Happy 14th Birthday, Caleb!




Caleb and one of his favorite birthday gifts ever: his horse Trojan.

Diagonal Parking

There are a lot of things in this flat land of cornfields that are strange, foreign, and take getting use to. One of those is diagonal parking.

I know, I know: diagonal parking is easy. When you’re first learning to drive, you wish all parking lots were diagonal and parallel parking had never been invented. The dread of parallel parking is one you never quite get over. Other parking you get use to, especially when you live in a place where straight parking is the norm. Like New Hampshire. Almost every parking lot in New Hampshire was straight on parking. I didn’t realize how adjusted I had become to that until I came to Indiana.

Straight parking is a no-brainer. You go down the row, find a place where you can pull your size vehicle in safely and do so. When you return to your car, you decide which direction is most convenient for you to back out and off you go to your next destination. Diagonal parking, on the other hand, is a safety hazard. At least it is for those of us who apparently think too much.

To diagonal park correctly, the front of your car has to be headed in a certain direction. They try to make this easy for you by painting large arrows on the pavement so you know if you can go down that row or not. Of course those arrows get washed off the pavement. And they never get replaced. So you’re left to figure it out yourself. You tell yourself, “The cars already parked are angled in that direction. Therefore the front of my car has to be headed in that direction…” Meanwhile, you’ve either passed the row you were contemplating on parking in or the guy behind you is sitting on his horn trying to rush you to a very momentous decision. Or maybe you pull into the row and then think, only to discover that you’re not suppose to be going down that row because its an up row. Or up that row because it’s a down row. Or – just to really confuse your poor mind – the row goes both directions! Meanwhile, the natives are eyeing you and reaching for their cell phones to call the police and report a hazardous driver.

Such is parking in Indiana. It really takes more thought than it ought. It is a terrible hazard to myself, my vehicle, and these native corn-fielders who think diagonal parking is natural instinct. And I thought Massachusetts drivers were dangerous!

Perplexed. Now there is an interesting word. Say it aloud. Doesn’t it sound interesting? Perplexed. We all know what it means, yet we don’t use it very often at all.

When we write or speak, we usually use words like “confused”, “bewildered”, “puzzled”, “at a loss”, or – if we’re really hard up – “thrown for a loop”. Good terms. They’re all words we understand, feelings we can associate with. Yet I think I like the word “perplexed” better.

The other day when I was reading through 2 Corinthians, I came across this word. It kind of jumped out at me. 2 Corinthians 4:8b read, “…we are perplexed, but not in despair.” I remember this verse well for I read it and the other encouraging verses around it just after 9-11. The passage is always edifying to me, but this time this lone word stood out to me. I have been repeating it to myself often ever since.

Life is sometimes very confusing, and it doesn’t get any easier as you get older. You start seeing things in a broader way, you have more decisions to make and options to go after, and sometimes you overwhelm yourself. I’ve been feeling that a lot lately.

As I seek the Lord’s will for my future vocation, I have been looking all over the place for different jobs I think I might like, ways to progress in the area of writing so that that might become a career, and finding out things I never knew before. There are days when I search the internet, jot down notes, and send out so many e-mails that I feel like I have too many pokers in the fire. I go back to my notes the next day to try to sort them out and can hardly remember what the note pertained to. I multi-task as well as anyone of my generation, but I’m not always very good at it. I become perplexed.

So many things to pray about. So many things to consider. So many notes to pursue or trash. And so many odd jobs I do have to get done in between all that. If I were a screamer, I would probably go out in the middle of one of these cornfields out here and scream for all I was worth. Fortunately for the neighbors, I would never even think of doing that. Perplexed…

…but not in despair! That is what I keep telling myself. Okay, I’m perplexed. I found a few too many hits on the internet. I jotted down more notes than I can contain. I have too many ideas of what I want to write next, but that doesn’t stop me from researching them all. An answer to one of my inquiries and I need to send out my resume again. Throw in trying to find a new car, and there you have it. I’m perplexed. But I’m not in despair.

Never in despair! Why should I be? I have a God who knows the beginning from the end. He is the Author and Finisher. He gives me strength for my days. He can even read all my notes and remind me what they’re for! And so my perplexity diminishes.

Isn’t God awesome?

Being one of those “crazy” people who like to wander around old graveyards and newer cemeteries, you see a lot of interesting things. People seem to have all kinds of creative ideas concerning the stones that will one day bear their names. Epitaphs are always my favorite. At times the engravings – especially on the newer stones – are quite pretty. Often it is the very shape of the stone that is intriguing. I have many shapes and sizes, but none quite like the one in the cemetery down the street from my house. I can’t imagine what inspired it:

Reading a book usually isn’t a huge accomplishment to me. I read a lot. There are books I have read which I am a little bit proud to say I have read should someone ask me, but people don’t usually ask me what I have read. Last weekend, though, I finished a book I am happy to say I have finally read.
The book set on my shelf for twelve years, unread and mostly ignored. Not because it wasn’t a good book. It’s probably one of the best I have in my library. Not even because it didn’t much interest me, although I far prefer reading about Founding Fathers or leaders during the Civil War. I didn’t read it because I was afraid of it.
I have known many young women in my life who adore Amy Carmichael. They have read all her books, own a great sum of them, talk about her, write about her, and take her for their heroine. There is nothing wrong with that, for Amy Carmichael was an amazing woman. God did many great things through her, saved the lives of children, and enabled her pen to write beautiful truths. She is well-worth admiring. Would that we could all be Amy Carmichaels.
But, in all honesty, the woman scares me. Which is why I have only just read a biography on her after it sat on my shelf for twelve years. I think she scares me because I can’t be her. I could never write like her. Words don’t come to me in poetry. I have never, ever been one of those people who organizes Bible studies or talks to people on their front porches. I have enough trouble making eye contact with the person walking down the grocery aisle! Seeing places like India, Japan, or China doesn’t interest me. There are so many places I haven’t seen in my own country yet! And I never want to be the head of a ministry. Sit me in a little office with a computer to plug away at tedium, and I’m happy. At the most, give me a class of children to love and teach.
I know, I know. Those things are just my comfort zone. God calls His children to much more. That is true, and I have done things in my life that are not Amy-Carmichaelish, but they were huge steps for me. The Lord also tells us not to compare ourselves with one another – a terrible habit we all do without a second thought – so I would do well to be content with the gifts God has given me and not try to be Amy Carmichael. (For sometimes I do want to do something great.)
I hope all of you who adore Amy Carmichael and read this will forgive me, but as much I enjoyed the biography and was greatly encouraged and challenged by the life of Amy Carmichael, she is not my heroine. There are so many other women I would rather be. Women who don’t have biographies written about them and never will. But women who were faithful in what the Lord gave them to do, where He gave them to do it. The silent Amy Carmichaels. The ones she could not have been successful without. Those forgotten names are my heroes.