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Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: 2 Corinthians 1:11-11

He Will if You Will

All through the Bible we see the interworking of the will of God and the will of man. It was God, Creator and Sovereign, who conceived freedom for man--the glorious likeness to Himself in "the dignity of causality," to use Pascal's phrase. All things are so arranged in God's universe that He may work his will through man's exercising his gift of a free will. It is a gift, and one which, while it confers staggering power on us humans, also limits the Almighty. Here lies the tremendous mystery--that God should be all-powerful, yet refuse to coerce. He summons us to cooperation. We are honored in being given the opportunity to participate in his good deeds. Remember how He asked for help in performing his miracles: Fill the waterpots, stretch out your hand, distribute the loaves.

This little word of Paul's to the Corinthian Christians contains the whole kernel of that truth: "He will deliver us if you will cooperate by praying" (2 Cor 1:11).

Is there something you are hoping for today? Perhaps there is a condition you must fulfill before the Lord can grant it. He will if you will.

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Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Revelation 17:14

All Things Serve Thee

The Lord's decrees (his promises, his plans, his every word) stand fast, no matter what news we receive. A child has run away. A mother has cancer. A business has failed. The events in our private lives and the great catastrophes in the world do not budge the solid ground on which the Christian takes his position. How can this be? Are there not conditions which harm and hinder and destroy? Not in the end. There is nothing, on earth or in hell or heaven, in time or in eternity, which can alter in any final sense what God has promised--because all things serve Him.

A word in the Book of the Revelation shows this truth most gloriously. Ten great kings will join their powers with an enormously powerful beast to wage war on the Lamb. God does not intervene to prevent that war.

"But the Lamb will defeat them, for He is Lord of Lords and King of Kings, and his victory will be shared by His followers, called and chosen and faithful" (Rv 17:14 NEB).

All things serve Him. That is, everything will at last be seen to be under his control, contributing to his eternal purposes--and (here is another marvel) the Lamb's victory will be ours as well.

Lord, who has called and chosen us--make us faithful. Enable us to keep our eyes on the final victory.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Hebrews 13:8-9

Outlandish Teachings

There is no end to the new methods offered for success, self-realization, fulfillment, understanding, and happiness. Seminars, conferences, and workshops abound. Go to so-and-so, get counseling, a new exercise program, a new diet, another degree, job, husband, house, color scheme. If it's new, it's good.

Jesus Christ is the same, yesterday, today, and forever. "Do not be swept off your course by all sorts of outlandish teachings; it is good that our souls should gain their strength from the grace of God" (Heb 13:8,9 NEB).

Fixity of heart is a rare thing and probably always has been. It is easier to follow after the world in its futile pursuit of happiness, simply because we are like sheep and we go astray. To stay quietly by the Shepherd seems harder, but in the end we find there (and nowhere else) our soul's real strength.

Pascal wrote, "I have discovered that all the unhappiness of man arises from one single fact, that they cannot stay quietly in their own chamber." Try spending a half hour in a room alone, without music, without television, without even reading. Can you find any peace or happiness there? If not, perhaps you have not begun to learn what is truly important.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Hebrews 12:2

From Start To Finish

The great witnesses to faith in the eleventh chapter of Hebrews, beginning with Abel, who offered a sacrifice by faith, down to those nameless others whose stories are not success stories by any stretch of the imagination, did not know Jesus, God's full revelation of Himself. Yet they believed. Yet they were strong in faith. It was, although they were ignorant of it, Christ on whom their faith rested. Faith depends on Him "from start to finish" (Heb 12:2 NEB). The whole saga of human faith from Abel to us in the twentieth century depends on Him who endured a cross. The whole story of any one individual's faith also depends on Him from start to finish. There is no other ground anywhere. He is the Rock.

I don't know why I keep forgetting this and assuming that somewhere along the line (or the racetrack) I am supposed to manage it by myself. It is Jesus at the start, Jesus every foot of the track, Jesus at the finish. Trust Him. Trust Him. Trust Him.

So, through life, death, through sorrow and through sinning.

Christ shall suffice me, for He hath sufficed.

Christ is the End, for Christ was the Beginning--

Christ the Beginning, for the End is Christ.

(F.W.H. Meyer, St. Paul)

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: John 17:26 John 17:23

Forsaken? Impossible

Twice in my life I have heard Christians claim, in all seriousness, that God had forsaken them. This is an impossibility. Does Christ live in us? He does. The living Christ dwells in the heart of every true believer--He in them and they in Him. There are no words which adequately describe the intimacy of this relationship. Jesus, in his last recorded prayer for those whom the Father had given Him, asked "that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and thou in me...that the love thou hadst for me may be in them, and I may be in them" (Jn 17:23, 26 NEB).

Jesus Christ, in the extremity of his agony on the cross, asked why God had forsaken Him. In becoming sin for us He experienced a terrible alienation from his Father, a sense of total dereliction. God did not and could not forsake the Son who was one with Him. He cannot and will not forsake us who are not only his sons and daughters, but also the dwelling-places of his only begotten Son. "I will never, never, never, never, never (the Greek has five negatives) leave you or forsake you," is his promise. At times we may be overcome with a feeling of helpless forsakenness. This is surely not from the loving Father, but from the father of lies. The best way to answer that "father" is the way Jesus answered when tempted by Satan: "It is written." Take God's own promise with its five negatives and hold on.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: John 17:4

The Glory of God

When God's power is manifested in the world, in his creation, or in his people, God is glorified. When we pray that our lives may glorify Him, we are asking that the self may be put down, for it is not possible to show the power of God and at the same time to glorify what George MacDonald called "the bastard self." We must be prepared to lose ourselves, whatever that may entail, that God may be all in all. Losing an argument for his sake, losing something we held dear, losing "face," reputation, a position of power or superiority, losing a claim on someone or on his affection or respect--can these be a part of the answer to our prayer to glorify God in our lives? Assuredly they can, for assuredly the Son Himself laid aside all such assets when He came to do the will of the Father.

"I have glorified Thee on the earth'' (Jn 17:4 AV), He said--and that glory was manifested through weakness, loss, and suffering. What a privileged position we are called to share.

Lord, lift up our eyes, away from ourselves and our small losses, up to that glory yet to be revealed. Teach us that it is only out of weakness that we are made strong, only as we suffer that we may reign, only as we lose that we may gain.

Title: Pick Up Your Cross
Book: A Lamp For My Feet
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Jesus invites us to be his disciples. If we choose to accept his loving invitation, we must understand that there are certain conditions to be fulfilled. One of them is a willingness to accept the cross. Is this a once-for-all taking up of one particular burden? I don't think so. It seems to me that my "cross" is each particular occasion when I am given the chance to "die"--that is, to offer up my own will whenever it crosses Christ's. This happens very often. A disagreement with my husband can cause an argument and harsh words, even if the matter is ridiculously small--"When are you going to get that dashboard light fixed in the car?" I have already mentioned the light three times. It may be time to keep my mouth shut, but I don't want to keep my mouth shut. Here, then, is a chance to die. A decision which affects both of us may be a fairly big one, but we find ourselves on two sides of the fence. One of us, then, must "die." It is never easy for me. Shall I make excuses for myself (that's the way I am; it's my personality; it's the way I was raised; I'm tired; I can't hack it; it doesn't gotcha72; you don't understand)--or shall I pick up this cross?

Perhaps my illustration seems to trivialize the cross of Christ. His was so unimaginably greater. What cross could I possibly take up which would be analogous? Just here is the lesson for me: when Jesus took up his cross, He was saying yes with all his being to the will of the Father. If I am unwilling to say yes in even a very little thing, how shall I accept a more painful thing? What sort of practice does it take for a disciple to learn to follow the Crucified? A friend hurts us, a plan goes awry, an effort fails--small things indeed. But then cancer strikes, a daughter marries unwisely, a business folds, a wife abandons her home and family. The call still comes to us: Take up your cross and come with Me. With You, Lord? Yes, with Me. Will You give me strength and show me the way? That was my promise--is it my custom to break promises?

Title: Die Quickly
Book: A Lamp For My Feet
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

To hold onto something with a desperate grip is not the way to die. Death is a painful process, and restoratives offered to the dying wretch bound to his wheel only prolong his agony. There are times when the thing to do is simply to die. I am thinking, of course, of dying to the self. We clutch so tenaciously to our rights, hopes, ambitions, something to which God has perhaps said a plain no. If would-be comforters offer us consolation and sympathy, if they assist us to strengthen our grasp when it should be loosened, they do not love us as God loves us. The way into life is death, and if we refuse it we are refusing Him who showed us that way and no other. The love which is strong as death is not only willing to save the beloved, it is willing to seem, if necessary, pitiless, insensitive, unloving, if that is what will help the beloved to die--that is, to be released from the bondage of self, which is death, and thus enter the gateway of life.

Archbishop Fenelon wrote to the countess of Montberon, "You want to die, but to die without any pain.... You must give all or nothing when God asks it. If you have not the courage to give at least let Him take."

Title: Hidden Work
Book: A Lamp For My Feet
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Few of us accomplish without delay or interruption what we set out to accomplish. Plans are made, and they fail. We dream dreams, and they are not fulfilled. Even what seem to be soberly realistic schedules are interrupted by unforeseen demands. Often we are tempted to quit our efforts altogether, to take a careless attitude, or to give in to helplessness, despair, and frustration.

When the apostle Paul's itinerant ministry was brought to a standstill by his imprisonment in Rome, he had plenty of human reasons for giving up. He wrote to the Christians at Philippi, who themselves were suffering persecution, reminding them of the humble obedience of Christ. "You too, my friends, must be obedient, as always.... You must work out your own salvation in fear and trembling; for it is God who works in you, inspiring both the will and the deed, for his own chosen purpose. Do all you have to do without complaint or wrangling" (Phil 2:12-14 NEB).

Imprisonments, persecutions, late planes, an attack of the flu, an uninvited guest, or an unpleasant confrontation--never mind. Be obedient as always! Such a simple directive. So hard to carry out--unless we also remember that we are not by any means alone in our effort. God also is at work in us, always accomplishing what we could not accomplish if left to ourselves: his own chosen purpose.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Hebrews 13:20-21
The Path of Lonliness

Death Shall Not Hold Us

The power of the resurrection is a power that vanquishes every other power in heaven or earth. The battle was the bitterest ever fought, but death was the loser, Jesus the Victor. Because "the tomb could not hold Him; snapped like a straw death's omnipotent bars" (Amy Carmichael: Edges of His Ways, p. 192), sin and death and sorrow need not hold us either. The same power is available to us if we will take it by faith.

There are many tombs where we may be held if we succumb to the powers of sin and death. Hatred, self-pity, bitterness, resentment--these are tombs. By the power that raised Jesus Christ from that sealed and guarded tomb we may be delivered from whatever seals us off from life. Jesus came to give us life, nothing less than life, "abundant" life.

Do you know someone you are praying for who is living in the darkness of such a tomb? Has it seemed that there is no more possibility of getting through to him than to someone buried? Resentment has sealed him off from any approach. Pray for the power of the resurrection to release him. Refuse, by the grace of God, to be held back by his bitterness. Then ask the Lord to help you to meet him next time in the consciousness of Christ risen. Instead of dreading the meeting because of the thought of former disastrous meetings, face it with joy. Christ is risen! Christ is risen!

"May the God of peace, who brought up from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great Shepherd of the sheep, by the blood of the eternal covenant, make us perfect in all goodness so that we may do his will; and may he make of us what he would have us be through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen" (Heb 13:20,21 NEB).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: 1 Peter 4:12 Luke 24:19
The Path of Lonliness

The Ultimate Contradiction - Page 1
By Elisabeth Elliot

Two people were walking along a stony road long ago. They were deep in conversation about everything that had happened. Things could not have been worse, it seemed, and I suppose the road was longer and dustier and stonier than it had ever been to them, though they had traveled it many times. As they trudged along, trying to make sense out of the scuttling of their hopes, a stranger joined them and wanted to know what they were talking about.

"You must be the only stranger in Jerusalem who hasn't heard all the things that have happened here recently!" said one of the two, whose name was Cleopas.

It seemed that the stranger had no idea what things he referred to, so Cleopas explained that there was a man from the village of Nazareth, Jesus by name, who was clearly a prophet, but He had been executed by crucifixion a few days before.

"We were hoping He was the one who was to come and set Israel free."

Things had been bad for Israel for a long time, and those who understood the ancient writings looked for a liberator and a savior. Cleopas and his companion had pinned their hopes on this Nazarene--surely He was the one God had sent, a prophet "strong in what he did and what he said" (Luke 24:19 PHILLIPS). But those hopes had been completely crushed. He had been killed and even His body could not be found. Where were they to turn now?

The story goes on to tell how the stranger explained to them that they had not really understood what the prophets had written, and that this death which had so shattered their faith was inevitable if the Messiah was to "find his glory."

But what a strange phrase--"find his glory." What could it mean? I can imagine the two looking at each other in bewilderment. This shameful death--in order to find his glory!

When they reached their destination the stranger was about to go further but they persuaded him to stay with them. As they sat down to eat he picked up the loaf of bread, gave thanks, broke it, and gave it to them. Suddenly they recognized him. Jesus! The two who sat with Him had not been pessimists. They had indeed had hopes. But what puny hopes theirs had been. In their wildest optimism they could not have dreamed of the glory they now saw. A resurrection, the ultimate contradiction to all of the world's woes, had taken place. They saw Jesus with their own eyes. What must their own words have seemed to them if they thought about what they had said: "We were hoping..."? They could not deny that those hopes had died, but what insane dreamer could have imagined the possibility that had become a reality here at their own supper table? Their savior had come back. He had walked with them. He was in their house. He was eating the very bread they had provided.

