lantern. I will be setting it on the table, filled with iced tea. Unlike other objects, which I will be retrieving and then replacing, the Iced Tea Lantern will remain on the table—both as a symbol of something I’m still experiencing and for the practical purpose of using it as my beverage du jour.] Those were the days of writing the Alpha and Omega Project [an annotated compendiom of everything that had ever blessed me or my family]. That project required a level of sincerity that was sometimes daunting, but always exhilarating. It also served as a reminder that I have a profoundly unique perspective on life. Like the Iced Tea Lantern—you know that iced tea is a motif, that it tells a story of sunshine and clean laundry freshly warmed in the dryer and of children’s Maranatha! Recordings and of coming home from a long journey. To others, iced tea is simply iced tea. Sometimes, this has been a gift; at other times, a challenge. I call it the rosebush—both thorns and blooms. That theme of honesty embedded itself in my heart and removed any possibility of facades. I shan’t elaborate on this, but the Scripture for that theme is John 1:43-50, which describes Jesus’ interactions with Nathanael. The Lord gave me that passage in 2010, and these past few months have only served to reiterate it. Yes, I’m so thankful.

“Then, from 6 May to 6 July, there was the era of restoration. First, on 6 May, the Lord showed me that He is enough, no matter how some of His people treat me in church and such… Let’s not dwell on that, save to say that He is my shield, my exceedingly great reward. On 7 May, He promised to restore me and to heal the heartache caused by so much pain in 2006. [I will retrieve my Bible, a Revised Standard Version in a quilted cotton case, trimmed in softest lace, with a cameo affixed to it.] This Bible was given to me in 2004, when life was still pure and new… Then, I endured things that threatened to shred my heart, and I did not know what to do about them. I didn’t even think to ask the Lord for healing because, on the surface at least, I appeared fully set free. Only I knew the turmoil I continued to experience. But then, for two weeks in May, the Lord gradually began to restore me… And then, on 21 May, He set me completely free from all the anguish of 2006. [Singing while Unzipping this case to reveal a worn and much-loved leather Bible] “He’s turned my mourning into dancing again…” And I am full of joy. Every waking moment, I now spend dancing in my heart before the Lord, worshiping Him with a devotion I thought had been silenced, soaring on eagles’ wings, rejoicing in a treasure I cannot even put into words. [If I can find it in time and fix a flaw in the construction, I will hold aloft a Willow Tree carving, a girl who appears to be dancing with abandon, with her arms outstretched. I will also be placing the Bible in my lap instead of returning it to the bag—again, symbolic of something I continue to experience.] Hallelujah! I’m so thankful…

“I think I would have continued doing exactly what I was doing—rejoicing, but perhaps without as much growth—had it not been for 7 July. You all know the story: hot water heater, long and complicated days, new carpet… [Retrieving a small battery-operated water fountain, with no rocks but with enough water for the demonstration.] I was torn by all of this. For a time, I feared that I had lost what the Lord had so recently given… But then… [Now, adding the little rocks that go with this fountain, one by one until all are in place.] Then, there was a time of devotion. Of remembering anew who I am in Christ Jesus. Of continuing to read Matthew and Isaiah and Psalms. Of studying Hebrews with [Naomi] and just holding fast to the Father. Of spending that week in the Oasis, and listening to the Oasis Network [a Christian radio station from Oklahoma]. Of learning to differentiate emotional stress from spiritual turmoil. Of putting my apartment back together after having been displaced—rearranging the furniture, and allowing it to be symbolic of starting anew. Of acquiring the new sofa set and doing interesting things like recording the Phonetic Alphabet. Of writing that poem, the one about tears, cascading down… [At this point, turning on the waterfall and allowing water to actually trickle down the twists and turns in that little structure. Quietly:] Yes, I am thankful.

“And then, do you know what He taught me? He taught me about healing [displaying a container of anointing oil], and about spiritual warfare [a wooden representation of the Armor of God]. You know that I was very concerned about an impending doctor’s appointment for a time. And yet, what went on in my prayer-closet was a different story entirely. During those evenings when I drank tea and listened to the Oasis network, I was being constantly reminded of the power of the Holy Spirit. In fact, Acts II might well be the theme for all of October. That’s why we read so much of it together. [Over the past several weeks, I have been requesting recordings of specific chapters in Acts, particularly those pertaining to healing, God speaking to His servants, and othyer manifestations of His power.] This has been a time of learning anew to love, to cherish, to rejoice in, the comfort of the Holy Spirit, and to trust Him. All of this was clarified to me in what the Lord said to Hezekiah—”Surely, I will heal you.” If ever I needed this promise confirmed to my heart, it was last month—and now it is firmly etched there again, a promise for me as well as for that king of Judah. The spiritual warfare aspect of this came in when I began to remember that when we resist the devil, he must flee from us. I didn’t always trust the Lord to the extent that I should have, and sometimes I didn’t come against Satan—as evidenced from some of the things I said and refused to let go—but I began to learn, to see what it was to put on the whole Armor of God, and to call on Jesus when I was tempted. Believe it or not, Mark is full of moments that emphasize spiritual warfare. We’ll explore them sometime… And I really am so thankful.

“And now? Is there an overarching theme for this moment? Yes, there is… It is a portion of Colossians 3:3: “Your life is hid with Christ in God.” [Removing several Communion cups—a few olive-wood, some glass, some plastic, some of slightly different shapes—and one taller cup, more fragile glass, and elaborately engraved.] You may have noticed that I have been quiet, especially last week. In fact, [Hannah] even told me that I looked sad. I wasn’t melancholy then, and I’m not now. I have been quiet because [a sister in Christ] and I have been talking about what makes each of us unique. I had confided to her that I sometimes drive myself and others to distraction by some of my eccentricities. I have tortured myself for years, wondering whether I should change but constantly held by those Scriptures about honesty [tapping the Iced Tea Lantern]. Well, as [this sister in Christ] and I were discussing the ins and outs of what needed to be changed and what didn’t, the Lord filled me with the deepest possible of peace. Ever since that time, He has been guiding me through every moment of every day. It is as though He has been carrying me. And ever and always, a constant in my life and what He has engraved at the deepest level on my heart, has been the Scripture about my life being hidden with Christ in God. [Noting the Communion cups] We are all vessels for His glory, used by Him—some of us to reach those who are broken, some to give nourishment and provide leadership to those inside the church. [Holding up the one unique cup] And some of us are Mary of Bethany, called to rest and worship, made of different materials and with different adornments and of a different size… It used to bother me that I did not look like other vessels, that I did not belong to this group or that one or the ones over here [separating the different types of cups into groups]. Now, though, I have learned for myself that my life belongs to Him, that it is hidden. In Christ. With God. I wish I had more profound words to express this concept—I wish I could explain it adequately—but for now, all I know is that it is in my heart, placed there by the Lord. I know that we are all hidden with Him when we die to self, despite trials or quirks or pain or brokenness or earthly difficulties. And I know I am so very thankful.”

That will be my speech—or my presentation, however you would like to think of it. I just proofread this post while taking notes on the things I would need and the points I wanted to emphasize within each of the seven themes. It begins to strike me that perhaps this project is too vast for the Thanksgiving table. Never mind that my own food will get cold—I could live with that, and it does not concern me. However, some of this bears the undivided attention of Jedidiah and Company. I might bring it into the living room following our feast and show others what the Lord has been doing in my life—things that I have felt ill-equipped to discuss before because they were so close to my heart. However I do this, I know that it should be a joyful and celebratory project that may help to put the spiritual aspect back into this day.

Thank you for the ideas, Hannah, no matter how inadvertently you bestowed them in 2011.

Addendum: “Give Thanks” is one of those delightful songs which proclaims the Lord as all-powerful. Centered on the provision of the Holy Spirit; the grace of God the Father, Who is referred to as the Holy One; and rejoicing in the gift of Jesus Christ—absolutely beautiful! Any of the various versions by Don Moen is anointed, but I am basing this post off of the rendition from his album “Worship with Don Moen”. As far as I can tell, this album is still unavailable from the iTunes Store, but may be purchased from Don Moen’s website.

“This Is How It Feels to Be Free!”

My beloved readers, I wrote this without polish, and mine was almost a deliberate decision. I’m afraid it might not make terribly much sense, but I felt I had to write it anyway. Make what you can of it, for it is my heart, and relegate the rest to the “unique-posts-I’ve-read” section of your mind. God bless!

And now, my beloved readers, for something entirely detached from anything you’ve read recently on this blog. And–oh!–what joy and delight it gives me to be able to write it!

Today, for this post and in this moment, you don’t need an introduction. There is no need to elaborate on those parts of my life that had hitherto felt as though they were crashing down in heaps, burying beneath the rubble all that I had ever called hope and love and grace. There is no need to discuss the ways in which all the collective Marthas I had ever known were grasping hold of my wrists and attempting to drag me away from my place worshiping at the feet of Jesus–nor, really, is there any need to discuss the myriad ways in which I felt that His assurances about worshipers having chosen “the better part, which shall not be taken away from [them! Mary of Bethany! My heart!]”–no need to state that that quote had provided even me with less solace than at other times.

No, this is to be a piece disconnected from all of that. Instead, let’s focus on a words sketch of sorts.

The two pillows flanking the plush velvet chair-and-a-half provide renewed comfort and have retained their fragrance of newness even two months after I received them. In the next room, Naomi is embarking on a joyful project that fills this once-shriveled heart with exuberance. I am assured in this moment of the safety of all my loved-ones. Awaiting my use whenever I decide to splurge on luxury is a set of crisp, lavender-coloured, fine-linen sheets that always put me in mind of Psalm 139–but that’s another story. Ten minutes currently lie between me and Dennis Jernigan’s music, Communion elements, and the book of Galatians. The soothing hum of the vaporizer–essential in this inhumid moment–will provide gentle background for worship activities, but will inevitably be almost swallowed up in the peace-filled silence that characterizes the rest of the house. From the next room, a new clock will play “Amazing Grace” at the top of the hour, effectively putting me in mind of what the Lord did in my heart last night and the miracle He wrought today in a situation that seemed almost beyond restoration. Today, and tomorrow, and next month, and throughout 2015-1020, if the Lord wills, I will be able to rejoice in the creativity and uniqueness that He has given me, gently detaching myself from those who are “distracted with much serving” and focusing on the “one thing [that is] really needful” without fear. Tomorrow will be a pure, unalloyed celebration such as I have not experienced in months–an amalgomation of a few anniversaries including the day on which I got my guide-dog, the day on which the Lord Jesus taught me anew about His grace, and the day on which He led me gently out of the second-darkest valley through which I had ever walked. There will be festive amounts of lace on skirts and blouses, an elaborate gourmet lunch, a once-in-a-year dish incorporating copious amounts of portabello mushrooms for dinner, the most sentimentally-associated strawberry shortcake for dessert, seldom-indulged-in toys and treats for Natasha, the potential for a beautiful outing, work sessions that we will first sanctify before the Lord, moments of touching others’ lives with the same love I have received… Oh, it will be glorious!

“This is how it feels to be free. / This is what it is to know that I am forgiven!”

ADDENDUM: Unless the plagiarism police come after me, I’m not telling where I found that song because I want every last one of my readers to go and look it up, and that will be easier to do if you just stumble upon it. Besides, the version filling my heart didn’t come about under the direction of one Jim Cymbala (BIG HINT!), but under the leadership of the choir at one of the Victory churches I attended many years ago. Take THAT, Conventionality!

“Holy Spirit, Thou Art Welcome”

It was Saturday, 17 August 2013. All day, I had been reminded of 17 August 2002–also a Saturday, and the day on which I had very quietly received the baptism of the Holy Spirit. It was an experience so new, so unexpected yet so glorious, and so seldom addressed among the other Christians I knew, that for three months I didn’t even realize what I had received. Oh, the joy when I eventually had a name for the glory of the Lord that surrounded me on that day!

On this particular 17 August–in 2013, not 2002–Hannah and I sat on the long sofa overlooking the second-story banister. I wish I could make this piece elegant and claim that we sat on the plush, velvet, rose-patterned sofa, but that would be a lie. We sat on a burlap sofa–I kid you not–for that couch was the most economical and, it was thought, would blend nicely with Naomi’s decor. I will forever be grateful to the dipsy-dumpster that hauled that sofa away, and to the company that provided said dumpster. But on that Saturday evening in August, the sofa fabric scarcely mattered. Between us was a medium-sized packing box wrapped in brown paper. To my right was an Olympus Digital Voice Recorder. Taking a deep breath, I switched it on and prepared to use my audio scrapbooking tool to record some of the most precious twenty-two minutes, five seconds of our lives.

On 6 August, my grandmother had announced that she would be sending Hannah and I a package. This was nothing new–always an occasion for gratitude and, depending on the worship materials she sent, sometimes even for rejoicing–but nothing new. Grandma had been sending care packages of sorts ever since I could remember. Everything from a pendant in the shape of a harp and a recording of her reading a book about the Azusa Street revivals to more lighthearted items like microwaveable neck wraps and Fisherman’s Friend cough drops. Anything she thought we could use, or that she just happened to pick up at a yard sale, or that wasn’t readily available in our neck of the woods. Some of my favourite moments came when she sent what Hannah and I thought of as Log-Cabin staples–chocolate-covered cherries that she could purchase, it seemed, by the drove, and a menthol-based rub that served as the most effective homeopathic treatment I’ve ever known for aching muscles. There was never any real rhyme or reason to the packages, either. Sometimes, a handful of old cassettes would be cushioned by rubber bands and straws “because we said we needed them”. The boxes were just love–pure and simple.

Then, her log cabin burned down. This would be the last box from that cabin. Knowing my grandmother, there were likely to be other boxes–but none like this. I’m surprised Hannah didn’t set up her camcorder alongside my voice recorder–but perhaps I’m the only one who scrapbooks moments like these.

Even before the fire, Hannah and I had a special tradition. Each of us would take turns lifting items out of the box. Sometimes, one of us would get a single sock that had come loose from a neatly-folded pair; at other times, we might end up with a paper clip. No matter–it would then be the other person’s turn. So it was that I pulled off the brown paper, which we determined to save for the sheer fragrance of it all. Then, Hannah took her first item from the unwrapped parcel. It turned out to be a series of interesting newspaper and magazine articles–Reader’s Digest, the Saturday Evening Post, things like that. We promptly recorded these before continuing to make our careful way through the box.

The next few items were so unique to the two of us–a hat for my sister, who loves to place all manner of accessories on her head, and a pair of leather slipper-moccasins for me lest our cold linoleum floors overwhelm any semblance of calm for my poor feet. Have you any idea what the fragrance of leather combined with that of antiques can do for the heart? Learn, my beloved reader–now is the time to learn.

These were followed by The Bouquet–some crushed and preserved flowers from my grandmother’s garden, carefully inserted into a tiny ceramic vase adorned with a spun-glass rose. The accompanying note invited Naomi to take this gift, but Naomi said she had no place for it and told me that I was welcome to it. “Brickabrack,” she called it. “Knickknacks,” I amended. And there are very, very few material items I enjoy more than apparently-impractical knickknacks. That vase is much too small to hold actual flowers save those pressed lilacs, which were already in disarray by the time they reached us–so now the vase serves as a repository for jewelry I wear every day but must, for any reason, remove.

What Naomi couldn’t cherish in the rose vase she more than made up for with her delight in some stationery that lingered somewhere toward the bottom of the box. Not any ordinary stationery, mind you, but fine paper bearing sunflowers. Sunflowers have always been symbolic of Naomi’s life in the Lord–just as they grow tall and strong, always turning toward the sun, so Naomi has also grown steadfast through the many trials in her life, turning her heart toward the Son. So, sunflowers are promise and glory and joy and peace, and my grandmother is well aware of this. She might as well have sent Naomi a little placard with John 10:10 on it and a picture of the Good Shepherd holding a sheep. Don’t you love silent, symbolic conversations that go far deeper than words?

And then, the clincher, at least for me–the emblem of all poignancy, of every drop of sorrow and sweetness that had culminated since the fire. Nestled at the bottom of the box was a pure, beautiful handkerchief. Now, you must understand something about handkerchiefs in our house. We do not, and never have, used them for their intended purposes. Instead, they have become prayer cloths. I think the tradition began when I was a newborn. When I was less than a week old, I was diagnosed with a rare protein disorder; I am one of twelve in the world who have it, and it’s been a bit of a rollercoaster, especially when I was young. Anyway, a precious prayer warrior had read Acts 19:12, which describes handkerchiefs and other articles being carried away from Paul to the sick, and that they were healed of their infirmities. Accordingly, she anointed a tiny piece of cloth–not a handkerchief, really, but just a scrap of linen fabric–and prayed over it, asking the Lord to heal me. At the time, my grandmother was staying with my parents and I, and the three of them found a teddy bear and a strong, sturdy safety pin and affixed the cloth to the bear. Although healing was not instantaneous, the Lord did save my life–I was not expected to live beyond two months. I still believe, with every fibre of my being, that He is able to heal me completely, and I trust Him for that healing and thank Him for it every day. So, that cloth came to represent a precious promise–not physical healing only, but God’s love, protection, peace, and faithfulness. I still have that original cloth, by the way–the safety pin is different, the cloth itself has survived many moves and become awfully tattered, but it is now fastened carefully to a pillow I use daily.