If resurrection is a fact--and there would be no Easter if it were not--then there is no situation so hopeless, no horizon so black, that God cannot there "find His glory." The truth is that without those ruined hopes, without that death, without the suffering that He called inevitable, the glory itself would be impossible. Why the universe is so arranged we must leave to the One who arranged it, but that it is so we are bound to believe.

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The Ultimate Contradiction - Page 2
By Elisabeth Elliot

And when we find ourselves most hopeless, the road most taxing, we may also find that it is then that the Risen Christ catches up to us on the way, better than our dreams, beyond all our hopes. For it is He--not His gifts, not His power, not what He can do for us, but He Himself--who comes and makes Himself known to us. And this is the one pure joy for those who sorrow.

And yet... and yet we sorrow. The glorious fact of the resurrection is the very heart of our faith. We believe it. We bank all our hopes on it. And yet we sorrow. It is still appointed unto man once to die, and those who are left must grieve--not as those without hope, for the beloved will be resurrected. The "ultimate contradiction," however, seems very far in the future. There is no incongruity in the human tears and the pure joy of the presence of Christ, for He wept human tears too.

When we learned recently from dear friends that they had lost their baby, this is what I wrote to them (I've been asked to print it here for others who are bereaved):

"Your little note was waiting for us when we returned yesterday from Canada. How our hearts went running to you, weeping with you, wishing we could see your faces and tell you our sympathies. Yet it is 'no strange thing' that has happened to you, as Peter said in his epistle (1 Peter 4:12) it gives you a share in Christ's suffering. To me this is one of the deepest but most comforting of all the mysteries of suffering. Not only does He enter into grief in the fullest understanding, suffer with us and for us, but in the very depths of sorrow He allows us, in His mercy, to enter into His; gives us a share, permits us the high privilege of 'filling up, that which is lacking (Colossians 1:24) in His own. He makes, in other words, something redemptive out of our broken hearts, if those hearts are offered up to Him. We are told that He will never despise a broken heart. It is an acceptable sacrifice when offered wholly to Him for His transfiguration. Oh, there is so much for us to learn here, but it will not be learned in a day or a week. Level after level must be plumbed as we walk with the Shepherd, and He will do His purifying, purging, forging, shaping work in us, that we may be shaped to the image of Christ himself. Such shaping takes a hammer, a chisel, and a file--painful tools, a painful process.

"Your dear tiny Laura is in the Shepherd's arms. She will never have to suffer. She knew only the heaven of the womb (the safest place in all the world--apart from the practice of abortion) and now she knows the perfect heaven of God's presence. I'm sure that your prayer for both your children has been that God would fulfill His purpose in them. It is the highest and best we can ask for our beloved children. He has already answered that prayer for Laura.

"Do you know the Letters of Samuel Rutherford (1600-1661)? He wrote so beautifully to mothers who had lost children. Here is one:

'Grace rooteth not out the affections of a mother, but putteth them on His wheel who maketh all things new, that they may be refined; therefore sorrow for a dead child is allowed to you, though by measure and ounceweights; the redeemed of the Lord have not a dominion or lordship over their sorrow and other affections, to lavish out Christ's goods at their pleasure.... He commandeth you to weep; and that princely One took up to heaven with Him a man's heart to be a compassionate High Priest. The cup ye drink was at the lip of sweet Jesus, and He drank of it.... Ye are not to think it a bad bargain for your beloved daughter that she died--she hath gold for copper and brass, eternity for time. All the knot must be that she died too soon, too young, in the morning of her life; but sovereignty must silence your thoughts. I was in your condition: I had but two children, and both are dead since I came hither. The supreme and absolute Former of all things giveth not an account of any of His matters. The good Husbandman may pluck His roses and gather His lilies at midsummer, and, for ought I dare say, in the beginning of the first summer month; and he may transplant young trees out of the lower ground to the higher, where they may have more of the sun and a more free air, at any season of the year. The goods are His own. The Creator of time and winds did a merciful injury (if I may borrow the word) to nature in landing the passenger so early.'

"Jesus learned obedience by the things which He suffered, not by the things which He enjoyed. In order to fit you both for His purposes both here and in eternity, He has lent you this sorrow. But He bears the heavier end of the Cross laid upon you! Be sure that Lars and I are praying for you, dear friends."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

To Walk Where Jesus Walked - Page 1
By Elisabeth Elliot

For as long as I can remember I did not want to go to the Holy Land. I suppose the main reason was those monochromatic slides we used to have to look at in Sunday school. My heart would sink when I learned that somebody was going to show pictures of Palestine. All you saw were little square sand-colored houses and sand-colored camels and lots of sand-colored landscapes that were mostly desert and a lot of people dressed in long robes that reminded me of our Sunday school Christmas plays with everybody wearing bathrobes and towels wrapped around their heads. The whole thing of seeing what were called "holy places" and walking today where Jesus walked and visiting ruins failed to find a response in me.

But seven years ago, just after the Six-Day War, I was persuaded to go to Jerusalem, and now I'm going back again. Israel in 1967 was a place of tremendous excitement and tremendous sadness. There were those who had conquered and those who had just been conquered. There was rubble where the wall had divided the Old City from the New, rubble where villages had been demolished and rubble at the Wailing Wall. I do not expect to find everything sorted out and peaceful when I return. Problems persist which seem to have no possible human solution, and I know from correspondence with friends that all is not as we read in the newspapers. But Jerusalem is a city set apart, a city often besieged and often recovered, which holds at its heart certain treasures that its wars and sins have not yet obliterated.

I had not been at all prepared for the impact that Jerusalem had upon me. I was overpowered. It was in this city, inside and outside its walls, that the events took place which altered the whole course of history. The Crucifixion, said Dorothy Sayers, was after all "the only thing that ever really happened." I knew all of this before I went, of course, but I simply was not prepared for what it did to me when I finally actually stood on that ground.

Christian tourists are often put off by the commercialization of the holy places. You go into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to find that it is claimed by four different kinds of Christians who get along so badly that the keys to the church have had to be entrusted, it is said, to a Moslem family. There are guides, licensed and unlicensed, clamoring to show you around. There are priests in varied garb waiting at each sacred site with offering boxes; candles are on sale, and the whole place seems dark, dusty and crowded with the trappings of religion.

I would not have expected to like this scene, but I found myself totally captivated. There was something about the crumbling, discolored stone with Crusader's crosses carved into it, the fragrance of the incense and the dim light of the swinging oil lamps that convinced me here was the place, here was concentrated the attention and the devotion--fierce as it sometimes was--of the ages. Christians of all varieties had converged on this place, crowding into it every possible symbol of their hope and longing as well as the unavoidable evidence of their corruption; and that very corruption added its own weight to the meaning of that cross and that empty sepulchre "for where sin abounded grace did much more abound."

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To Walk Where Jesus Walked - Page 2
By Elisabeth Elliot

To go to the Garden of Gethsemane, across the Brook Kidron from the Old City, and to know that it was Jesus' custom often to leave the crowded, noisy city and cross that brook and go to where the old olive trees grew on a hillside, was another experience that overwhelmed me. The shape of the city, viewed from that perspective, has not changed very much, I suppose, from the time of Jesus. The shape of the hills surrounding it, the aspect of the valley, the beauty of the olive trees, would be just what Jesus knew. This was the quiet place to which he went when he knew that his hour had come. It was beneath some of these very trees perhaps (for some of them are two thousand years old) that the Son of man struggled with his own fear of death and with the will of the Father.

Over the door of the Basilica of the Agony, which is one name for the church in the Garden, these Latin words are inscribed: SUSTINETE HIC ET VIGILATE MECUM, "Wait here and watch with me." I myself had gone to the Garden several different times during my weeks in Jerusalem and tried to reconstruct the awful scene: Christ in an agony of conflict and suffering, while the three who had been specially chosen to be with their Master at the end were not doing the one thing he had asked them to do--watch--but were sound asleep. When I was there the sun shone on the soft stone of the city walls and on the brilliant bougainvillea that grew nearby. Buses ground up the hill, taxis honked, tourists rushed by taking pictures, and a group of kibbutzniks waving blue and white flags poured out of a bus and passed the Garden without so much as a sideways glance.

It is not our experiences which in the final analysis change us, it is always and only our responses to those experiences. In any of the holy places I could have responded with cynicism, rejection, even outrage. Their mysterious power then would have been lost on me. I found it possible instead to enter in by faith, giving myself in each place to the One who was there before me and who, despite all that worldly-minded humanity had done to those places, was still there if I sought him.

Near one of the olive trees in Gethsemane one of the Darmstadt Sisters of Mary has put up a small plaque: "O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me, nevertheless not as I will but as thou wilt. Thou, O Jesus, in the darkness of night and grief didst utter these words of surrender and trust to God the Father. In gratitude and love I will, in my hours of fear and desolation, say after thee, My Father, I cannot understand what thou art about but in thee do I put my trust."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: 1 Peter 1:3-5
The Path of Lonliness

Hope for a Hopeless Failure - Page 1
by Elisabeth Elliot

Olive trees are not much good for leaning against. Too knobby. I kick away a few stones and sit down on the ground, knees braced in my arms. The other two stand for a while, eyeing the one who has gone off alone.

"Might as well sit down," I say. They don't answer.

Long day. Tired. I look up through the trees. Ragged clouds, thin moon. Enough wind to move the olive leaves. My head's too heavy to hold up. I stare at my old sandals, one of them with a loose thong. Then I notice my feet and remember--at supper-- "altogether clean." Dusty again now, but they were clean, all right. Never had them so clean. "Do you understand what I have done for you?" he asked. Maybe the rest understood. Not me. And what was all that about being slaves?

My two friends sit down a little way off. Can't hear much of the onversation (they're almost whispering). His body. His blood. (Strange things he said to us tonight at the table.) How he longed to eat with us, but would never do it again--until . . . something about a kingdom.

Yawn. Too tired to think now. I push away a few more stones and lie down in the grass. No pillow. Well, my arm will have to do.

What do I hear? Not my friends--they're flat out on the ground now, like me. Some movement. Wind? An animal? No, over there, where he is. A sort of gasp, was it? I strain my ears. Can't tell. Maybe they can, they're nearer, but they don't say anything. Silence now. Never mind. Have a little snooze.

"Asleep, Simon?" I jump. He did ask us to stay awake, now that I think of it. He's standing over us and here we all are, snoring away. Poor show. "Pray that you may be spared the test." Yes, Lord. (Test?)

He goes off again. We sit up, shake ourselves. (It's colder now, my tunic's clammy with dew.) We pray. We can see, from the silhouette over by the rock, that something is very wrong. Wonder if we should do something? But he said stay here.

"You will all fall from your faith.'' We talk about that. What could he mean? All of us? The other two lie down. I sit here, thinking of what he said to me--about Satan, sifting me like wheat. He said he prayed especially for me. My faith fail? I told him I'd even go to prison with him. Die, if it came to that. Judas now--that's another story. Wonder what he's up to? Left the table in an awful hurry. Never did trust him. Shifty-eyed. Slick.

Ah-oh. Must have fallen asleep again. I can sense his presence, standing close, but I'll keep my eyes shut. What can I say? I wait. He says nothing, goes away.

"You awake?" I poke the others. I remember he told me I was to ''lend strength to the brothers." They pull themselves up, and again we talk. He said he was going away. Somewhere where we could not come. Peace . . . Iove . . . the Prince of this world . . . persecution . . . the breakdown of faith. Doesn't sound good.

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Hope for a Hopeless Failure - Page 2
by Elisabeth Elliot

"What's that?" (I'm the one who's whispering now.) A soft noise--like wings. There's somebody there, bending over him in the moonlight. We peer through the trees. Can't tell who it is. It's not good, his being here in this garden. Too many people know they can find him here. What! Whoever was there has--why, vanished! Just like that! He is standing now, his face lifted up.

"That's the third time he's prayed the same prayer," my friend says. I didn't hear it.

We keep talking, trying to stay awake this time. He needs me, I guess. We'd better be on our toes. Not sure what's going on. Is he in danger? But he doesn't seem to know fear. Has his own ways of getting out of trouble when he wants to--remember the time he slipped through the crowd that was about to dump him over the precipice? Yes, but we told him this time he ought not to come up to the city. Bad timing.

What about what he said about our needing purse, pack, and sword now, after sending us out barefoot, without a coin or a crust, the first time? Said he had a good many other things he couldn't tell us now, but would send a spirit--Spirit of Truth, that was it--who would explain things that were going to happen.

Hours go by. We lose track of how long we talk. Yawn, relax.

"Still sleeping? Up, let's go forward." On our feet like a shot. What's happening? "My betrayer is upon us." Mob surging through the garden. Lanterns, torches, swords, cudgels.

"Master! Here, quickly, get behind...." He doesn't hear me. Walks straight up to them. ''What is it you want?" I grab my sword, swing it at one of the gang, only get his ear.

"Put up your sword,'' he tells me. "This is the cup the father has given me. Don't you realize I must drink it?"

What could we do? I follow him partway, but I can see it's all over. No point getting involved.

Years have passed now. The memory of what happened during the rest of that night is still sharp. A very dark night it was. But could I know what I know now, could I write things I write in my letters, if it had not happened?

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who in his great mercy gave us new birth into a living hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead! The inheritance to which we are born is one that nothing can destroy or spoil or wither. It is kept for you in heaven, and you, because you put your faith in God, are under the protection of his power . . . (1 Peter 1:3-5 NEB).