The handkerchief tradition didn’t end there. Now, we saturate them in frankincense and/or myrrh, or sunflower-scented perfume, or the perfume we bought on the day when we first discovered some profound truth about the Holy Spirit… Then, we wait for an appropriate occasion–a day on which the Lord showed us something new about Himself. A minor or major anniversary, if you will. Examples: the time I became truly free following a dark valley in 2007; the day I knew that I was altogether restored in 2013; the day I made a promise within myself to live a deeper, fuller life of holiness in the Lord. And then, we take those beautiful handkerchiefs (or, in a pinch, those swatches of velvet that we happened to find in among the craft or sewing supplies), and put them someplace: pinned to bedsheets or pillows or quilts, pressed between the pages of our favourite Bibles, tucked into the pockets of Bible covers, secreted away in jacket pockets, wrapped around voice recorders or other caseless electronics… I write “we”. In reality, who else do you know who uses a caseless recorder or has seven pillows to attach handkerchiefs to? So… The handkerchief tradition is mostly mine, although Naomi and Hannah have participated on occasion. And, yes, I remember exactly what each handkerchief symbolizes and why I placed it where I did–usually down to the date on which I made a tactile reminder of some joyous anniversary.

Back to the box. My grandmother’s handkerchief wasn’t just “any old hankie”. Instead, I made immediate plans to use the same sentimental tactics as at other times. No need to add scent to this one; Grandma’s house in and of itself is its scent. To myself, I said, “16 August 2013: Grandma’s life was spared, and I remembered anew the grace of God, and how wonderful my life truly is in Him. Joy and peace”. And then, I planned to seal this particular handkerchief in a bag–creased and folded so beautifully–and then to tuck it into the lace-trimmed pocket of the Bible case she sent in the package penultimate to this one.

Ah, the Bible case. It came in July, and my grandmother–bless her heart–was so profoundly excited about it. Her theory was that I could use it for the print Bible I carry as a reminder of God’s ability to heal, and as a repository for all the notes, dates, highlighting, and underlining I can’t inscribe in my twenty-volume Braille Bible. But, you see, I already had a Bible case–lace-trimmed, made of white quilted cotton with a sturdy zip fastener, a pocket for handkerchiefs and such, and a metal cameo pin affixed to the outer flap. More symbolism, but that’s another story. This new case was… nice… but that was about it. MY CASE was a promise; this one was simply… lovely. Pink quilted cotton, also lace-trimmed but without the gentleness of the silk-fibered lace of MY CASE, no zip closure… The thing was at once too practical and too fragile. It could not carry my print Bibl. Thinking I should keep it as a remembrance of Grandma’s love in the Lord, if for no other reason, I relegated it to a bureau drawer–a symbol, but not something I would use every day.

How wrong I was! Three days after my grandmother sent the discarded case, Holy-Hands came, bringing Pastor’s old Bible–the one he had used all throughout his ministry. You think I’m bad about highlighting I Chronicles 1:7, just because it’s part of Scripture and for no other reason! Multiply that sort of thinking tenfold, and that’s Pastor’s Bible. However, this Bible is extremely fragile. It’s only been in use for, say, seventy years, but the care with which it must be handled is more reflective of a twelfth-century treasure. Ordinarily, a cotton-quilted, lace-trimmed case would not be the place for a Bible belonging to someone like Pastor, but you must understand what I was doing in making this decision. To begin with, for the first and only time in 2013, I was making a practical judgment call–fragile item must be protected, somehow, and we don’t have thirty Bible covers floating around. The other consideration was purely sentimental–my grandmother and Pastor have shared a special bond over the years, and their hearts for the Lord were the same, or complemented one another. It somehow seemed fitting that Grandma’s strong, practical love and Pastor’s gentler, more theologically in-depth love should be side-by-side.

What is my point? Well, um, it’s a little hard to condense at the moment… I suppose, if pressed, there are three points to the piece of writing that I have named the Parcel Post since I began it on 4 January.

I. Love the Holy Spirit. Adore, worship, and glorify the Holy Spirit. So often, we praise the Father and the Son, as well we should, but tend to forget the comfort, peace, and power of the Holy Spirit. Let’s do something about it!

II. Cherish the details in life. Cherish the handkerchiefs and bedroom slippers and pressed lilacs. Embrace the smile they bring to your face and the poignancy they plant in your heart.

And, if all of this isn’t quite enough to convince you that this piece did, after all, have a point…

III. Some posts don’t need a concise little point. At least once a year, fellow writers, pen something that has no discernible premise and no determinate conclusion. It will be good for your sentimental cortex.

Addendum: I’m entitling this post “Holy Spirit, Thou Art Welcome” because, for the first time, I have felt entirely free to write of the Holy Spirit in a way I have felt compelled to do for months, but which I never had the courage to act upon. The version I’m envisioning is from Don Moen’s album, HEALING. Let us, oh, let us, welcome more and more of the Holy Spirit in our lives!

“We Will Serve the Lord”

Do you know what I have hated, loathed, detested, despised–ever since I was eight? The television. That buzzing little box was my mortal enemy. If this were a fictional account rather than a memoir-sketch blog, I would classify the television as an antagonist, or an outright villain.

Members of the National Federation of the Blind, listen up. I am not giving the visually-impaired community a bad name by admitting this; it is a personality trait and related much more to a series of traumatic experiences than to a simple complication known as bilateral retinal detachment. Members of the general public, you listen up, too. In layman’s terms, all of this translates to the fact that I don’t, and never did, loathe the television because I happen to be totally blind. I dislike that device because it is not intellectually stimulating; because the raw emotions expressed in many shows either remind me of my own difficult past or seem to make light of serious situations; and, above all, because the television has come to symbolise profound loneliness and isolation over the past two decades. Instead of interacting, of playing board games or reading the Bible together or preparing meals side by side, most of my friends and family had screen-related concerns, be they sportsball games or crime shows. Even popcorn, because it is associated with movies and television, takes on a bleak air. And, that device is NEVER, under any circumstances, “the TV”. We award nicknames and acronyms to items of which we are fond, and to designate the television using initials would fabricate an affection that I do not harbour. Even frozen meals are not “TV dinners”, but recreational meals.

January always seemed to be the worst timeframe, as far as television was concerned. January, 2001: Sportsball, right alongside a very serious crisis that is too personal to print. January, 2002: a new move to a new little apartment, complete with television, ostensibly to pass the time. January, 2003: extensive television, albeit some of it of an evangelical nature. NOTE: Pastors who happen to be broadcasting their messages onscreen do not count. January, 2006: Super Bowl snackage and a very lonely Ready Writer on the sidelines. January, 2007: loud programmes of every description, right alongside the worst spiritual valley I have ever endured before or since–not related to television-watching, but associated in my own heart and mind nevertheless. January, 2009: see above. January, 2013: more words spoken electronically than by active human voices in the home, right alongside the second-worst spiritual and emotional valley I have ever experienced.

What is my point? Not bitterness–trust me, this post goes far deeper than an angry polemic. And, to all you Christian readers out there, not superstition. Just because many Januaries have featured isolation and television does not mean that I find the first month of every year responsible for the phenomenon–merely that people get “more relaxed” in the middle of winter, and that many of our more difficult times happen to have taken place then. I simply catalogued all those January television experiences to illustrate the fact that my memory doesn’t function the way most other people’s does, and it never has. You see, it isn’t just television I remember dates for–I can tell you the exact date on which Naomi shared her hot cocoa recipe with the rest of us, the date of a routine dental appointment in 2003, the date on which I acquired most of my music collection, the last time I enjoyed fettuccine alfredo, and exactly what time I woke up yesterday morning (4:36, if you’re curious.) I can describe in vivid detail what happened on 20 February of last year–very routine things. Hannah took me to a doctor’s appointment, we went to the mall for a much-needed neck massage and some less-needed bath salts, and I recorded an audio-journal entry about Naomi’s health. All of this became clear, vivid, and intense shortly after I received the Holy Spirit, but I can see vestiges of the trait even before then; by the time I was eight, I could remember on what days of the week my birthday and Christmas had fallen, and could name the day of the week on which they would fall next year. Going even further back, I remember learning to talk. One of the first things I did when I had enough vocabulary to string sentences together was to remind my parents of incidents that had happened months or even a year or two before, when I was barely a toddler–dreams, bathtimes, the scents of the grocery store, old toys, overheard conversations, you name it!

Until recently, I thought everyone’s mind worked this way. I used to belong to an online writing group and can, to this day, remember nearly every piece of authorial excellence I ever read there. One day in 2010, I met one of these wonderful writers for Mediterranean food and referred casually to something I had written two months before. She had no idea what I was talking about, though she had quite obviously read my little piece at the time. I tried to jog her memory with a few keywords, but she was stumped and probably came away with the impression that I was quite egotistical if I expected her to remember everything I had ever written. Embarrassing? Absolutely! I had only mentioned the piece because I didn’t want to repeat information she had already read because, I reasoned, everyone could remember everything they had ever read, complete with the exact wording…

Sometimes, this excessive remembering gets me in trouble. Once something is planted in my mind and especially my heart, it stays there. This has caused many people to assume I don’t forgive them–if I forgave, then I would forget, right? Not really. Once, back in January of 2007, we all got up in bad moods and someone snapped at me about the thermostat. Very, very minor in the scope of life. I remember that incident to this day–not with bitterness or pain, though that took me quite some time to get over, but because I feel it imperative to remember what was said about the thermostat until or if the heating standards change. It isn’t that I don’t forgive, it’s that I don’t seem to be created in such a way as to enable quick forgetting.

Another thing: My brain doesn’t differentiate between long-term and short-term memory. Everything is lumped together in such a way that the song I sang in church this morning is just as easy to recall as the evening before my little sister was born, back when I was two-and-a-half. This morning, I awoke when Natasha needed to be fed; one day when I was four, I awoke to hear my mother sing out that she had recorded several audiobooks on tape. Today, I went for a little walk around the neighborhood; one day in 1992, my blood levels were too low and I stayed home from school, but my mother and I managed to get a walk in and to enjoy the magnificent fragrance of neighbouring pine and juniper trees. Today, I used white lilac Camille Beckman hand lotion; when I was eight, my mother gave me a tiny sample of her face cream to try just so I could experience the silken smoothness of it all.

Sometimes, though, this sort of thing works against me. On 4 December 2013, Naomi experienced a severe migraine. After going to check on her, I passed someone in the kitchen. This person’s actions triggered a heart-rending memory of 25 February 2010, when a fellow Christian seemed to be rebuking me in the Lord. At once, it was though I were reliving the experience–not remembering it, but experiencing it all over again. It was impossible to escape, and I spent the rest of the day in tears.

What, you ask again, is my point? I’m getting there, my dear reader, I’m getting there. Over the past year-and-a-half, I have come to recognise how rare this way of thinking is. A bit of research yielded the term hyperthymesia, which is derived from Greek words meaning “excessive remembering”. This is the scientific term for my thought processes, but before any of you suggest that I enroll in a formal study, I must emphatically declare that this was a gift given to me by the Lord and meant to be used as a gift, and as something to overcome when it presents challenges. This is between me, the Lord, my family, a special person in my life whom we shall designate Good Samaritan, and my blogging community.

Ever since I returned from guide-dog training, I’ve attempted to explain it to my close friends and family. I wasn’t sure whether anyone really understood, though. Most of the time, I still got the impression that people thought I had cultivated this way of thinking, and/or that I wasn’t a good forgiver, etc.

Until today.

The turning-point came so unexpectedly that I almost put up an unwitting barrier against it. All day, the television had been on. At least it didn’t buzz anymore–we had just purchased a newer model. Sixty Minutes was on. I’m not sure whether I should be spelling out that number or using Arabic numerals, but I’m frankly too lazy and tired to research the matter. Anyway, I was tolerating it–it was better than a crime show, something featuring an obnoxious laugh track, or a football game. Suddenly, Jedediah remarked, “Here are some people like you! People with extraordinary memories, or something.” Even then, I wasn’t so sure I was interested. Watching the segment wouldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know…

Sure enough, the show featured a study that had been performed with some fifty subjects, all of whom seem to have thought processes similar to mine. The only difference is that most of these people associated dates, emotions, etc. with political events or those related to popular culture, whereas I tend to make firmer associations with things involving my spiritual life. Everything else, though, rang so true that Jedediah, Naomi, Hannah, and I spent the entire twenty minutes laughing and learning. The most poignant, joyous moments came when I would explain something and one of the interview subjects would back me up a few minutes later. “This time last year was a really bad time for me,” a little boy might say, and Hannah would turn to me and say, “I’ve heard you say that before!” All those dates that I recall with ease–these subjects were using the same exact schema! Best of all was the discussion of emotions. Subject after subject explained that they couldn’t simply forget difficulties, and that when they remembered various traumas in their lives, it was like reliving the whole thing. “I can’t make it fade,” they said over and over again. I echoed their words, or they echoed mine–sometimes, I would say something only to have it backed up not ten seconds later. Toward the end of the segment, some of those interviewed were asked if they would trade this ability–this wondrous gift, this terrific challenge–for a typical memory. Their statements mirrored my own: collectively, we wouldn’t relinquish this way of thinking for the world. Despite the accompanying hardships, it’s far too precious to surrender.

By the end of the segment, we were all hugging and laughing and acknowledging and understanding. I did not cry–I had long ago become too brittle in this area to expend the luxury tears–but my heart wept for joy. Naomi admitted that she used to wish that I would “just stop”, would simply forget difficult things and go on, but that she understood things so much differently now. Jedediah, who had really had little inkling that any of this was going on, said that he had been educated all-around. My moment with Hannah came later. She was sitting at the computer, recounting a misdemeanor she had committed when we were children and that plagued her to this day. “Hannah,” I said, “I have hyperthymesia. You don’t. Now, forget it!” It’s such a privilege to be able to laugh with a kind, good listener and one of the most understanding human beings on the planet.

All of this has made me feel washed clean. I had always known that I was different, but surely not so different that absolutely no one thought the way I did worldwide. Now, I have proof–and, much more than that, I have the love, understanding, and support of the three people who mean the most to me. What my research and litanies couldn’t do, this miniature documentary did with aplomb. Even now, I’m stunned by the breakthrough we have all experienced. It’s going to be different now–a greater tolerance for my little eccentricities, but also a greater openness on my part and a willingness to accept that other people don’t process life the way I do. At the risk of appearing over-dramatic, I believe that the Lord put that show in our path today and that He gave us the wisdom to watch it.

Now, I have one more date to slide into the filing cabinet of my heart–the cabinet that doesn’t have a drawer or compartment for discarded or seldom-used data. Today, for the first time I can ever recall, the television was used to bring us closer, to close a chasm that had been widening for many months, and not for the desolate purposes that I had always associated with its presence in our house. There is no way I can know how I will feel in a few months from now, but today, in this moment and for the first time, I am exceedingly fond of the TV.

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Addendum: The title for this post is from the song by Rick and Kathy Riso entitled “We Will Serve the Lord”. The chorus seems appropriate to this post: “Hand in hand and heart to heart, / Together in the Lord, / We will serve each other, / All in one accord. / Father, mother, sister, brother, / We have been restored. / United as a family, / We will serve the Lord.” Yes, we are, and yes, we will.

“I’ll Still Choose to Worship You”

All right, all right–so this post is extremely long. However, I make it a point to write only what I myself would want to read. If someone else, on another blog, posted something of this length but made it clear that the writing would be detail-oriented and Christ-centered, I would read it. That doesn’t mean that you must read this post–it only means that I’m aware of what I’m doing and conscious that it may not be everyone’s cup of tea. I write for my readers–but then again, sometimes I write simply to thank the Lord. If He wills, I will try to discuss my blogging purpose–and perhaps the art of Christian writing in general from the viewpoint of the Ready Writer at some point in the near future. Meanwhile, enjoy!

At the time of this writing, it is nine thirty-six PM on Tuesday, the thirty-first of December, two-thousand thirteen.

When I said something about the date to Hannah and Naomi, I was met with incredulous laughter and endured five minutes of teasing about how Everyone-Else simply referred to New Year’s Eve. Everyone-Else, you know, is spoken of so frequently that I have begun to convince myself that he is a person, a proper noun at the very least, and deserves the honour of capitalization–particularly since I’m not always particularly adept at following the rules set forth by this nagging, mysterious, exacting Everyone-Else, Esq..