I know that mercy. I've been given that new birth. A hopeless failure, I know that living hope. No one deserved them less than I. No one can be more grateful than I, to whom so much was forgiven. Where would I be if he had not risen?

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Exodus 13

Detours

When Pharaoh let the people go, "God did not guide them by the road towards the Philistines, though that way was the shortest.... God made them go round by way of the wilderness towards the Red Sea" (Ex 13: 17, 18 NEB).

The direct route would save time as well as wear and tear on the people, but God had something infinitely more important than economics in mind--He wanted the people to be able to sing the song of praise of chapter 15--"The Lord is my refuge and my defence...my deliverer. He is my God and I will glorify Him; He is my father's God and I will exalt Him" (Ex 15:2 NEB). They sang this song because they had firsthand experience of God's power and deliverance. Pursued by all the chariots and horses, cavalry and infantry of Egypt, they had passed through the Red Sea in safety and seen the enemy drowned. They would have missed this glorious lesson if they had taken the short road.

When we are puzzled by delays and detours, let us think about the great purpose of life: to glorify God. The lessons He wants to teach us "in the wilderness" are priceless means of providing us with a song we could not otherwise have sung: "In Thy constant love Thou hast led the people!" (Ex 15:13).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: 1 Thessalonians 5:6-10
The Path of Lonliness

We Do Not Belong to Darkness

There are times when we cannot see our way, and it seems that darkness is about to overcome and hold us. It must have seemed so to the Christians in Thessalonica. Paul spoke of their grave suffering because of having welcomed his message. Must the coming of the light of God's truth bring suffering? Yes, often it does, and the one who has received it with joy is plunged into darkness. But darkness is not his master! He does not "belong" to it (1 Thes 5:6 NEB) but is in fact a "child of light," having been given word of things to come--resurrection, the sound of an archangel's voice, God's trumpet-call, the descent of the Lord Himself. "God has not destined us to the terrors of judgment.... He died for us so that we, awake or asleep, might live in company with Him" (5:9, 10). A small child is at peace even in the dark if his father or mother is with him. He has company. How different the darkness feels then.

Take the word of the Lord in your darkness. If He died to let us live in his company, is He likely to abandon us just because things look dark?

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Faith Is Holding Out Your Hand

Sometimes when I was a child my mother or father would say, "Shut your eyes and hold out your hand." That was the promise of some lovely surprise. I trusted them, so I shut my eyes instantly and held out my hand. Whatever they were going to give me I was ready to take. So it should be in our trust of our heavenly Father. Faith is the willingness to receive whatever He wants to give, or the willingness not to have what He does not want to give.

I am content to be and have what in Thy heart
I am meant to be and have.
--(George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul)

From the greatest of all gifts, salvation in Christ, to the material blessings of any ordinary day (hot water, a pair of legs that work, a cup of coffee, a job to do and strength to do it), every good gift comes down from the Father of Lights. Every one of them is to be received gladly and, like gifts people give us, with thanks.

Sometimes we want things we were not meant to have. Because He loves us, the Father says no. Faith trusts that no. Faith is willing not to have what God is not willing to give. Furthermore, faith does not insist upon an explanation. It is enough to know his promise to give what is good--He knows so much more about that than we do.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Where God Is Taking Us

Bishop Leslie Newbigin, in his South India Diary, tells of the union of churches which took place in South India in 1947. It was the culmination of nearly fifty years of prayer and work on the part of Indians and missionaries. At the second synod a memorable sentence was spoken: "The demand to know where we are going is one which no Christian has a right to make." The bishop writes, "In a very real sense we do not know where we are going, but we are trying to meet day by day the plain requirements of God's will. This means a constant effort to bring every part of church life and practice to the test of conformity with the Gospel."

It is not for the flock of sheep to know the pasture the Shepherd has in mind. It is for them simply to follow Him. If they knew that his plans included a valley of deep shadow, they would panic. Keeping close to the one they have learned to trust is all that is necessary. He will faithfully provide rest, refreshment, correction, and protection as the needs arise. His accompanying presence is guaranteed, all the way--even through the darkest shadows--to the house of the Lord.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Romans 8:38-39
The Path of Lonliness

Is Faith Easy?

A young man asked me last night if it was easier to trust God here in this country, in this comfortable house, than it was "down where all the disasters were," meaning, I suppose, in the jungle. No, I told him, you live by faith wherever you are. The house was robbed last week--a small reminder that all that I am and have belongs to the Lord, to do with as He chooses. There are enough "disasters" anywhere to keep one trusting God. In the jungle there is the immanent presence of snakes, vampires, scorpions, electric eels, etc.--to say nothing of savages' spears. In Hamilton there are thieves, the possibility of fire, plumbing or electrical breakdowns, and hanging over us at all times threats of war, totalitarianism, secular humanism, economic collapse, cancer, not to mention the "small" emergencies which can bring our best-laid plans to a halt.

"I have become absolutely convinced that neither death nor life...neither what happens today nor what may happen tomorrow has any power to separate us from the love of God" (Rom 8:38-39 JBP). So wrote Paul, whose life did not represent a series of events in which we would say it was "easy to trust." It was not easy. It was necessary. A life free from suffering would be a life in which faith in God would be a mere frill. A human life, on the contrary, is one in which faith is a necessity. Only a fool tries to do without it.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Nehemiah 1:8-9
The Path of Lonliness

Satan's Opposition or God's Punishment

Sometimes when we are in trouble we are not sure whether the trouble is the opposition of our enemy Satan or a punishment from God. It may be both, and in any case the thing to do is pray--first, confession of sin which is known; second, asking to be shown sin which has not been acknowledged; third, prayer for deliverance in God's way and in God's time.

When the people of Israel were in great trouble and disgrace and the wall of Jerusalem had been broken down, Nehemiah sat down and wept. Then he mourned and fasted and prayed "for some days" before the God of heaven. The exile of the people and the destruction of the wall were surely the work of evil men, but they were also the means employed by a sovereign God to punish the people. "If you are unfaithful I will scatter you." Nehemiah reminded God in his prayer of this threat, but he also reminded Him of his promise: "If you return and obey...I will gather them" (Neh 1:8, 9 RSV). Nehemiah became the intercessor and the means in the hand of God for their restoration, just as their enemies had, under his sovereignty, been the means of their punishment.

It is not required that we sort out all the possibilities--"Is this God?" or "Is this Satan?"--it is required that we confess our sins and put our whole trust in the God who is in charge.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: 1 Samuel 16:14
The Path of Lonliness

A Strange Godsend

King Saul was tormented in a strange way from time to time by an evil spirit from God (1 Sam 16:14). His servants suggested that harp music might drive it away. One of them told the king about Jesse's son David of Bethlehem who could play, and who was also a brave man, a good fighter, wise in speech, and handsome. Furthermore, the Lord was with him. David was sent for, and besides these God-given gifts, he brought with him a homer of bread, a skin of wine, and a kid. The king loved him and made him his armor-bearer. Whenever the evil spirit came upon Saul, David would take his harp and play so that Saul found relief, recovered, and the spirit left him alone.

This story shows us that among the baffling intricacies of the sovereign plan of God there is often evil which is not only permitted but sometimes actually sent by God. We wonder why. Surely part of the reason is that we may learn our own helplessness and need of Him. Saul was a powerful king, but it took his servants, who happened to know of a small-town boy, to suggest a remedy for the king's trouble. God sent the trouble. God sent the boy. That boy had been prepared by God, equipped with gifts which the king needed. Picture the boy, idly strumming his lyre as he passed the time of day in the pasture with the sheep. He could not have dreamed of the use God would some day make of that skill--to comfort a king's tormented spirit and later to become the "sweet singer of Israel."

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. Give me a trust big enough to embrace the baffling intricacies and to find in times of helplessness that You are a very present Help.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: 2 Corinthians 10:4-5 Matthew 7:11
The Path of Lonliness

The Weapon of Prayer

News came one day which indicated that a matter I had been praying about had deteriorated rather than improved. "What good are my prayers, anyway?" I was tempted to ask. "Why bother? It's becoming a mere charade." But the words of Jesus occurred in my Bible reading that very morning (and wasn't it a good thing I'd taken time to hear Him?): "If you, bad as you are, know how to give your children what is good for them, how much more will your heavenly Father give good things to those who ask him?" (Matthew 7:11, NEB).

Are you as often tempted as I am to doubt the effectiveness of prayer? But Jesus prayed. He told us to pray. We can be sure that the answer will come, and it will be good. If it is not exactly what we expected, chances are we were not asking for quite the right thing. Our heavenly Father hears the prayer, but wants to give us bread rather than stones.

Prayer is a weapon. Paul speaks of the "weapons we wield" in 2 Corinthians 10:4-5. They are "not merely human, but divinely potent to demolish strongholds" (NEB). The source of my doubts about its potency that morning was certainly not the Holy Spirit. It was the unholy spirit, the Destroyer himself, urging me to quit using the weapon he fears so intensely.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: Colossians 2:1 Philippians 4:6 Ephesians 3:12 Isaiah 45:19 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 1 John 1:9 Isaiah 44:22 Isaiah 40:29-31 Psalm 27:8 Colossians 1:2-9 1 John 5:14-15
The Path of Lonliness

Prayer is Conflict

Prayer is no easy pastime. As I grow old I find that I am more conscious than ever of my need to pray, but it seems at the same time to become more of a struggle. It is harder to concentrate, for one thing. I was greatly helped by some private notes Amy Carmichael wrote to her "Family" (hundreds of children and their helpers, both Indian and European) in Dohnavur, South India, to help them prepare for a special day of prayer.

She quoted Paul's letter to the Colossians (2:1, KJV): "I would that ye knew what great conflict I have for you." He is referring at least in part to the conflict of prayer. The same verse is translated "how greatly I strive" in the Revised Version; "how deep is my anxiety" in J.B. Phillips; and, in the Jerusalem Bible, "Yes, I want you to know that I do have to struggle hard for you... to bind you together in love and to stir your minds, so that your understanding may come to full development, until you really know God's secret in which all the jewels of wisdom and knowledge are hidden."

Here are Amy's notes:

WITH WHAT DID I STRUGGLE?

1. With all that says to me, what is the use of your praying? So many others, who know more of prayer than you do, are praying. What difference does it make whether you pray or not? Are you sure that your Lord is listening? Of course He is listening to the other prayers but yours are of such small account, are you really sure He is "bending His ear" to you?

2. With all that suggests that we are asked to give too much time to prayer. There is so much to do. Why set aside so much time just to pray?

3. With all that discourages me personally--perhaps the remembrance of past sin, perhaps spiritual or physical tiredness; with anything and everything that keeps me back from what occupied St. Paul so often--vital prayer.

WHAT WILL HELP ME MOST IN THIS WRESTLE?

1. The certain knowledge that our insignificance does not matter at all, for we do not come to the Father in our own name but in the Name of His beloved Son. His ear is always open to that Name. Of this we can be certain.

2. The certain knowledge that this is Satan's lie; he is much more afraid of our prayer than our work. (This is proved by the immense difficulties we always find when we set ourselves to pray. They are much greater than those we meet when we set ourselves to work.)

3. Isaiah 44:22 and kindred words, with 1 John 1:9, meet all distress about sin. Isaiah 40:29-31 with 2 Corinthians 12:9,10 meets everything that spiritual or physical weariness can do to hinder. Psalm 27:8 with Isaiah 45:19 meets all other difficulties. And the moment we say to our God, "Thy face, Lord, will I seek," His mighty energies come to the rescue. (See Colossians 1:2,9.) Greater, far greater, is He that is in us than he that is against us. Count on the greatness of God. But are we to go on wrestling to the end?

No, there is a point to which we come, when, utterly trusting the promise of our Father, we rest our hearts upon Him. It is then we are given what St. Paul calls access with confidence (Ephesians 3:12). But don't forget that this access is by faith, not by feeling, faith in Him our living Lord; He who says "Come unto Me" does not push us away when we come. As we go on, led by the Holy Spirit who so kindly helps our infirmities, we find ourselves in 1 John 5:14,15 and lastly in Philippians 4:6, . It is good to remember that immediate answer to prayer is not always something seen, but it is always inward peace.

And if the day ends otherwise and we are discouraged? Then tell Him so, "nothing ashamed of tears upon His feet" [here she is quoting from F.W.H. Meyers's poem "St. Paul"]. Lord, Thou knowest all things. Thou knowest that I love Thee. "Yes, my child, I know." But don't settle down into an "it will never be different" attitude. It will be different if only in earnest we follow on to know the Lord.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: Mark 1:35 Ephesians 3:17-18 Colossians 1:11 Matthew 6:6 Hebrews 10:25 Psalm 119:14
The Path of Lonliness

Meeting God Alone - Page 1
by Elisabeth Elliot

A very tall man, wrapped in a steamer rug, kneeling alone by a chair. When I think of my father, who died in 1963, this is often the first image that comes to mind. It was the habit of his life to rise early in the morning--usually between 4:30 and 5:00--to study his Bible and to pray.

We did not often see him during that solitary hour (he purposed to make it solitary), but we were used to seeing him on his knees. He had family prayers every morning after breakfast. We began with a hymn; then he read from the Bible to us; and we all knelt to pray. As we grew older, we were encouraged to pray alone as well.

Few people know what to do with solitude when it is forced upon them; even fewer arrange for solitude regularly. This is not to suggest that we should neglect meeting with other believers for prayer (Hebrews 10:25), but the foundation of our devotional life is our own private relationship with God.

My father, an honest and humble disciple of the Lord Jesus, wanted to follow his example: "Very early in the morning…Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed" (Mark 1:35).