Yes, to you it is New Year’s Eve. To me, it is the thirty-first of December. Why the defiant lack of conventionality? Before I answer, allow me to say that I may come across in the next few paragraphs as a slight stick-in-the-mud, and all readers who enjoy making mud-pies had better vacate the premises or beware of the twig they may encounter in their imaginary gourmet concoctions. Or not. If said mud-pie makers understand that I am approaching life from my point of view, recounting my own personal experiences and not attacking them, their celebration methods, or this all-American tradition of ours, then perhaps I won’t be seen as such a stick-in-the-mud after all, but more like a little sapling planted in ground that just happens to be somewhat sodden from recent inclement weather.

Now, on to my explanation. I don’t classify this day as any different because, frankly, it simply isn’t that big a deal to me. I don’t make resolutions because I can’t possibly know God’s timetable, and how can I ever say what will happen tomorrow or the next day? “Therefore, take no thought for the morrow, for the morrow will take thought for itself.” Besides, what can I resolve to do? A healthier diet, a more rigourous exercise programme, a cleaner house, a determination to do more cumulative good deeds, a self-made promise to work with my guide-dog more attentively, a miniature vow to focus more and daydream about worship music less–these are all externals. If I think of my home as a place to share the Gospel, I will keep it clean without a resolution; if I allow the Holy Spirit to produce fruit in my life, kind words and deeds will be the natural result. First cleanse the inside of the cup or dish, and then the outside will be clean as well–not perfect, but cleaner, and both inside and outside will be more reflective of the glory of Christ. And so, I do not make resolutions for two-thousand fourteen. All right, all right–even I know that that kind of writing will drive all my readers to distraction. Hereafter, 2014. Moving on…

Whether I complete this post in thirty minutes or three hours, I plan to spend some time in worship, then go straight to bed–the midnight hour is for resting or for Jesus, but not for the staying up of it all. Several months ago, the Scriptures which state that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit and that we are to be holy and live to honour the Lord even in our bodies were all impressed upon me with a profundity I could no longer ignore; consequently, I have been trying to eat more Biblically, as it were. It’s such a delight to me that I will probably pass on snack platters of sausage and cheese, opting instead for a delicious lunchtime bowl of lentils. I want to serve the Lord my God better and better in heart, mind, soul, and strength–to love Him with my “very”. (For more on loving the Lord “with all your very”, which is the way the original Hebrew reads, you may wish to peruse Lois Tverberg’s excellent book, WALKING IN THE DUST OF RABBI JESUS.) To serve Him as I long to do, I may pass on the football game that will accompany the snack platters and enjoy some time listening to the Keswick Praise worship team. This means that, if the Lord wills, I may be writing tomorrow–not about 2014, but about something random and unrelated, like gift of miraculous physical healing as compared with the Lords slow refining of our inward being, or the moment of worship I experienced on 2 December, or the absolute joy of resting in Jesus, or the various delights of Resurrection Day (never mind that it’s the wrong time of year entirely). All, of course, rather comically unrelated to the subject popularly at hand.

So, if I don’t make resolutions, don’t stay up until midnight, don’t eat New Year’s Day snacks, don’t watch televised games, don’t “ooh” and “ahh” over fireworks, and don’t even write the date conventionally, then what do I do? Will this day slip by me unnoticed? Does it mean nothing to me? No, dear reader–this day means so very much to me, just like every other day the Lord gives me to rejoice in Him. “This is the day that the Lord has made,” proclaims Psalm 118:24. “Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Today, more than being the eve of a corporate holiday, is a day to celebrate, to thank the Lord, to love and serve and worship Him.

That said, perhaps I can meld my philosophy with your conventions. What has the Lord done for, through, and in me over this past year? While the answer would fill volumes, perhaps some of it can be reproduced here:

* * *

January, 2013: Not much to report. The month of January was still characterized by a spiritual desert through which I had been traveling since 30 August. Solomon had it right when he wrote in Proverbs 18:14, “A man’s spirit sustains him in sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?” I had endured far greater physical turmoil by the world’s standards and had sailed through it on a sea of glorious peace, but January, 2013 was still seeing the fractured state of my heart, and I could scarcely eat a meal without falling to pieces.

Only one day even began to touch the pain. I had gone to see my hematologist for a routine exam, but she ordered a number of tests that were anything but routine. This in itself was unnerving, but then, several nurses all had trouble drawing the required labs and inserting an IV. I’m almost ashamed to admit it now, but I became hysterical–not so much from the pain as from a terror of what might happen next. If they couldn’t insert an IV, then they couldn’t run a CAT scan with contrast; if no CAT scan, then I might be treated for a condition from which I wasn’t suffering or sent home without being treated for a condition from which I might be suffering. And so, I panicked. No matter what I was told, I could not control the tears and screams that overtook me–and any sort of relaxant was out of the question, as relaxants had only ushered in even greater trauma in the past. Right in the middle of this crisis, a nurse approached me and said simply, “Sometimes, singing helps during times like this.” True–singing keeps the singer taking deep breaths. And then she continued, “What do you like to sing?” By this time, I was so terrified that I likely couldn’t have told you my name or here I was. I could have told you that I was a Christian, but I’m not sure I would have, for beneath all the anxiety lurked shame at not having been a calmer servant of God. Now what was I to do? To admit that I loved, cherished, clung to worship music–at a time like this!–I had already tarnished my witness for Christ to such an extent that I feared she might never listen to the Gospel again if I mentioned that I followed Him. I couldn’t be dishonest and deny my Lord, though, so I tried to throw her off-course. “I like all music by Don Moen and Bob Fitts,” I replied, thinking that she would have no inkling of those worship leaders and walk out of the room, dismayed at my preference for obscure music. Instead, she shocked me by drawing the other half of the Ichthys I had drawn in the sand, so to speak. “God will make a way…” she began tenderly. “God will make a way, / Where there seems to be no way. / He works in ways we cannot see– / He will make a way for me…” So, she knew all about Don Moen, who penned that worship anthem following the tragic death of his sister and niece.

So, yes, that was my January–one holy moment, much strife, but a gentle promise somewhere in my spirit that I would soon be free from the anguish that kept me in such misery.

* * *

February, 2013: Absolute glory! Peace! Joy! Surrender! It was on 17 February that the aforementioned gentle promise was fulfilled. By this time, I had almost given up waiting and hoping and praying, but thought I would dedicate one more weekend to seeking His face and His presence through fasting and prayer. By this time, everyone I knew was beseeching me to “just give anti-depressants a try”. The story is one for another post, but I kept resisting well-meaning pleas because I felt then, and feel now, that the Lord did not want me to take that course. So, fasting and prayer were my only remaining option.

Three days of supplication, one worship album, two chapters of a devotional book on rest, and I was soaring on wings like eagles. For the first time in many, many months, I was again able to read Revelation. The joy was so intense that it was almost like the day when, over a decade before, I had received the baptism of the Holy Spirit. Victory and triumph! In a matter of ten minutes on that seventeenth day of February, all that had been broken in my heart and life was completely restored. Meals I would not have been able to eat the week before were now delectable; worship music whose intricacy had physically hurt my ears was now so beautiful I could have spent all my days and nights in those green pastures.

And the freedom didn’t go away. It only got more and more beautiful. As days became weeks and weeks turned into months, I found that I could remember Scripture that had long been buried beneath sorrow. No longer did I mourn, no longer did I weep. Evenings were spent not in tears, but in learning how to worship again. A skeptical reader once saw this experience summarized and posted on another site and implied that she didn’t feel that this time of rest would last. In response to the question she posed in March–am I still in that place? Do I still rejoice in 17 February’s freedom? Oh, every hour… I could not now be writing unless I were still in that place of freedom, for I don’t write when I feel down-trodden. Writing is a gift I have been given solely to glorify God, and I fear I might misrepresent His Word if I write when I feel discouraged. So, commenter at my former writing community, yes, I am free–and I praise the Lord always for that freedom!

* * *

March, April, and May, 2013: Have you ever experienced church? Not, “Have you ever attended church?” Most of my readers would answer the latter question with a resounding yes, and would likely find my inquiry somewhat silly besides. No, that’s not what I mean. I want to know whether you have ever been completely disillusioned with most of the churches in your area, attended a church function under the guidance of a spiritual mentor, and found yourself so blessed that you could scarcely contain your joy. I want to know whether that church you so reluctantly attended introduced you to a piece of worship–music, prayer, something in a sermon, a new way of taking Communion–that you held in your heart for days and weeks to come. I have. The event was a hymn-sing, the church was affiliated with the Assemblies of God, and the piece of worship was “Sunshine in My Soul”.

Those months were times of learning. During them, the Holy Spirit taught me to trust Him again, to rely on Him completely regardless of circumstance, and to devote my life to serving Him. You see, six-month valleys can take a toll on how we serve the Lord, despite our best efforts and intentions. I had to relearn to read Scripture and internalize it, to listen for His voice and obey His guidance, to enjoy worship music album by album rather than five minutes at a time… I had to learn that, when the Lord promised to heal a minor medical difficulty that Naomi was experiencing, He would do what He said He would. Naomi, by the way, was fine.

However, I also had to learn that God is God, all-powerful and all-knowing, on 15 April–the day on which Hannah was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I didn’t understand. Hadn’t all trials somehow been eliminated? (I don’t know how I justified that doctrine from Scripture, where it clearly states that the Lord will be with us THROUGH and IN the fire and flood, but you must understand that I was still learning how to stand in my newly-acquired freedom.) At that time, I experienced much anger and denial and almost shut down completely. All I had to hold on to, spiritually, were a promise from Psalm 126 and the hymn that kept floating through my mind. Psalm 126 was most comforting: “He who goes forth weeping … will come again rejoicing.” It was a direct promise from our loving Lord that He would piece even this back together if I would trust Him, and that Hannah’s diagnosis would not somehow plunge me back into the valley whence I had been delivered two months earlier. The hymn was more perplexing. There I would be, putting away groceries and listening as Hannah recounted new and scary symptoms she was experiencing on this MS journey, fretting about what this could possibly mean for her–for all of us!–when, quite unbidden, lyrics would fill my heart and unconsciously pour out of me in song: “There is music in my soul today, / A carol to my King, / And Jesus, listening, can hear / The songs I cannot sing… / Oh, there’s … blessed sunshine … in my soul!” I couldn’t figure it out. Even as I was humming or singing those words, there seemed to be nothing of the sort anywhere near me–only clouds and rain–and yet, here I was, being compelled to sing about gladness and glory! The Lord used that hymn in those days to show me that, while my flesh might be wracked with pain at this new medical crisis in our lives, my spirit could still rejoice, could still love the Savior, could still celebrate His grace and rest on His Word. Or, as Psalm 30 describes it, “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

Then, too, there was the period of recovery. When Jedediah proposed a picnic lunch in a scenic park, I found it in my weary heart to take along worship music. As Hannah and I listened to Grace Community Church’s rendering of “Beautiful Redeemer”, we discussed her MS, and it really didn’t seem so bad. Or take the time Naomi and I found that we weren’t really talking or listening as well as we could. It was a long, hard road, but on 26 May, we reaffirmed our deep friendship in the Lord–so profound that it bordered on a covenant. Perhaps it would have taken less time had I accepted Hannah’s diagnosis more readily, but who am I to begin making those sorts of comparisons?

* * *

June, 2013: It was all about learning to trust God in the smallest of details. Long had I desired something that, in the scope of eternity, is really very insignificant–but, how I wanted that little proverbial knickknack! On 19 June, it was given to me, not so that I could rejoice in a simple situation resolving itself but so I could trust even more deeply in the One Who knows the number of hairs on my head.

Then, too, that month was filled with small symbols–an allegory about Naomi’s life in the Lord, a crocheted headband whose every stitch bespoke sentimentality, a bag for anointing oil that Seamstress had so kindly sewn and sent with encouragement and Agape…

* * *

July, 2013: For the first time in many months, I resolved to trust the Lord Jesus with everything I had, everything I feared, every unknown entity in my life–to include the health of loved-ones. Then it was that I was able to listen to songs about heaven again, to read Ezekiel, to pray without ceasing as in days of old. Then it was that the Lord sent us help in the form of Holy-Hands, a precious sister in Christ who, despite her own family’s illnesses and other trials, remains so steadfast that it warms your heart just to be with her for ten minutes. But Holy-Hands did not linger for ten minutes only–she stayed for a week. It was one of the most refreshing times I had experienced in years–fellowship, singing unto the Lord, reading Scriptures together, discussing the Holy Spirit… Everyone needs such a visit at least once. It was a turning-point, for I had prayed for some sort of help, someone to come and help us make sense of Hannah’s MS and other difficulties in our lives–and Holy-Hands announced her visit a mere three days later. Ever since that day, I have known, have understood and internalized, the Lord’s awesome power and His great care for each of us.

All that glory and joy culminated on 22 July and 25 July. Prior to those days, I had longed for a chance to be somewhere else–anywhere else. I was not satisfied with the city in which I lived–too few churches that really preached the Gospel–and I wanted to live in a more friendly town. I remember begging the Lord to let us move several times, pleading with Him that I just wanted a chance to start over and build community… But it was in late July that the Lord convicted me to stop asking for the chance to start over–that I could be a shining light right where He had planted me, and that I must learn to see those around me through His eyes before traipsing off to do “mission work” somewhere else. That realization came with such a magnificent knowledge of His manifest presence that there were no words to sing, to speak, to pray–no thoughts save of His greatness. Hallelujah!

* * *

August, 2013: The moments were scattered, but they were blessed. First, there was the internship I took at a local center for people with various disabilities. The center was not an ideal place to work for any length of time–staff concerns, not consumer conflicts–so the days when the Lord broke some of those barriers were absolutely wonderful. First, there was the young man who came for career counseling. While we were talking, I prayed for him, and the Lord convicted me to tell this man that I had prayed. The man’s response was emphatic–he, too, loved the Lord with all his heart. Actually, he expressed it more articulately, but confidentiality does not allow me to use his actual words. Then, there was the day when the Lord used my guide-dog, Natasha. A young girl asked, with apparent difficulty, to be allowed to pet her. I have a very, very short list of people who may pet my dog because to do so is invasive of personal space and property. But the Lord told me that this as important, so I readily said yes. Come to find out that this girl had communication difficulties, seldom ever spoke to people, and used to be afraid of dogs–that this one interaction was like a miracle breakthrough. Fellow Christians, keep this in mind before saying no to something the Lord may want you to do!

There’s more to August–something about an out-of-state journey to see family, about an early morning in a hotel room, about worship music and angels… But that account is so precious, at least to me, that it must be saved for another post.

* * *

September, 2013: “Arise, My Soul, Arise”. Another magnificent hymn-sing, this one even more Spirit-led than the one in April had been. Two long, weary weeks of feeling separated from God because of all the busyness that was threatening to consume my life. One wonder-filled night, complete with Communion. One simple message–I may, I must, rest in the Lord–even if the world is imposing other priorities. Never again should I allow anything else to usurp my time in His Word or my knowledge of His love. Although the same ill-arranged priorities have been extended to me since that timeframe, I have never again allowed my heart to forget the verse that is indelibly etched there: “Come unto Me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Now I know, with absolute clarity, that I don’t resemble Martha the hustling servant in Luke X, but Mary of Bethany, who sat at Jesus’ feet to hear Him. That’s all right. Not everyone needs to be in a leadership position to love God and serve Him and His people.

* * *

October, 2013: First, Naomi and I betook ourselves to a Christian conference center, there to participate in a self-directed retreat. Oh, how we both needed it! Naomi was blessed by seeing so many others who loved and served God–a rarity in our community–and I could not get enough of the project we began there. If you have never read, preferably aloud, all the words of Jesus in a single sitting, you must try it. I can’t explain it fully, but it provides an entirely different perspective on His life, ministry, and great and glorious gift to mankind.

That was 7 October-9 October. On the night of 15 October, the Lord Jesus called me back to a life of holiness. He called me in a dream whose details I don’t feel equipped to describe. The message was something akin to the fact that I had been healed emotionally and set free, but that I was now to use the freedom God had given me not just to absorb and to know His joy, but to serve Him and others better. More Bible study, less moaning about insignificant problems, more worship, less idling while waiting for a free three hours, more faith, less fear. For three days, I refused to surrender–and, trust me, this was the sort of call that required a response. I was afraid to repent and tell the Lord that I would return to holy living in Him, though, because I was afraid He might ask me to do something for which I didn’t have the strength. But–oh! the peace that surrounded me when I did surrender. No to say that the rest of that month was easy–it wasn’t. In fact, it was so chockablock with emotional and medical stumbling blocks that I was tempted to give up in despair. Only the grace of God, and His command to live more fully for Him, kept me clinging as tightly as I did to His love and mercy. I didn’t know what direction my little prayer of trust would lead, but then came…

* * *

November, 2013: The changes were small, but I cherished every one. A little extra time to worship here, a decision to honour God in day-to-day life there… For the first time in months, I was able to worship the Lord in both prayer and fasting–not out of desperation, as in February, but out of simple adoration. No, this is not intended as a catalogue of days on which I determined that fasting would glorify God–the way I read the Scriptures, such discussions of fasting are expressly forbidden. I mention it only because that discipline had been missing from my life and the Lord restored it. I had refrained–refused, really–because returning to mundane life following an extensive time of fasting and prayer could be difficult. What a ridiculous reason to refuse the presence of God! And so, the privilege of sacrificing for the kingdom of God is now firmly in place again–and how glad I am to have it there!