Christians may (and ought to) pray anytime and anywhere, but we cannot well do without a special time and place to be alone with God. Most of us find that early morning is not an easy time to pray. I wonder if there is an easy time.

The simple fact is that early morning is probably the only time when we can be fairly sure of not being interrupted. Where can we go? Into "your closet," was what the Lord said in Matthew 6:6, meaning any place apart from the eyes and the ears of others. Jesus went to the hills, to the wilderness, to a garden; the apostles to the seashore or to an upper room; Peter to a housetop.

We may need to find a literal closet or a bathroom or a parked car. We may walk outdoors and pray. But we must arrange to pray, to be alone with God sometime every day, to talk to him and to listen to what he wants to say to us.

The Bible is God's message to everybody. We deceive ourselves if we claim to want to hear his voice but neglect the primary channel through which it comes. We must read his Word. We must obey it. We must live it, which means rereading it throughout our lives. I think my father read it more than forty times.

When we have heard God speak, what then shall we say to God? In an emergency or when we suddenly need help, the words come easily: "Oh, God!" or "Lord, help me!" During our quiet time, however, it is a good thing to remember that we are here not to pester God but to adore him.

All creation praises him all the time--the winds, the tides, the oceans, the rivers, move in obedience; the song sparrow and the wonderful burrowing wombat, the molecules in their cells, the stars in their courses, the singing whales and the burning seraphim do without protest or slovenliness exactly what their Maker intended, and thus praise him.

We read that our Heavenly Father actually looks for people who will worship him in spirit and in reality. Imagine! God is looking for worshippers. Will he always have to go to a church to find them, or might there be one here and there in an ordinary house, kneeling alone by a chair, simply adoring him?

How do we adore him? Adoration is not merely unselfish. It doesn't even take into consideration that the self exists. It is utterly consumed with the object adored.

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Meeting God Alone - Page 2
by Elisabeth Elliot

Once in a while, a human face registers adoration. The groom in a wedding may seem to worship the approaching bride, but usually he has a few thoughts for himself--how does he look in this absurd ruffled shirt that she asked him to wear, what should he do with his hands at this moment, what if he messes up the vows?

I have seen adoration more than once on faces in a crowd surrounding a celebrity, but only when they were unaware of the television cameras, and only when there was not the remotest possibility that the celebrity would notice them. For a few seconds, they forgot themselves altogether.

When I stumble out of bed in the morning, put on a robe, and go into my study, words do not spring spontaneously to my lips--other than words like, "Lord, here I am again to talk to you. It's cold. I'm not feeling terribly spiritual...." Who can go on and on like that morning after morning, and who can bear to listen to it day after day?

I need help in order to worship God. Nothing helps me more than the Psalms. Here we find human cries--of praise, adoration, anguish, complaint, petition. There is an immediacy, an authenticity, about those cries. They speak for me to God--that is, they say what I often want to say, but for which I cannot find words.

Surely the Holy Spirit preserved those Psalms in order that we might have paradigms of prayer and of our individual dealings with God. It is immensely comforting to find that even David, the great king, wailed about his loneliness, his enemies, his pains, his sorrows, and his fears. But then he turned from them to God in paeans of praise.

He found expression for praise far beyond my poor powers, so I use his and am lifted out of myself, up into heights of adoration, even though I'm still the same ordinary woman alone in the same little room.

Another source of assistance for me has been the great hymns of the Church, such as "Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven," "New Every Morning Is the Love," "Great Is Thy Faithfulness," "Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken," and ''O Worship the King." The third stanza of that last one delights me. It must delight God when I sing it to him:

Thy bountiful care, what tongue can recite?
It breathes in the air, it shines in the light;
It streams from the hills, it descends to the plain,
And sweetly distills in the dew and the rain.

That's praise. By putting into words things on earth for which we thank him, we are training ourselves to be ever more aware of such things as we live our lives. It is easy otherwise to be oblivious of the thousand evidences of his care. Have you thought of thanking God for light and air, because in them his care breathes and shines?

Hymns often combine praise and petition, which are appropriate for that time alone with God. The beautiful morning hymn "Awake, My Soul, and With the Sun" has these stanzas:

All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept,
And hast refreshed me while I slept.
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake,
I may of endless light partake.
Direct, control, suggest, this day,
All I design, or do, or say;
That all my powers, with all their might,
In Thy sole glory may unite.

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Meeting God Alone - Page 3
by Elisabeth Elliot

Adoration should be followed by confession. Sometimes it happens that I can think of nothing that needs confessing. This is usually a sign that I'm not paying attention. I need to read the Bible. If I read it with prayer that the Holy Spirit will open my eyes to this need, I soon remember things done that ought not to have been done and things undone that ought to have been done.

Sometimes I follow confession of sin with confession of faith--that is, with a declaration of what I believe. Any one of the creeds helps here, or these simple words: "Christ has died; Christ is risen; Christ will come again. Lord, I believe; help my unbelief."

Then comes intercession, the hardest work in the world--the giving of one's self, time, strength, energy, and attention to the needs of others in a way that no one but God sees, no one but God will do anything about, and no one but God will ever reward you for.

Do you know what to pray for people whom you haven't heard from in a long time? I don't. So I often use the prayers of the New Testament, so all-encompassing, so directed toward things of true and eternal importance, such as Paul's for the Christians in Ephesus: ''…I pray that you, rooted and founded in love yourselves, may be able to grasp…how wide and long and deep and high is the love of Christ" (Ephesians 3:17, 18). Or I use his prayer for the Colossians, "We pray that you will be strengthened from God's boundless resources, so that you will find yourselves able to pass through any experience and endure it with joy" (Colossians 1:11). I have included many New Testament prayers in a small booklet entitled "And When You Pray (Good News Publishers).

My own devotional life is very far from being Exhibit A of what it should be. I have tried, throughout most of my life, to maintain a quiet time with God, with many lapses and failures. Occasionally, but only occasionally, it is impossible. Our Heavenly Father knows all about those occasions. He understands perfectly why mothers with small children bring them along when they talk to him.

Nearly always it is possible for most of us, with effort and planning and the will to do his will, to set aside time for God alone. I am sure I have lost out spiritually when I have missed that time. And I can say with the psalmist, "I have found more joy along the path of thy instruction than in any kind of wealth" (Psalms 119:14).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Pray with Jesus

Because I am "of the earth, earthy," I find that my prayers for the people I love are mostly bound by very earthy concerns--Lord, help P. to find a good wife, show G. which college to attend, provide money for W.'s house and E.'s car, help T. with his book, give X. a better job. It is meet and proper to pray for such things, but not to pray only for such things. There are prayers of far more lasting import which we must also learn to pray. We can find words for those in the prayer of Jesus for the people He loved:

1. that they may be one;
2. that they may find his joy completed in themselves;
3. that they may be kept from evil;
4. that they may be made holy by the truth;
5. that they may live in Christ;
6. that they may grow complete into one;
7. that they may be with him;
8. that the love which God has for Christ may be in their hearts.

If we learn to pray that kind of prayer, it will perhaps amend the "lesser" prayers.

Lord, teach me to pray. Open my eyes to see beyond the earthly to the heavenly. Let my primary concerns be heavenly ones, that your kingdom may come on earth, your will be done in me and in those I love. Teach me to pray with Jesus, for his sake. Amen.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture: Ephesians 6:12 Luke 9:23
The Path of Lonliness

Notes on Prayer - Page 1
by Elisabeth Elliot

People who ski, I suppose, are people who happen to like skiing, who have time for skiing, who can afford to ski, and who are good at skiing. Recently I found that I often treat prayer as though it were a sport like skiing--something you do if you like it, something you do in your spare time, something you do if you can afford the trouble, something you do if you're good at it. Otherwise you do without it most of the time. When you get in a pinch you try it and then you call an expert.

But prayer isn't a sport. It's work. As soon as I've said that I'm in trouble because so many sports have become professional and as such are almost wholly indistinguishable from work. I could say that work is something you have to decide to do, you have to allow time for, you have to go at with energy, skill and concentration. But all those things could be said of the big business which is sports. Competition is deadly, equipment highly technical and expensive, salaries absurdly high.

But prayer is no game. Even if you are part of a "team," as when others join you in prayer, you are not cheered on by spectators or coached by any experts. You won't get any trophies--not on this side of the Jordan, anyway. It's not likely you'll get any credit at all. For some people prayer might fall into the category of "fun," but that's not usually the reason we pray. It's a matter of need and responsibility.

Prayer is work because a Christian simply can't "make a living" without it. He can't live a Christian life at all if he doesn't pray.

Prayer is the opposite of leisure. It's something to be engaged in, not indulged in. It's a job you give first priority to, performing not when you have energy left for nothing else. "Pray when you feel like praying," somebody has said. "Pray when you don't feel like praying. Pray until you do feel like praying." If we pray only "at our leisure"--that is, at our own convenience--can we be true disciples? Jesus said, "Anyone who wants to follow me must put aside his own desires and conveniences" (Luke 9:23 LB).

The apostle Paul did use an analogy from sports to describe prayer. He said we "wrestle." In the wrestling of a Christian in prayer, "our fight is not against any physical enemy: it is against organizations and powers that are spiritual. We are up against the unseen power that controls this dark world, and spiritual agents from the very headquarters of evil" (Eph. 6:12, Phillips). Seldom do we consider the nature of our opponent, and that is to his advantage. When we do recognize him for what he is, however, we have an inkling as to why prayer is never easy. It's the weapon that Unseen Power dreads most, and if he can get us to treat it as casually as we treat a pair of skis or a tennis racquet he can keep his hold.

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Notes on Prayer - Page 2
by Elisabeth Elliot

If we're going to ask, "Is prayer work?" somebody will want to ask, "Does prayer work?" That question assumes that results ought to be measurable. The trouble is they are not by any means always measurable or predictable because the One to whom we address our prayers is infinite and incomprehensible, "and all that is comprehensible about him" (wrote John of Damascus) "is his infinity and incomprehensibility." His thoughts are as much higher than our thoughts as the heavens are higher than the earth.

And he is Love. Infinite Love will never give a stone when bread is asked for, or a scorpion in place of an egg. But what will Infinite Love give if our prayer is for a scorpion?

Prayer is compared in the Bible to incense. "Let my prayer be counted as incense before thee," wrote the Psalmist, and the angel who stood before the altar with the golden censer in Revelation 8 was given incense to mingle with the prayers of the saints. Incense was very expensive, blended by a perfumer according to a strict formula. It appears to serve no particularly useful purpose. Its smoke and fragrance soon dissipate. Couldn't incense be done without?

Prayer is like incense. It costs a great deal. It doesn't seem to accomplish much (as we mortals assess things). It soon dissipates. But God likes the smell. It was God's idea to arrange the work of the tabernacle to include a special altar for incense. We can be pretty sure he included all that was necessary and nothing that was unnecessary.

Christ prayed. He offered thanksgiving, he interceded for others, he made petitions. That the Son--co-equal, co-eternal, consubstantial with the Father--should come to the Father in prayer is a mystery. That we, God's children, should be not only permitted but commanded also to come is a mystery. How can we change things by prayer? How "move" a sovereign and omnipotent God? We do not understand. We simply obey because it is a law of the universe, as we obey other laws of the universe, knowing only that this is how things have been arranged: the book falls to the floor in obedience to the law of gravity if I let go of it. Spiritual power is released through prayer.

I could say, "God can make my hands clean if he wants to," or I could wash them myself. Chances are God won't make my hands clean. That's a job he leaves up to me. His omnipotence is not impaired by his having ordained my participation, whether it be in the washing of hands with soap or the helping of a friend with prayer. Christ redeemed the world by the laying down of his life, a perfect sacrifice, once for all. Yet he is in the business, as David Redding says, of "maintenance and repair." He lets us participate with him in that business by the laying down of our own lives.

One way of laying down our lives is by praying for somebody. In prayer I am saying, in effect, "my life for yours." My time, my energy, my thought, my concern, my concentration, my faith--here they are, for you. So it is that I participate in the work of Christ. So it is that no work of faith, no labor of love, no smallest prayer is ever lost, but, like the smoke of the incense on the golden altar, rises from the hand of the angel before God.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Nehemiah 4:9
The Path of Lonliness
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Why Bother to Pray?

If God is sovereign, and things will be as they are going to be anyway, why bother to pray? There are several reasons. The first is really all we need to know: God has told us to pray. It is a commandment, and if we love Him we obey his commands.

Second, Jesus prayed. People sometimes say that the only reason for prayer is that we need to be changed. Certainly we do, but that is not the only reason to pray. Jesus was not being made more holy by prayer. He was communing with his Father. He was asking for things. He thanked God. In his Gethsemane prayer He was beseeching the Father to prevent what was about to take place. He was also laying down his own will.

Third, prayer is a law of the universe. As God ordained that certain physical laws should govern the operation of this universe, so He has ordained the spiritual law. Books simply will not stay put on the table without the operation of gravity-- although God could cause them, by divine fiat, to stay. Certain things simply will not happen without the operation of prayer, although God could cause them, by divine fiat, to happen.

The Bible is full of examples of people doing what they could do and asking God to do what they couldn't do. In other words, the pattern given to us is both to work and pray. Nehemiah and the people of Israel worked hard to build the wall of Jerusalem but were strenuously opposed by Sanballat and Tobiah, who banded together with Arabs, Ammonites, and Ashdodites to attack. "So we prayed to our God," wrote Nehemiah, "and posted a guard day and night against them" (Neh 4:9 NEB).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: James 5:16 Daniel 9:23
The Path of Lonliness

As Soon As You Begin to Pray

Prayer sets spiritual forces in motion, although the effect is often invisible, perhaps for a long time.