It was on 9 November that I decided that even physical things such as what I ate and how I lived my leisure moments should be consecrated to the Lord. Does penne alfredo honour the Lord? If I plan to supplement it with a hearty serving of cheesecake, probably not. If I haven’t eaten all day and that penne alfredo happens to be adorned with broccoli, then it would be acceptable for this temple of the Holy Spirit. Not a maniacal count of calories or measure of micronutrients, since those calculations were never discussed in Scripture–just living life, living it for Him. It has been a pure delight–not bondage, but another way to proclaim God’s praise–with every bite at every meal, my heart can say, “Holy is the Lord!” A decision that posed many ramifications, since there are now things I don’t eat at all such as hydrogenated oils, but such a blessing.

* * *

December, 2013: If I were to classify months by characteristic rather than by Latin name, December would have been “Faith Month” from the second day. First came the tests–all minor, but all designed to teach a lesson. Right up until Christmas Eve, I had to trust that the Lord would provide another minor desire of my heart that, though small in the scope of eternity, seemed great in the scope of the next few months. More seriously, I underwent a medical procedure that had historically been very upsetting, but it turned out beautifully this time. Naomi wasn’t always in the best of health, and her migraines were cause for deep unrest in my heart, for, even though I knew she was going to be all right, her illness several years ago had led to someone criticizing my spiritual life and I was afraid it might happen again. Not a light matter, but certainly cause for my faith to be stretched, shaped, formed, molded, and refined.

And rewarded! You see, besides being “Faith Month”, December was also “Joy Month” and “Promise Month”. Aside from decorating the Christmas Tree–indeed, the whole house!–my family and I did things together that we had not done in years. At the same time, my times of worship and of reading Acts were producing real, tangible, flourishing fruit–not fully ripe yet, but certainly present. One day, I plastered a page of God’s promises on the wall in the corridor just above the thermostat and Naomi, who has not read Braille in many years, found it so important that she spent several moments trying to decipher my complex Braille shorthand. I saw progress on every side, fruit in the lives of every one of the people for whom I daily prayed. Christmas was a joy, and its Christ-centered, peace-filled aftermath lingers to this very hour.

* * *

What is my point in all of this? Thanksgiving, my beloved reader–pure thanksgiving. While I can’t make great, lofty, sweeping resolutions for 2014, I can look back over this past year, behold what the Lord has brought me through, and thank Him for the victory He has wrought in my life and in the lives of those around me. Then, I can trust that His care will be the same in the coming year as it has been through these twelve beautiful months with Him directing my steps. “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever”.

Many of my readers will be familiar with the fact that I title most of my posts after worship songs. “I Still Choose to Worship You” is a unique, beautiful Algerian worship anthem of about six minutes. It is available on the album “You Are the Only One”, which is currently awaiting your purchase from the iTunes Store. The song employs vivid descriptions of worship being poured out like fragrant oil from an alabaster box–calling to mind one of my favorite accounts in all of Scripture–and emphasises the need to worship Him, even when our circumstances seem bleak. “Shall we accept good from the Lord, and not [difficulty]?” (See Job 1-3). The song has elements of both joy and testing and has shaped my spiritual life this year ever since I discovered it on 26 February. I encourage you to buy it in the belief that it will prove as much a blessing to you as it has been to me–and, oh yes, in a campaign to bring more global worship music to the United States.

“There Is Sunshine in My Soul Today”

Friday, 12 April. I attend a hymn-sing with little hope in my heart, entirely disillusioned with the vast majority of all churchgoing Christians who, until recently, have been wary of allowing me into their ranks. Never mind that this is an introverted city with little sense of community anywhere; I have begun to feel personally slighted. And so, each time some well-meaning friend or family member remarks that it will be “such a blessing!” to attend this hymn-sing, I find myself battling the inner response, “No, I don’t think it is.”

Then, suddenly, the hymn-sing is upon me. This year, it is held at an Assemblies of God church–which is unusual in and of itself–and so overflowing with joy that I suddenly know what the Azusa Street revivals must have been like. Sitting in a modest folding chair, my heart falls to its knees as voice intertwines with voice. Together we sing–first, “Take Your Burden to the Cross and Leave It There”, then “Some Through the Waters”.

By this time, I have lost all inclination or ability to sing and simply allow my whole being to fill with awe in His holy presence, adoration for this King I worship.

And then, the miracle.

I grew up in and out of various congregations, being the granddaughter of a Baptist minister who later left hat denomination and became ordained as a Methodist, who believes in the active working of the Holy Spirit and has associated with many Charismatic churches over his lifetime, and being the daughter of parents who have been tremendously blessed by both the Church of God and various Calvary Chapels. The bottom line: I worship with those who love Jesus. However, that background does not lend itself to familiarization with any particular denomination’s hymnal. On top of all that, my mother grew up singing so many hymns–and hearing so many more rendered by an incoherent choir–that she seldom taught them to my sister and I.

That said, I am entirely, holistically unprepared for “There Is Sunshine in My Soul”. I have never heard the hymn before and aching crevices of my heart that I have forgotten to fill for years respond to that glorious melody with a fervor that breaks down every defense I have ever harbored. For a long time, I listen to the congregation singing–singing to the Lord, singing at me as I worship in mute wonder, singing with all their hearts:

“There is music in my soul today,
A carol to my King,
And Jesus, listening, can hear
The songs I cannot sing.”

Yes, yes… the song I can by that time not have sung even had I heard the words from infancy. My heart soars on those words, rejoicing in every nuance and every note. I thought that “Some Through the Waters” had given me a brilliant idea of true revival, but here I am experiencing something even deeper. As the congregation continues to sing of “springtime in my soul”, the glory of the Lord Jesus so fills the entire church that, like those Azusa Street worshipers in 1906–or, perhaps more appropriately, like the priests ministering at Solomon’s temple–I want to rejoice in that Shekinah for hours or days, as long as the Holy Spirit continues giving us this wondrous gift. Everything that Tommy Tenney ever wrote in The God Chasers makes sense in that moment–the desire to dance for joy, yet to kneel in deepest reverence, culminating in waves of worship that cannot be explained, let alone penned.

I have no idea whether anyone else feels as I do at that moment. Do they, too, feel the need to cease their song and break into spontaneous prayer and praise–or is their joy so great that they feel that upholding the song is the only way to express it? Or is this just another hymn-sing for most of them, this gift being a healing in my own heart that isn’t necessarily meant for everyone to share? Does anyone–the song leader, the friend who has accompanied me here, or any of the congregation–know just how deeply the Lord is blessing me, them, us, His people?

That is the miracle, Part I. Part II emerges gradually. For years, I have believed that no worship music was so beautiful as that of voices in unison. Congregational or choral music, I felt, was one way of putting into practice Jesus’ exhortation that “where two or more are gathered together in My name, there am I in the midst of them”. Now, as I remain seated in that folding chair in order to keep my service dog under control, with all the congregation standing to sing, I hear how very true that is. Voices in harmony, voices flawed but so beautiful to the One Who created them, voices of men and women and innocent youngsters, sopranos and altos, tenors and the occasional base, instruments lending their own voices to this chorus of majesty, voices of soothing peace and cracked weariness, people hungry for more of the Bread of Life… And suddenly, I can see them all through His eyes again–no longer a nameless, faceless mass of “good churchgoers” who will not let me into their ranks, but each individual a person whom our Lord Jesus loves and whom, through His grace, I too can learn to love. This is the Body of Christ behaving as it should, the family of God loving the Lord and loving each other as I haven’t seen in a long, long time.

Later, much later, I unpack from my purse a small voice recorder and attach it to my computer, open Audacity, and proceed to turn the entire experience into an album for personal use. Yes, I record church services. But that’s our secret, my beloved reader–our joyful secret, which I’ll attempt to explain in a separate post. Suffice it to say for the present that the intricacies of congregational worship are too beautiful not to be preserved if such preservation is possible; that the recordings are generally of such poor quality as to appeal only to those who were actually at the event; and that they are for my use only. From Audacity to iTunes to my iPod… A miracle preserved, and a constant reminder of the sunshine that lingers constantly in my soul!

* * *

The above was something I really should have written about four months ago, as the events were taking place. What kept me? First, my sister’s diagnosis of multiple sclerosis–but that should never have put an end to my writing, and certainly not for so long. What? Is there “Sunshine in My soul” when I’m attending a hymn-sing, but only sorrow when I face trials? And yet, the Word proclaims, “In the multitude of my anxieties within me, Your comforts delight my soul”. And, too, “shall we accept good from the Lord and not difficulty”? Yes, I should have continued to write–about all the “flowers of grace [that] appear” even during hardships, and the glory that will linger in my soul as long as I am on this earth, the more radiant glory I will experience after that time… Yes, there was much to write about.

Why am I writing this now? Because, quite frankly, the Lord is giving me grace to do so. For weeks, I had been praying for the ability to put pen to paper again, but always felt lacking in some area–either in words to express His holiness, or in content, or in perceived audience. I have long been under the notion that writing that is not read by at least one other person is not worth producing. Not true! Writers: If no one sees what you write except our heavenly Father, it is more–so much more–than enough. Anyway, I had always felt lacking in these areas–as though I had been told to build a house (to write), but did not have any materials (words) or building site (readers) or floor plan (content).

And then, today, I assembled my two closest friends and asked them if we could pray together about this problem. Again, “where two or three are gathered together in My name”… As we prayed, I felt immediately at peace about my writing-less situation. This evening, I thought that perhaps I could simply sketch an outline of what has been taking place since 12 April. As I began, though, the Lord planted in me enough joy to reconstruct the day of “Sunshine in My Soul”, which I had resolved to write months ago but had never accomplished. If He wills and by His grace, I would love to continue from there. I have so many dates to enumerate–3 June and 7 June and 19 June, 1 and 2 July, 22 and 25 July, and mayhap 4 August–so many moments in which the Lord revealed His faithfulness and mercy. Lord, may I continue this project, only and always to glorify You and to pour out the fragrant oil from my alabaster box.

Hallelujah.

“This Is the Day”

April 14. It is not a day, but a date. A day is a twenty-four-hour period of time in which the average person accomplishes a number of mundane tasks. A date is defined as above, with the exceptions that “the average person” becomes an individual, and the tasks performed are anything but mundane–a day, in fact, on which even the leather upholstery of a vehicle’s seats or a paper napkin at a diner take on significance.

And 14 April 2012 was a date. On the surface, it seemed much like other days: I ran errands with my family, had a wonderful time of worship listening to an album by Calvary Chapel, and went to bed. But, deep in my heart, that day shall ever remain with me as the Day of Prayer Without Ceasing.

I awoke with an inexplicable need for the things of the Lord. I know I always need Him, but this was special. Somehow, every activity and every word seemed infused with the thought, “I must trust God today.” Really, truly trust-just cling to His presence. And so, as I ran errand after errand, I tried to fill the time between establishments with pure, glorious worship music. I still have some idea of what I heard–certainly songs on surrender by Ginny Owens, likely Sovereign Grace Music and Hillsong, almost certainly anything I could find by Don Moen… And yet, it really doesn’t matter what I heard that day, because my entire being was focused not so much on man’s words or the joyous poetry of the instrumentation as by the absolute majesty of the Lord of Hosts. Everything in me worshiped Him.

Of course, this did cause some conundrums once we all reached our various locations throughout the day. Case in point: When my family and I all stopped for milk shakes t a local diner, I found a paper napkin at my place and immediately got caught up in thinking how, unfolded, the thickness of the napkin would be similar to the onion-skin fragility of Bible pages–so much so that a witty remark by my sister went entirely unheeded for several moments. Perhaps you think that that level of concentration was unnecessary, even silly–and perhaps “the average person” would say that I ought to have been just slightly more practical. However, at least once in one’s lifetime, I think it’s entirely necessary to experience a “silly” or impractical day.

The fact is, I had no other true concerns at that time–no pressing responsibilities or great obligations. It was a Saturday, and I knew that failure to focus on the topics at hand would harm no one and nothing, save for a witty comment or two. So, I was free to really, deeply, fervently talk to God. Most of what that day encompassed was just praise, pure and simple–giving thanks in great blessings and small, rejoicing in God’s love and grace. It was returning home and working on a writing project, all the while being filled with the peace of the Holy Spirit. It was working out later, listening to a song recorded by Calvary Chapel whose lyrics I believed I had forgotten, only to find myself singing them joyfully once again after several years on the song’s subject.

No, 14 April wasn’t a date to write in a family Bible–or, for that matter, in an individual study Bible. It wasn’t miraculous or remarkable save in my own life. It taught an ongoing lesson of trust, surrender, and worship–but many days did that. Why should I remember this one, above all others?

For a few reasons. First, I collect dates and have for years. This has sometimes startled people who come into contact with my mental calendars. A few years ago, I was struggling with some serious health concerns that had a rather profound spiritual impact on me. Long story. Anyway, I remarked to a relatively new friend, “Over the past two months, I haven’t been free from fear for a period of longer than twenty-four hours at a given stretch.” My heart was crying out,, “O Lord, how long?” (Psalm 6:3), but this friend had no idea what I was thinking and remarked, reasonably enough, “It sounds to me like you’re worrying about worrying, if you measure freedom from fear in hours.”

Oh, but it’s so much deeper than that. Years ago, about six months after I received the Holy Spirit, I was reading the book of Ezekiel when I made a fascinating discovery. Ezekiel recorded the exact dates of most of his prophesies–each time he saw the glory of God, or received a message for the people, or was commanded to demonstrate anything symbolically. Now, I am nothing like Ezekiel–well, except for a love for God!–but I had learned by that time that much of what people in Scripture did was written down for a reason. I had already amassed a vague collection of dates on which God had touched my life, but from that time onward I determined to emulate Ezekiel’s method of careful date-recording–if for no other reason than that this, too, was an act of worship. In my case, I could simply proclaim, “On 16 December 2002, I saw that God is faithful. On 17 December 2002, I saw His power. On 18 December 2002, I reread John 20-21…” And, somehow, remembering these things would be praise to the Lord I had come to love so very much.

The date of my Ezekiel discovery, by the way, was 6 January 2003.

“But why dates in the British format?” you may be asking. I wish I could say that style also harbored spiritual significance, but it doesn’t. “14 April 2013” simply looks more dignified with the day before the month and without the intrusion of a clunky and inelegant comma!

So, that is one reason I celebrate 14 April of last year–my simple propensity for collecting important dates and anniversaries. But there is also this: Until the Lord healed my heart of profound depression on 17 February 2013, there weren’t many dates to collect in my life. I trace the change with difficulty, but as far as I can estimate, my life was rather dateless from 30 August 2012 to 16 February 2013. There were no anniversaries, and looking back on other years’ victories did little for my heart. Sometimes, I tried to create occasions from my chaotic and desolate existence, but they all seemed disingenuous. So, 4 October 2004–a day on which I had received a particularly precious promise from God–went unheeded on 4 October of last year. The dates of my first time taking Communion in private, being filled with His peace following a proverbial storm, the moment He touched me when I was in the hospital once… all of these, likewise, went by without acknowledgement because I almost forgot that they had ever taken place at all. Meanwhile, I couldn’t make enough new memories to fill the void because I did not remember how to rejoice. . I couldn’t very well make a mental record of the twentieth day I had cried myself to sleep or the date on which I could no longer seem to uphold my end of a theological discussion or the occasion of my pleas for God to take me out of this valley, could I?

Frankly, I thought that there might never again be another “14 April”–another day of prayer without ceasing. There might never again be another “9 June”–a day of being fully satisfied in the love of God. So many days that might never be replicated again! So much time–and would I simply have to spend years without being able to see or know God’s presence in my life?

No, beloved reader, and that is why I celebrate 14 April today. I celebrate it because my life is full of dates again. Because, ever since 17 February–the day on which I finally decided to get a guide-dog in 2012 and the day on which Jesus led me back into green pastures in 2013–my life has been full of more anniversaries and dates and occasions than I can count. 19 February 2013: I celebrated His freedom with my sister; told a cashier about His love. 20 February: received good report from a doctor and was strengthened in my trust in the Lord. 26 February: was filled to overflowing with joy; found a new, beautiful, and very unique Algerian worship song. 7 March: met a beautiful sister in Christ and was prayed over in a glorious way that I hadn’t experienced in over a year. 20 March: received a truly exquisite medical report and was deeply convicted that I must put all my trust more fully in God. 12 April: attended a hymn-sing and was fully, thoroughly encouraged by the church as a whole. 14 April: trusted in the Lord all day; prayed about every trial I or my loved-ones encountered; saw that I could remember, acknowledge, and create all those little occasions I had forgotten about during that desert timeframe; rejoiced that I have been truly, completely restored.