In the first year of the reign of Darius, Daniel was reading and reflecting about the seventy years of Jerusalem's Iying in ruins. He turned to God in "earnest prayer and supplication with fasting and sackcloth and ashes," confessing Israel's sins and beseeching God for forgiveness and restoration. The angel Gabriel came close to him in the hour of evening sacrifice, "flying swiftly."

"As you were beginning your supplications a word went forth" (Dn 9:23 NEB), he said. The answer was already beginning to be processed when the prayer was offered. It took a very long time. Periods of weeks and years for the nation, and times of mourning, solitude, weakness, and fear on Daniel's part were required before the answer could come to pass.

We should take heart from Gabriel's message. Though our prayers seem feeble and sometimes appear to have gone unheard, a word has gone forth. Spiritual agents from the throne room of the King of kings are mobilized against spiritual forces from the headquarters of evil, and there will be ultimate victory.

"Tremendous power is made available through a good man's earnest prayer" (Jas 5:16 JBP).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Romans 8:26-27
The Path of Lonliness

Distractions to Prayer

No one who has tried to pray for more than a few seconds at a time would claim that he is never distracted. It is astonishing to note how insistently and immediately irrelevant matters come to mind, noises occur, things to be attended to are remembered, people interrupt, and even physical discomforts or pains bother us which we had not noticed until we tried to pray. These things are, of course, the work of the master saboteur of souls, who knows how to render our spiritual machinery useless, by the loosening of the tiniest screw or the loss of the smallest nut.

Distractions can be useful. They provide constant reminders of our human weakness. We recognize in them how earthbound we are, and then how completely we must depend on the help of the Holy Spirit to pray in and through us. We are shown, by a thousand trivialities, how trivial are our concerns. The very effort to focus, even for a minute, on higher things, is foiled, and we see that prayer--the prerequisite for doing anything for God--cannot be done without Him. We are not, however, left to fend for ourselves.

"The Spirit too comes to help us in our weakness. For when we cannot choose words in order to pray properly, the Spirit himself expresses our plea in a way that could never be put into words, and God who knows everything in our hearts knows perfectly well what he means, and that the pleas of the saints expressed by the Spirit are according to the mind of God" (Romans 8:26-27 JB).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: 2 Corinthians 4
The Path of Lonliness

My Spiritual Mother

Katherine Morgan has been a missionary in Pasto, Colombia, for more than fifty years. She has been a friend of mine for more than forty-three of those years and has done for me what Paul said Onesiphorus did for him: refreshed me often. Katherine's husband died when they had been married only six years, but she carried on their missionary work and reared their four little girls.

To Katherine I owe more than I can ever tell. She more or less booted me to Ecuador. I was a missionary candidate without a field, didn't know quite how to find one, talked to her, and within months found myself in Quito. She had had me in her home many weekends, giving me previews of coming attractions--what not to expect from "supporters," what to expect from them, what to expect from Ecuadorians and from jungle Indians, what to take (a sense of humor, for one thing), what not to take (a sense of smell, a trunkful of inhibitions and Plymouth Brethren prejudices, an inflated idea of my own importance, and the notion that people are longing to hear the gospel).

At times all of us--her daughters were in junior high and high school then--would be nearly rolling on the floor with laughter. One evening we had a hat show. Katherine had come home from a missionary meeting with a shopping bag full of hats that a lady told her the Lord had "laid on my heart to give to the missionaries."

A few years ago she called me from Pennsylvania where she was visiting a daughter. She just wanted to chat while it would still be easy to chat, since she'd be going back to Colombia in a few weeks. Asking about a mutual friend who had been in the hospital, she told me to tell her to jump up and praise the Lord. She mentioned a gift sent to her which had been designated for a retired missionary. "Me--retired! I haven't even thought of retiring." She sent it back.

We talked about "travailing," for people who have fallen away from the Lord. I reminded her of 2 Corinthians 4, the passage about bearing "death in our bodies" in order that life may work in others. Yes, she agreed, that's in the Bible, all right, but she couldn't think of herself in that way--"I'm too cheerful"--even though I happen to know she has suffered many kinds of death for the sake of other people (and has had her own life threatened a number of times, including being stoned and doused with gasoline more than once).

Dear Katherine! "A merry heart doeth good like a medicine." Hers has been an elixir for me. She's one of those who bring forth fruit in old age--though she'd hit me for suggesting she's anywhere near that category. May God make me like her.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

A Call to Older Women

In 1948 when I had been at Prairie Bible Institute (a very stark set of wooden buildings on a very bleak prairie in Alberta) for only a few weeks, I was feeling a bit displaced and lonesome one afternoon when there came a knock on my door. I opened it to find a beautiful rosy-cheeked face framed by white hair. She spoke with a charming Scottish burr.

"You don't know me, but I know you. I've been prraying for you, Betty dearr. I'm Mrs. Cunningham. If everr you'd like a cup of tea and a Scottish scone, just pop down to my little aparrtment."

She told me where she lived and went on to say that my name had been mentioned in a staff meeting (she never said how--was I thought of as a misfit at PBI? I wonder) and the Lord had given her a burden for me. Many were the wintry afternoons when I availed myself of her gracious offer and we sat together in her tiny but very cozy basement apartment while she poured tea for me and I poured my soul out to her. Her radiant face was full of sympathy, love, and understanding as she listened. She would be quiet for a little, then she would pray and, looking up, cheer and strengthen me with words from God. During and after my missionary years she wrote to me until she died. Only God knows what I owe to "the four Katharines"--Katharine Cunningham, Katharine Gillingham Howard (my own mother), Katherine Cumming (my house mother when I was in college), and Katherine Morgan. These and several others have not only shown me what godliness looks like (many have done that), but have significantly graced my life by obeying God's special call to older women.

The apostle Paul tells Titus that older women ought to "school the younger women to be loving wives and mothers, temperate, chaste, and kind, busy at home, respecting the authority of their own husbands" (Titus 2:4-5, NEB). My dear "Mom Cunningham" schooled me--not in a class or seminar, or even primarily by her words. It was what she was that taught me. It was her availability to God when He sent her to my door. It was the surrender of her time, an offering to Him for my sake. It was her readiness to "get involved," to lay down her life for one anxious Bible school girl. Above all, she herself, a simple Scottish woman, was the message.

I think of the vast number of older women today. The Statistical Abstract of the United States for 1980 says that 19.5 percent of the population was between ages 45-65, but by 2000 it will be 22.9 percent. Assuming that half of those people are women, what a pool of energy and power for God they might be. We live longer now than we did forty years ago (the same volume says that the over-sixty-fives will increase from 11.3 percent to 13 percent). There is more mobility, more money around, more leisure, more health and strength--resources which, if put at God's disposal, might bless younger women. But there are also many more ways to spend those resources, so we find it very easy to occupy ourselves selfishly. Where are the women, single or married, willing to hear God's call to spiritual motherhood, taking spiritual daughters under their wings to school them as Mom Cunningham did me? She had no training the world would recognize. She had no thought of such. She simply loved God and was willing to be broken bread and poured-out wine for His sake. Retirement never crossed her mind.

If some of my readers are willing to hear this call but hardly know how to begin, may I suggest to you:

1. Pray about it. Ask God to show you whom, what, how.

2. Consider writing notes to or telephoning some younger woman who needs encouragement in the areas Paul mentioned.

3. Ask a young mother if you may do her ironing, take the children out, babysit so she can go out, make a cake or a casserole for her.

4. Do what Mom C. did for me--invite somebody to tea, find out what she'd like you to pray for (I asked her to pray that God would bring Jim Elliot and me together!)--and pray with her.

5. Start a little prayer group of two or three whom you can cheer and help. You'll be cheered and helped too!

6. Organize a volunteer housecleaning pool to go out every other week or once a month to somebody who needs you.

7. Have a lending library of books of real spiritual food.

8. Be the first of a group in your church to be known as the WOTT's (Women of Titus Two), and see what happens (something will).

"Say not you cannot gladden, elevate, and set free; that you have nothing of the grace of influence; that all you have to give is at the most only common bread and water. Give yourself to your Lord for the service of men with what you have. Cannot He change water into wine? Cannot He make stammering words to be instinct [imbued, filled, charged] with saving power? Cannot He change trembling efforts to help into deeds of strength? Cannot He still, as of old, enable you in all your personal poverty 'to make many rich?' God has need of thee for the service of thy fellow men. He has a work for thee to do. To find out what it is, and then to do it, is at once thy supremist duty and thy highest wisdom. 'Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it.'" (Canon George Body, b. 1840).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

My Mother

She was Kath to her close friends, Dearie to my father, and always Mother (never Mom) to her six children. She held us on her lap when we were small and rocked us, sang to us, and told us stories. We begged for the ones about "when you were a little girl." Katharine Gillingham was born June 2l, 1899 in Philadelphia. We loved hearing about the butler who did tricks for her behind her parents' backs and about the alarmed postman who rushed to rescue the screaming child with her arm down a dog's throat until he heard what the child was saying: "He's got my peanut! " In 1922 she married Philip E. Howard Jr., a man who, because he had lost an eye in an accident, felt sure no woman would have him. They worked for five years with the Belgian Gospel Mission, then resumed to the States when he became associate editor (later editor) of The Sunday School Times.

Mother's course was finished on February 7, 1987. She was up and dressed as usual in the morning at the Quarryville Presbyterian Home in Pennsylvania, made it to lunch with the help of her walker, lay down afterwards, having remarked rather matter-of-factly to someone that she knew she was dying, and wondered where her husband was. Later in the afternoon cardiac arrest took her, very quietly.

Each of us (in chronological order) took a few minutes at the funeral to speak of some aspect of Mother's character. Phil spoke of her consistency and unfailing availability as a mother; of her love for Dad ("He was always my lover," she said). I recalled how she used to mop her eyes at the table, laughing till she cried at some of my father's bizarre descriptions, or even at his oft-told jokes; how she was obedient to the New Testament pattern of godly womanhood, including hospitality. Dave talked about her unreserved surrender to the Lord, first of herself (at Stony Brook conference in New York and then, painfully, years later at Prairie Bible Institute in Canada) of her children; of how, when we left home, she followed us not only with prayer but, for forty years with hardly a break, with a weekly letter. Ginny told how Mother's example taught her what it means to be a lady; how to discipline herself, her children, her home. Tom remembered the books she read to us (A.A. Milne, Beatrix Potter, Sir Knight of the Splendid Way, for example), and the songs she sang as she rocked each of us little children ("Safe in the Arms of Jesus," "Go Tell Aunt Nancy"), shaping our vision of life. Jim pictured her sitting in her small cane rocker in the bay window of her bedroom after the breakfast dishes were done, sitting quietly before the Lord with the Bible, Daily Light, and notebook.

The last three years were sorrowful ones for all of us. Arterio-sclerosis had done its work in her mind and she was confused and lonely ("Why hasn't Dad been to see me?" "He's been with the Lord for 23 years, Mother." "Nobody told me!") Still a lady, she tried to be neatly groomed, always offered a chair to those who came. She had not lost her humor, her almost unbeatable skill at Scrabble, her ability to play the piano, sing hymns, and remember her children. But she wanted us to pray that the Lord would let her go Home, so we did.

The funeral ended with the six of us singing "The Strife is O'er," then all family members, including our beloved aunts Alice and Anne Howard, sang "To God Be the Glory." The graveside service closed with the Doxology (the one with Alleluias). We think of her now, loving us with an even greater love, her poor frail mortality left behind, her eyes beholding the King in His beauty. "If you knew what God knows about death," wrote George MacDonald, "you would clap your listless hands."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

A Mother's Testament - Page 1

While I was writing a letter at my desk fifteen years ago my small daughter interrupted to say that she had dropped two sucres (Equadorian coins) into the rain barrel, and could she please put on her bathing suit and swim to the bottom to get them? I said she could.

Today she is twenty-one. She is a thousand miles from home and when I called at 6:45 A.M. to wish her a happy birthday I caught her munching a prune and an almond, the prelude to a breakfast of hot cracked wheat cereal, brewer's yeast drink, toast and grapefruit. (She's an even more fanatical food freak than her mother.) She chatted happily about the blue outfit I'd sent her, about the papers she must write before graduation, which is only three weeks away, and about her wedding, which is nine weeks away.

A mother may, I suppose, be forgiven for pausing to remember these twenty-one swift years. When she was born she was a marvel and an object of deep concern to the Indians of the jungle where we lived, for she was put not only in a bed separate from that of her parents, but even in a separate room. Demons, the Indians warned us anxiously, would certainly "lick" her if she was not protected between her father and mother. When we assured them that no demon would bother her at all, they shook their heads in bewilderment: another of the inexplicable differences between themselves and these foreigners. Demons don't like foreign children. But what about vampires? That, we knew, would have been a real danger if we had not lived in a screened house.

She was carried around in an aparinga, an Indian carrying cloth, not only by her mother but by Indian women and girls who asked if they might "borrow" her for a little while. She learned two languages at once and managed to keep them separate in her mind. She played, swam, walked the trails and ate fish heads with the Indian kids. The "slumber parties" she went to were in Indian houses where she took her blanket and curled up on the bamboo slats beside her friends, coming home in the morning to announce that breakfast had been soup. "What kind of soup?" I once asked. "Oh, rat soup, I guess," she said, and she was right.

Because she always went barefoot she had to wash her feet every night before going to bed, a chore she sometimes wished she could get out of. One evening while washing the supper dishes in the river she looked up to see a beautiful sunset. "It looks as though Jesus might come through there," she said to me, "and then I wouldn't even have to wash my feet. Jesus would wash my feet for me--he's kind."

In a small notebook I kept the accounts Val sometimes dictated to me of her doings with the Indians. One fragment from the notebook reads:

"We got to a little pool, a little lake. Uba just got one fish with her hands. With a knife she whacked it. And then we went to get pitumu [palm fruit]. We got chicha [manioc drink] where the little lake was. It was Ipa's chicha. She squeezed it for me into a little leaf, because we didn't have any cups. At home we have cups. I was thirsty. Kumi, Kinta and I drank some. The rest didn't have any because there wasn't any left. Then we got the pitumu and made a basket with some leaves, and then we came home. I saw wild pig and tapir footprints and that's all."

Later: "I took some poison down to the river and watched how Ana fixed it. Then I got some and put it in a little hole in the ground and punched it and punched it and punched it, and when the leaves got soft I put it in the basket and then in the water. Soon I got a little fish, a little fish, and a little fish [this is the Indian way of saying 'three fish']. Their names were kuniwee, niwimu and arakawae. I brought them to Gimari's fire and put them on a little stick that was burning and they got toasted and then I ate them. And that's all."

One evening I overheard Valerie singing to her kitten:

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like you."

Among the questions asked on a single day were, "Why can't we breathe under water?" "Will we go through a rainbow when we go to God's house?" "Owls got kinda paper faces, don't they?" "Can God make the tea stop coming out of the pot?" and "Why do dogs have knees in the back of their legs?"

Hers was a happy life with the Indians, but she dreamed of having a brother or sister. Standing in front of a mirror once she said, "I sometimes think this is my sister, my twin, and I talk to her and she answers me and smiles."

=============================See Page 2

A Mother's Testament - Page 2

Perhaps this solitude helped her to understand the solitude of others. She loved taking care of things. In the jungle, making people comfortable meant, among other things, building a fire, and she spent a good deal of time at this. I found her tending two tiny fires underneath our house (which was on stilts), "one for me," she explained, "and one for my little birdie so he won't be cold." She had put the baby woodpecker's basket close by. Another time she was tucking up her small friend Taemaenta (both were about five years old) in her hammock, covering him with a doll blanket and fanning up the fire. When she climbed in beside him I inquired what she was up to. "Just being kind to Taemaenta because his mother is gone," she said. She carried her own dolls around in an aparinga, covering their heads with a rag when the trail led out into the sunshine, protecting them with her hand when she stooped to go under a fallen tree or through a patch of underbrush.

Her education for the first three years was the Calvert School correspondence course, begun under taxing conditions since we had no place to put books and things, living, as we were then, in a wall-less house. It was difficult to concentrate with Indians hanging over her shoulder, peering at the pictures, fingering the books, trying out the crayons, snipping things with the scissors.

The third-grade work included a lesson on mythology. As I was telling the story of Pandora's box I tried to explain the meaning of hope. After giving several other illustrations I asked, "What was my hope when your daddy died?" "Me!" was the immediate reply.

She was indeed. In the bleakest times she was there, a gift of joy, lifting her little face in love, smiling, not knowing anything of the need she met.

She thought much about God and heaven (which was to her not only the Father's house but her daddy's as well). I sometimes wrote down her prayers after I had kissed her goodnight. I did this not because I feared they would otherwise be lost (the great angel with the golden censer will see that they are not lost) but because I knew that they would be lost to me. I would forget. And also because I had no one, at that time, to tell them to.

"Dear Lord, thank you for this sentence: 'There is a green hill far away where the dear, dear Lord Jesus was crucified.' Jesus, you know that we don't understand your words. Just like those people long ago, when you told them you were going to come alive. They didn't understand. We're just like those people. So help us to understand. Help us not to lie and disobey and steal. Let's be sweet. And help me with my arithmetic tomorrow. In Jesus' name. Amen." She was eight years old.

She had seen birth and suffering and death in our life with the Indians, had acquired a "nerve of knowledge" that rendered her sensitive. When I asked if she ever thought about death she said, "Yes, sometimes when I'm washing my feet. You know how the sink is dry, and the water creeps up the sides when I'm filling it? There are little points around the edges of the water, and I think these points are the number of days before I'm going to die, and go to see my daddy. But I don't count them. I splash the water up quickly." With these intimations of mortality she was at the same time full of joy. She told me several times of dreams in which she found herself floating and singing. If she wakened in the night, she often sang. A friend described her walk as "not on but slightly above the ground."

When she was twelve I went into her room one evening to thank her for washing all the dishes when I had guests. "Mommy!" she said as I started to leave. "I want to thank you for my whole life! For all you've given me and for all the things you've done for me and for all the food you've cooked for me!"

To look at the woman who was that child of nine years ago and to realize that I am thanked for what I cooked and did and gave--thanked for doing what I could not possibly have helped wanting with all my heart to do--is to understand in a new light the words of Jesus, "It is more blessed to give than to receive." More "blessed"? He must have meant that it is a happier thing to aim at the giving rather than at the receiving, but, strangely, if we put the giving first the receiving necessarily follows. For me, from this child, the receiving seems to have been without interruption. It is not immediately so for all. I know. If we give out of love, however, there is ultimately no way in heaven or earth to avoid receiving, and receiving far more than we could possibly give.

Nine more weeks. Shall we have a multi-media presentation flashed on the walls of the church as she moves down the aisle? Swimming to the bottom of the rain barrel, eating rat soup, drinking chicha from a leaf cup, snuggling with Taemaenta in her hammock, floating and singing? Not a very workable idea. But I shall be remembering, and giving thanks.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Five Kids and Peace - Page 1

The house was large, white, set well back from the street, and surrounded with lawns, gardens and beautiful big trees--the sort of place that could easily keep a full-time gardener busy. It was nearly suppertime of an autumn afternoon, and as my hostess, who had met me at the airport, took me through the side door and into the kitchen, I could smell beef stew and wood smoke, just the sort of things I wanted to smell in a place like that. We went through a large hall with a beautiful staircase and into a small sitting room where a fire burned and three boys were sprawled prone on the floor, two of them playing a game, one reading.

"Boys, I want you to meet Mrs. Leitch."

All three were on their feet at once, coming toward me to shake hands. Not only were they not reluctant or surly, they acted as though they were sincerely glad to see me.

After I was shown my room I joined Arlita, my hostess, in the kitchen to help with supper. She set about making biscuits while I cut up apples for Waldorf salad. A few minutes before supper was ready a couple of the boys appeared and in no time had set the table, poured the milk, carried in the food.

The dining room had an elegant fireplace and mantelpiece, a bay window filled with plants, and an enormous round cherry table. Joe, who is a doctor, sat opposite the fireplace with his wife at his side. I sat across from them and between us the four sons and one daughter, ages nine to sixteen. We all clasped hands for grace. Conversation ranged from schoolwork, the church, the neighbors, the old house a few blocks away where I used to live, to mathematics and the meaning of a passage of Scripture. All participated. All also took it upon themselves to see to the comfort of their guest, passing me the biscuits, the jam, the salt, asking if I'd have another bowl of stew, filling my water glass. It seemed that each child understood that he was on the entertainment committee. The fact that I was a contemporary of their parents did not absolve them of gracious responsibility. They were even eager to look after me, eager to hear what I had to say.

The dining room doesn't have an observation window with one-way glass to which I can take certain parents I can think of to observe this model family, seated around the cherry table, alert yet relaxed, disciplined yet hilarious, attentive yet at ease. And of course the family would object very strenuously to anyone's holding them up as a model. Yet they are. All families, in the last analysis, are models--of something. Some of cosmos, that wonderful Greek word which signifies order and arrangement. Some of chaos, its opposite--disorder and confusion.

At the end of the meal everybody sang. I can't remember what gospel songs they sang, but I remember the hearty way they all joined. Then Joe read the Bible. They talked about what it meant. The youngest son was asked first to explain what he thought it was all about and was then challenged, corrected and encouraged by siblings and parents. Joe asked for prayer requests and each child thought of somebody he wanted prayed for--a schoolmate who seemed hungry to know God, a Jewish lady whose husband had died, a kid on drugs. When the prayers were finished Joe and Arlita and I went to the sitting room to talk by the fire. All was quiet. I was dimly aware of movement in the other rooms--the table being cleared, dishes washed. Later I heard a piano and a flute. People were practicing, homework was undoubtedly being done, but all of it without strife, without one interruption to the parents who, so far as I noticed, had issued no instructions to anybody when we got up from the table.

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Five Kids and Peace - Page 2

Later in the evening I noted the stillness.

"Are the kids in bed?" I asked.

"What time is it?" Arlita said.

10:45.''

"Then they're in bed. Usually we say goodnight to them, but occasionally when we have company they don't come down."

This almost took my breath away. I've visited in a good many homes where the going-to-bed routine takes the better part of the evening, with wheedling, threats, pleas, prolonged negotiations and eventual capitulation. How, I wanted to know, do you do it? Such order, such peace, such fun as everyone seemed to have, and such smooth running of oiled wheels. I grew up in a family where the same things could have been said, but that was another generation, another day. Walking still occurred to people as a possibility if they had to get somewhere, and it was still acceptable simply to sit on the porch some evenings and not go anywhere. So how, in this day and age, did Joe and Arlita do it?

They looked at each other as though the question had not arisen before. Arlita smiled.

"Well . . . " she hesitated, trying to think how they did do it. "I'm sure we did just what you did. We decided how we wanted it to be and then we did it that way. Isn't that right, Joe?"

"That's right. In fact, we decided before the children were born how we wanted things to be. The going-to-bed business, for example. I don't want to hate my kids, and if I had them in my hair all evening, if I had to fight to get them down and fight to get them up again in the morning, I'd hate them. So after they've reached eight or nine years of age we don't tell them when they have to go to bed. We tell them when they have to be at the breakfast table. We give them each an alarm clock, and if they know they have to be washed, dressed, combed, in their right minds and in their places at 7:30, they soon figure out for themselves when to go to bed and when to get up."

It worked. Next morning, which was Saturday, the children were downstairs to do their appointed tasks. At 7:30 we sat down to sausage, fried apples, scrambled eggs, coffee cake, orange juice and coffee. Arlita had not cooked the breakfast, the kids had. They had organized things so that the whole job was done in a quarter of an hour or so. The table was set, the food on it, hot and appetizing, on time.

Does the system ever break down? I wanted to know. There are lapses, Joe and Arlita said, and privileges sometimes have to be withdrawn, but there's a lot of camaraderie in doing the jobs, and everybody likes to see it work. I had never seen a more beautifully ordered home, and neither had I ever seen a better-adjusted, more likable and outgoing bunch of kids. There must be a connection.

A house the size of theirs needs a lot of maintenance. Nobody comes in to cook, clean or garden. The whole family works. A list of special jobs is posted every so often--woodcutting, window washing, floor waxing, the sort of jobs that aren't done every week--and the children sign up for whatever they're willing to tackle. Then each child makes out a three-by-five card for each job and puts down the time he spent at it. The card is then submitted to a parent who inspects the finished task and signs the card if he approves the quality of the work. If he does not sign it, the child does the job over on his own time. Cards are turned in at the end of the month and the children are paid the going rate. With the money he earns, each buys his own clothes, except for the youngest, who puts half his money in the bank against the day when he too must take the responsibility for buying clothes.

"We're all working for each other this way," Joe said, "each taking responsibility as he's able. They're not paid, of course, for daily jobs like bedmaking and tablesetting and dishwashing. But last month we paid for 125 hours of 'special' jobs."

Stravinsky in his Poetics of Music refers to "the anguish into which an unrestricted freedom plunges me." Unrestricted freedom--anguish. Their opposites, discipline and serenity, characterized the home I've described. But it took thought. It took vision. It took courage to lay the burden on the children, strength to support them in it, humility to submit to the rule of life, and an ear tuned to a different drummer from the one the world hears.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture: Philippians 2:5-11
The Path of Lonliness

On Motherhood and Profanity - Page 1

"OK now, which one of you clowns put that bag of M 'n' Ms in the grocery cart?" The mother looks harried.

Two boys, maybe five and seven, eye each other and race away toward the gumball machine near the supermarket door. There is an infant strapped to a plastic board on top of the groceries, and a two year old occupying the built-in child seat in the cart. The mother picks up the M 'n' M candy bag and starts toward the aisle to return it. The two year old screams and she relents, throws the bag in with the rest of her purchases, patiently waits her turn at the check-out, fishes five ten-dollar bills from her purse, receives her small change, and pushing the cart with the babies in it, herds the two boys through the rain to the station wagon in the parking lot.

I go with her in my mind's eye. Jump out in the rain. Open the garage door. Drive in. Close door. Babies, boys, bags into the house in how many trips? Phone rings. Answer phone, change baby, wipe muddy tracks from kitchen floor. Feed baby, put groceries away, hide M 'n' Ms, start peeling vegetables, take clothes out of dryer, stop fight between two older children, feed two year old, answer phone again, fold clothes, change baby, get boys to:

1) hang up coats,
2) stop teasing two year old,
3) set table.
Light oven, put baby to bed, stop fight, mop up two year old, put chicken in oven, answer phone, put away clothes, finish peeling vegetables, look peaceful and radiant--husband will be home soon.

I see this implacable succession of exigencies in my mind's eye. They come with being a mother. I also see the dreams she dreams sometimes--write a novel, agents call, reviews come in. TV interviews, autograph parties, promotional traveling, a movie contract--preposterous dreams. Try something a little more realistic. Cool modern office, beautiful clothes, make-up and hairdo that stay done all day. A secretarial job perhaps, nothing spectacular, but it's work that actually produces something that doesn't have to be done over at once. It's work that ends at five o'clock. It means something.

I know how it is. I have a mother. I am a mother. I've produced a mother (my daughter, Valerie, has a two year old and expects another child soon). I watched my own mother cope valiantly and efficiently with a brood of six. ("If one child takes all your time," she used to say, "six can't take any more.") We were--we still are--her life. I understand that. Of all the gifts of my life surely those of being somebody's wife and somebody's mother are among the greatest.

But I watch my daughter and other mothers of her generation and I see they have some strikes against them that we didn't have. They have been told insistently and quite persuasively that motherhood is a drag, that tradition is nonsense, that what people have always regarded as "women's work" is meaningless, that "roles" (a word we never bothered much about until a decade or so ago) are changing, that femininity is a mere matter of social conditioning, that it's time to innovate. If the first-grade readers show a picture of a woman driving a hook-and-ladder and a man doing a nurse's job, see what happens to the conditioning. Abolish the stereotypes and we can abolish the myths of masculinity and femininity.

I hear this sort of claptrap, and young mothers often come to me troubled because they can't answer the arguments logically or theologically. They feel, deep in their bones, that there is something terribly twisted about the whole thing but they can't put their finger on what it is.

I think I know what it is. Profanity. Not swearing. I'm not talking about breaking the Third Commandment. I'm talking about treating as meaningless that which is freighted with meaning. Treating as common that which is hallowed. Regarding as a mere triviality what is really a divine design. Profanity is failure to see the inner mystery.

When women--sometimes well-meaning, earnest, truth seeking ones say "Get out of the house and do something creative, find something meaningful, something with more direct access to reality," it is a dead giveaway that they have missed the deepest definition of creation, of meaning, of reality. And when you start seeing the world as opaque, that is, as an end in itself instead of as transparent, when you ignore the Other World where this one ultimately finds its meaning, of course housekeeping (and any other kind of work if you do it long enough) becomes tedious and empty.

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On Motherhood and Profanity - Page 2

But what have buying groceries, changing diapers and peeling vegetables got to do with creativity? Aren't those the very things that keep us from it? Isn't it that kind of drudgery that keeps us in bondage? It's insipid and confining, it's what one conspicuous feminist called "a life of idiotic ritual, full of forebodings and failure." To her I would answer ritual, yes. Idiotic, no, not to the Christian--for although we do the same things anybody else does, and we do them over and over in the same way, the ordinary transactions of everyday life are the very means of transfiguration. It is the common stuff of this world which, because of the Word's having been "made flesh," is shot through with meaning, with charity, with the glory of God.

But this is what we so easily forget. Men as well as women have listened to those quasi-rational claims, have failed to see the fatal fallacy, and have capitulated. Words like personhood, liberation, fulfillment and equality have had a convincing ring and we have not questioned their popular definitions or turned on them the searchlight of Scripture or even of our common sense. We have meekly agreed that the kitchen sink is an obstacle instead of an altar, and we have obediently carried on our shoulders the chips these reductionists have told us to carry.

This is what I mean by profanity. We have forgotten the mystery, the dimension of glory. It was Mary herself who showed it to us so plainly. By the offering up of her physical body to become the God-bearer, she transfigured for all mothers, for all time, the meaning of motherhood. She cradled, fed and bathed her baby--who was very God of very God--so that when we cradle, feed and bathe ours we may see beyond that simple task to the God who in love and humility "dwelt among us and we beheld his glory."

Those who focus only on the drabness of the supermarket, or on the onions or the diapers themselves, haven't an inkling of the mystery that is at stake here, the mystery revealed in the birth of that Baby and consummated on the Cross: my life for yours.

The routines of housework and of mothering may be seen as a kind of death, and it is appropriate that they should be, for they offer the chance, day after day, to lay down one's life for others. Then they are no longer routines. By being done with love and offered up to God with praise, they are thereby hallowed as the vessels of the tabernacle were hallowed--not because they were different from other vessels in quality or function, but because they were offered to God. A mother's part in sustaining the life of her children and making it pleasant and comfortable is no triviality. It calls for self-sacrifice and humility, but it is the route, as was the humiliation of Jesus, to glory.

To modern mothers I would say "Let Christ himself be your example as to what your attitude should be. For he, who had always been God by nature, did not cling to his prerogatives as God's equal, but stripped himself of all privilege by consenting to be a slave by nature and being born as a mortal man. And, having become man, he humbled himself by living a life of utter obedience, even to the extent of dying, and the death he died was the death of a common criminal. That is why God has now lifted him so high. . ." (Phil. 2:5-11 Phillips).

It is a spiritual principle as far removed from what the world tells us as heaven is removed from hell: If you are willing to lose your life, you'll find it. It is the principle expressed by John Keble in 1822:

If on our daily course our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,
New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

The Focus of Faith

In one of the photo albums from my years in Ecuador is a close-up of a big scorpion on a window screen. I know what was beyond that ugly thing--a green lawn set about with palm trees, a garden of pineapples, a sweep of pasture land, and then the curve of a wide river. The photograph knows nothing of all that. The photographer had focused on the scorpion. He got a very good picture of a scorpion. The eye of the camera saw nothing else.

The eye of faith looks through and past that which the human eye focuses on. Faith looks at the facts--even the ugly ones (remember Abraham who looked at his wife's barrenness and his own impotence)--but does not stop there. It looks beyond to the beauty of things the human eye can never see--things as invisible as the palms and the pineapples are in my photograph.

When the eye of the heart is fixed on the world and the self, everything eternal and invisible is blurred and obscure. No wonder we cannot recognize God--we are studying the scorpion. Instead of gazing at Him in all his majesty and love, we peer at the screen, horrified at what we see there.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Make my heart pure, Lord, that I may will to do your will. Give me the courage to see my world with all its evil and pain, but change the focus of my life.

Lord Jesus, make Thyself to me
A living, bright reality,
More present to faith's vision keen
Than any outward object seen,
More dear, more intimately nigh
Than e'en the sweetest earthly tie.
--(J.B. French)

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

'M' is for a Merry Heart - Page 1

Special occasions like Mother's Day put different kinds of burdens on different people. Those whose work involves expressing themselves publicly usually feel that on such occasions they "ought to say something" appropriate to the day. At first I shied away from this, because I always shy away from things that might turn out to be soupy. But as I thought more about it I realized that it wasn't a question of "ought to" but a good excuse to write down just one or two things, at least, about a remarkable mother I know very well--my own. And if I write about her it won't be soupy.

She is nearly seventy-two years old now, and that fact, coupled with people's applying to her adjectives like "alert" and "spry" and "very much alive" remind me that she is in the category of "old." People certainly don't use those adjectives much for other age groups. But it is hard to think of Katharine Gillingham Howard as old.

She lives alone in a house in Florida between some orange groves and a golf course. She makes good use of the groves but she hardly has time even to look at the golf course, let alone play on it. Time does not hang heavy on her hands, and one of the things she does with it is to keep up a steady and cheerful correspondence with her six married children and her fifteen grandchildren. We write to her, make carbons of our letters, and she writes to all of us and sends the carbons around every week.

She has taken a lot of teasing in her life with us, and we still tease her in letters and she teases back. She is one of those people who knows how to laugh, hard. When you stop to think of it, how many people in your acquaintance can laugh hilariously, until tears roll down their faces?

And one of the things we never let her alone about is the way she uses emotionally loaded words. Three of the six of us grew up during the Depression and were taught many small economies, including turning off lights and things. If Mother found a light left on where it wasn't needed, the light was blazing. A radio in an empty room was not just on, it was blaring. A child with no clothes on was not merely naked, he was running around naked. (Of course I'm not saying my mother is the only one who does this. People have asked me I don't know how many times, of the Indian tribe I knew in Ecuador, "Do you mean to say they just run around completely naked?" The idea of people doing quite ordinary things like sitting still or cooking with no clothes on seems to be a hard one to grasp.)

It was not possible, apparently, for Mother simply to take the children downtown. Children were dragged downtown and through the stores. If our friends came to visit us after school they traipsed through the kitchen, traipsed upstairs, traipsed through the bedrooms.

No matter how poor we were, my parents somehow contrived to have a guest room and it was frequently filled. Mother was a good hostess, and it seemed we were always meeting trains in Philadelphia or boats in New York that had missionaries on them, and we understood that it was a privilege to have guests in our home. Schoolboys who came home with my brothers on holidays from boarding school were in a separate category in my mother's mind, I think, though she was very sweet about having them. They were always clattering up and down stairs, sloshing around in the bathroom, and bumping down the halls with suitcases.

My father--very tall, very studious, and very fond of the outdoors--was not much good at all around the house, but occasionally he would try to spare Mother some work by fixing his own or, on very rare occasions, her breakfast. It never turned out especially well because she lay in bed, stark staring awake, and had to listen to him rattling around in the kitchen.

================================See Page 2

'M' is for a Merry Heart - Page 2

Mother's cooking was strictly sensible, plain and nourishing, and she was an expert at meat and potatoes. (She was raised, my father used to say, on roast beef, while he was brought up on fried smelts, Beauregard eggs, and jelly.) She had no time for fancy salads or dessert. Fresh or canned fruit and store-bought cookies were a fairly standard dessert because they didn't require fiddling.

When I came home from boarding school I felt that the menus at home were just too, too ordinary. "Well," said Mother, not much moved, "you just go ahead and do all the fiddling you want."

If she was talking about a shopping trip to Germantown, which she loved (she had grown up there and no one could ever convince her that there were stores elsewhere equal to Germantown's), she said she would "just run over there." If she was talking about one of my father's numerous speaking engagements, which were sometimes burdensome, he wouldn't run over, he would have to trail way out to Fox Chase or Doylestown.

A single woman named Daphne, who was always on the edge of financial ruin and therefore had to make do with a succession of battered old cars, never just drove to see us, she came trundling down the turnpike.

Well, it must have been quite a life for her. You wonder how anybody survives all the blazing lights, blaring radios, dragging of children, traipsing, clattering, sloshing and bumping, rattling around, fiddling, trailing, and trundling. Now that we have children of our own we know what she means, and increasingly appreciate the color and jollity of the life she made for us. We know, too, that there was a far deeper source of strength than her "merry heart" which, as the writer of the Proverbs said, "doeth good like a medicine." She often needed a great deal more than merriment--she needed a Rock that was higher than she. She found him, and with my father, she led us to him. We are grateful for that, and for what she put up with, and if you were to ask her now to tell about it, it would not sound chaotic or pitiable at all, I think. She would admit that she used all those vivid words, all right, but she would never have thought of them as loaded, and she would probably have to wipe her eyes for laughing at the pictures they recall.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Luke 6:49
The Path of Lonliness

When the River Bursts

Psychologists chart "stress factors" related to various kinds of emotional trauma and the response of different people to those factors--death, divorce, job loss, illness, and such which threaten the very foundations of people's lives. What can hold us at such times?

In a simple story Jesus showed the secret of stability. One man comes to Jesus, hears Him, and acts on what he hears. He is like the man who builds a house on solid rock. Another man hears (is exposed to the same truth, given equal opportunity) but does not act (does not choose to act) on the word he hears. Jesus said he is building a house on sand. When floods come, the river bursts upon it (Lk 6:49 NEB), the house collapses and falls with a great crash.

What sort of floods was He talking about? What rivers might be likely to burst over a man's house? Surely He meant the stresses of life, not terribly different from the stresses we experience, anything that shakes the foundations. It is at such times that we become aware of what those foundations are. Have we laid them on the Rock that never moves, or have we, merely by not obeying the word we have heard, been laying them on sand? That sand is the self--shifty, unstable, carried back and forth by conflicting currents (popular opinions, for example?), utterly undependable and incapable of holding up under pressure.

Lead me, Lord, to the Rock that is higher than I. Let me hear your word, give me grace to obey, to build steadily, stone upon stone, day by day, to do what You say. Establish my heart where floods have no power to overwhelm, for Christ's sake. Amen.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Psalm 44
The Path of Lonliness

Adversaries

The Psalms are full of prayers to God to defeat adversaries-nations, foes, enemies. The Lord of hosts (also translated the Lord of the armies of heaven) is called upon to arise and conquer. People who live in a country not at war may tend to skip over such prayers as not applicable to them, unless they recognize as an adversary anything or anyone that would defeat the purpose of God. Adverse circumstances affect us all, and we feel as helpless as the Israelites, hotly pursued by the cavalry, infantry, horses, and chariots of Egypt. As I write this, it happens that we find ourselves impotent to untangle a certain legal matter--helpless before the delays, the refusal to accept responsibility, the apparent dilatoriness of the attorneys involved. Money is being wasted, people's rights ignored; frustrations abound.

The peoples shake their heads at us;...

I am covered with shame....

But we do not forget Thee,...

We have not gone back on our purpose....

Bestir Thyself, Lord; why cost Thou sleep?...

Arise and come to our help;

For Thy love's sake set us free.

(Ps 44:14,15,17,18,23,26 NEB)

If it were not for the adversaries who make us conscious of our impotence, how would we learn to trust God's omnipotence?

Lord of the armies of heaven, I praise You for your power to conquer. Teach me to trust your power, not mine.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: Matthew 10:34
The Path of Lonliness

Leave the Results with God

Scripture does not promise that obedience to God will always be attended by earthly success and never by difficulties. Someone asked me again last week if I am not bothered by the negative results attending our opening up the Auca tribe to the gospel. "Of course I am bothered," I said. We messengers of the gospel are sinners like the Aucas--God has chosen to work through sinful human beings--and while we offer to them Bread and the Water of Life, which are priceless, we also introduce to them new varieties of sin and disease. We pray for protection from such things--for ourselves and for them. We must do the thing commanded--preach the gospel--and we must trust God for the results. If we wait until we are sure we shall do a thing purely and perfectly, we shall never accomplish the will of God on earth.

Negative results are not by any means always the fault of God's messengers. Recall the warnings Jesus gave his disciples when He sent them out to preach the kingdom--they could expect to be rejected, arrested, and flogged. Families would turn against each other. "I have not come to bring peace, but a sword," he said (Mt 10:34 NEB). Recall, too, the death of innocent infant boys as a result of the birth of One who the king feared might supplant him. God is engineering a master plan for good. Only He sees the end from the beginning.

Spiritual Transport
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Most of us experience from time to time happy feelings that we think are somehow religious. We feel that we are in a special way in touch with the divine. Our hearts are "strangely warmed." But most of life is not like this. We do not live on the Mount of Transfiguration. We are not riding continually in chariots of fire.

When Jesus was preparing his disciples for his departure from them, He said, "Believe in God. Believe also in me."

The obedience of faith requires that we do our work. We must go on day after day, simply and humbly, not waiting for chills and thrills. Grace, not revelation, is our daily bread. Grace is enough. Receiving that, in the portion given according to the lovingkindness of our God, we must act responsibly in the situation in which He puts us, as the disciples had to do when left behind at Christ's ascension. No doubt they felt bewildered and abandoned and would like to have risen with Him through the clouds. When the angels suddenly stood beside them and asked why they were gazing into the sky, they "came down to earth," as it were, went back to Jerusalem to the lodging where they belonged and carried on with their prayers.

Lord, help me today to receive what You want me to have and to do my work as a good and faithful servant.

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The Right Clothes
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Only certain costumes suit Christians. To be otherwise dressed is inappropriate.

"Put on the garments that suit God's chosen people, his own, his beloved: compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience" (Col 3:12 NEB).

"Put on the Lord Jesus Christ." (Rom 13:14 RSV)

"You have all put on Christ as a garment." (Gal 3:27 NEB)

"You must put on the new nature of God's creating." (Eph 4:24 NEB)

"You have discarded the old nature with its deeds and have put on the new nature." (Col 3:10 NEB)

"Put on love." (Col 3:14 RSV)

The clothes we wear are what people see. Only God can look on the heart. The outward signs are important. They reveal something of what is inside. If charity is there, it will become visible outwardly, but if you have no charitable feelings, you can still obey the command. Put it on as simply and consciously as you put on a coat. You choose it; you pick it up; you put it on. This is what you want to wear.

Do you want to dress like a Christian? Put on Christ. The act of honest obedience--the fruit of love for Christ--is your part. Making you Christlike through and through is his part.

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Clay Pots
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

The jungle indians of Ecuador make clay pots of very simple design with no ornamentation or glaze. They challenged me to try shaping them as they did, rolling "snakes" of wet clay and then coiling them round and round until they had a perfectly smooth and balanced vessel. It looked rather easy, but I found that it was a highly developed skill, and my attempts to imitate it were laughable. Mine was not a master hand.

The next step was to build a very hot fire of thorns and brushwood and bake the pot. It was then ready for use, to carry water from the river or to cook in. Nobody thought much about the pot itself once it was made. What mattered was what was in it.

We are, Paul said, clay pots. The Potter has formed us, shaped us into a useful vessel, put us through the fire of testing that we might be fit to hold what He gives us. We are useful and fit--but we are still clay pots--it's what's inside that matters. It is a priceless treasure (2 Cor 4:7 NEB).

I can think of no clearer analogy of our place in God's service and a no more accurate picture of the relative merits of who we are and what we have to offer. We shall always be just pots, quite cheap on the market, but what we carry for others is priceless.

Love, Paul said in another passage, does not "cherish inflated ideas of its own importance" (l Cor 13:4 JBP).

Tit for Tat
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

He that would have friends must show himself friendly.

If you sow sparingly, you will get a scant harvest.

This is the way things generally work. There is another verse which falls into the same category but which, being sometimes interpreted as a command instead of a description, has led to confusion. "Pass no judgment and you will not be judged" (Mt 7:2 NEB). Jesus was not promising an escape from divine judgment for those who refrain from making judgments on others, nor was he asking us to suspend our critical faculties. He was simply pointing out the responsibility we assume when we judge. To say, for example, "Don't lie," or "Lying is a sin," is to lay oneself open to scrutiny in this matter. Do I lie? Is it sin for me? Be careful. Jesus said, "As you judge others, so you will yourselves be judged, and whatever measure you deal out to others will be dealt back to you" (Mt 7:1, 2 NEB). A willingness to submit to the same moral law by which we judge is the rerequisite for judgment.

In a time when every man does that which is right in his own eyes (or at least "feels good") it is no wonder we prefer to interpret Jesus' words as a command: "Judge not." We thus absolve ourselves of responsibility for making any moral distinctions in the behavior of others or of ourselves. "If I don't call what they do 'sin,' they can't call what I do 'sin.'"

This is comfortable for both of us. If I let him keep his "speck," he'll let me keep my "plank."

Jesus commanded us to remove both--the plank first, then the brother's speck. Submit, in other words, to treatment. Accept the consequences. To be judged is the consequence of judging, and to recognize one's own need is prerequisite.

Obedience is not Contingent
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

The making of comparisons is a dangerous business for a Christian. Each of us must give account, not of his neighbor, but of himself to God. To the workers who, under the guise of a concern for fairness, objected to an equal wage being paid to those who began the job at different hours of the day, the owner said, "Why be jealous because I am kind?" (Mt 20:15 NEB).

To the brother of the prodigal son, put out because this wastrel was being wined and dined, the father said, "My boy, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. How could we help celebrating this happy day?" (Lk 15:31,32 NEB).

To Peter, hesitant to follow the Lord until he found out what was going to be required of the other disciple, Jesus said, "If it should be my will that he wait until I come, what is it to you? Follow me" (Jn 21:22 NEB).

The spirit of godly obedience is not in us; our wills have not been unconditionally turned over to the Master, as long as we determine our own action by what others do. To husbands God says (unconditionally), "Love your wives." To wives He says (unconditionally), "Submit to your husbands."* If each lets his obedience be contingent upon the other's, there is a standoff. The command to husbands is the business of husbands. The command to wives is the business of wives. Let each "mind his own"--direct his attention to the thing required of him--and harmony will be the result.

"There must be no limit to your goodness, as your heavenly Father's goodness knows no bounds" (Mt 5:48 NEB).

*Many wives consider their own cases exceptional. Since no exceptions are mentioned in this passage, I conclude that a wife must be very sure she has a scriptural warrant before disobeying, e.g., if her husband desires her to act in a way clearly forbidden by scripture.

A Safeguard for the Soul
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Souls are vulnerable things. They need safeguards. It was when Paul was in prison that this idea came to him. He had just been writing to the Philippians about the benefits that accrued because of his own sufferings and the possible death he might die. He told them of Epaphroditus' illness and anxiety, and finished with "In conclusion, my brothers, delight yourselves in the Lord!...You will find it a great safeguard to your souls" (Phil 3:1 JBP).

It would be very easy to allow depression and anxiety to overcome us when we look at the dismal circumstances in which we sometimes find ourselves. Who had better reason than Paul for depression? ("Oh well, but he was Saint Paul!" we counter.) He had learned by practice how to apply the soul's safeguard, which is not mere enjoyment. It is delight. This is a command and therefore an act of will, and it is done in the Lord. No circumstance is so dismal as to prevent obedience to the command. No trouble can blast that safeguard. Do it. Do it by faith. Delight yourself in the Lord. Maybe you will have to get out of bed, get up from your chair, go outdoors and walk, sing a song out loud, bake a pie for somebody, or mow the lawn as an offering of praise. You can do something which will help you to obey that command. It is amazing how strongly what we do affects how we feel.

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Responsible to Praise
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

We cannot always or even often control events, but we can control how we respond to them. When things happen which dismay or appall, we ought to look to God for his meaning, remembering that He is not taken by surprise nor can his purposes be thwarted in the end. What God looks for is those who will worship Him. Our look of inquiring trust glorifies Him.

One of the witnesses to the crucifixion was a military officer to whom the scene was surely not a novelty. He had seen plenty of criminals nailed up. But the response of this Man who hung there was of such an utterly different nature than that of the others that the centurion knew at once that He was innocent. His own response then, rather than one of despair that such a terrible injustice should take place, or of anger at God who might have prevented it, was praise (Lk 23:47 NEB).

This is our first responsibility: to glorify God. In the face of life's worst reversals and tragedies, the response of a faithful Christian is praise--not for the wrong itself certainly, but for who God is and for the ultimate assurance that there is a pattern being worked out for those who love Him.

Spiritual Equilibrium
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Sometimes a hope or desire lays hold on one with such power that it becomes almost burdensome, even though the thing is a delight to contemplate. The ordinary business of life must be attended to, but this thing carries a lot of weight in soul, mind, and heart. It has a strong pull. And when you are carrying a heavy weight, you have to compensate in order to keep your balance. The best means to spiritual equilibrium, I find, is to look repeatedly at the things which are not seen, that is, at things which are eternal. What Evelyn Underhill calls "the pressure of the Divine Charity" forever urges me forward, counteracting the pressure of my emotions and human desires, reminding me with great patience and great persistence that this thing--this love, this longing, this huge desire--is the very thing God Himself gave, in order that I might have "somewhat to offer." He will see to it that it does not come to nothing, provided we lay it before Him, put it at his disposal.

Lord, all that I long for is known to you,
my sighing is no secret from you...
I put my trust in you, Yahweh,
and leave you to answer for me, Lord my God.
--(Ps 38:9, 15 JB)

Wounds Can Change Your Heart
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Living in a world broken by sin, we suffer wounds of many kinds. Perhaps the most painful are not the physical ones but those of the heart. No one has power to hurt us more deeply than somebody we love, somebody we counted on to understand and support us. But there are two ways to receive wounds. One leads to larger life. The other leads straight to death, that is to destruction--of those we influence as well as of ourselves.

By grace we can receive the wounds of our friends as our Master received them--in the strength and for the glory of our heavenly Father. Being sinners ourselves, however, we need to be brought low at the cross. Nothing will do this better than some piercing heart-wound, provided we seek Christ because of it and pray Him to purify us.

There is another way--the world's way. It is anger, resentment, retaliation, retreat into pride and self-justification. These are quite natural, and quite lethal. The choice is ours.

"The wound which is borne in God's way brings a change of heart too salutary to regret, but the hurt which is borne in the world's way brings death" (2 Cor 7:10 NEB).

The Arbiter is Peace
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

When there are disputes or differences of any sort between people, there are four possible results: estrangement, an armed truce, compromise, or reconciliation. The first of these is the reason for a good many divorces. The second accounts for many unhappy marriages. The third may seem the best that can be hoped for. The fourth is what Christians are called to, always. In marital disputes, or those between labor and management, an arbiter is sometimes called in, often after much wrangling and bitterness. An arbiter has absolute power to judge and decide.

There is another arbiter, too often forgotten. "Let Christ's peace be arbiter in your hearts; to this peace you were called" (Col 3:15 NEB).

Wouldn't it make an astonishing difference in our fellowship with one another if we would let that peace arbitrate, if we would remember the promised parting gift of Christ, "My peace I give you," and the command to live at peace with all?

But, we ask, how? How does it work? The context in Colossians shows us:

You are God's chosen race, his saints; he loves you, and you should be clothed in sincere compassion, in kindness and humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with one another; forgive each other as soon as a quarrel begins. The Lord has forgiven you; now you must do the same. Over all these clothes, to keep them together and complete them, put on love. (Col 3:12-14 JB)

Are we willing to follow Him here? He will help us if we are. He will calm the troubled waters.

Exert Yourselves
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

The vigor of our response reveals how much we care about something. If a man is stung by a bee, he cares. It takes very little time for him to respond. When taxes are raised, howls of complaint follow rather quickly. The winner of a state lottery presents himself without delay.

Salvation is a free gift. It includes everything that makes for life and godliness, here and hereafter. What is it worth? It's beyond calculation, priceless. We share in the very being of God. Um hmm, we say. How do we get it? Oh--by faith. Yes. Very simple. Accept Jesus. The price is all paid. My sins are forgiven. I'm on the "Hallelujah Train."

All true. That is the gospel. But that is not all. Gifts must be received, possessed, and fostered. God's choice and calling, we must clinch. This is an aspect of the gospel which many Christians (Protestants in particular) have overlooked. The apostle Peter writes, "Exert yourselves to clinch God's choice and calling....Thus you will be afforded full and free admission into the eternal kingdom" (2 Pt 1:10, 11 NEB). How do I "exert myself"? Peter tells us: "Try your hardest to supplement your faith with virtue (right action and thinking), virtue with knowledge, knowledge with self-control, self-control with fortitude," etc. (2 Pt 1:5-7). Check that passage. It is still true that nothing can wash away my sin but the blood of Jesus. It is also true that God gives us responsibility--that is, the obligation to respond. How much do we care? The vigor of our response will reveal how much.

How Far to Go
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

We say that we are willing to follow Jesus. Peter said he would go with Him to prison and to death, not expecting that either would likely be required. Let us settle it once and for all--to follow Him will mean death. Not crucifixion in the literal sense, probably, but the coming to the end of ourselves, our expectations, our dreams. He must bring us to that end in order to bring us to the beginning of the Christ-life. "I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live," was Paul's testimony (Gal 2:20 AV).

But does this mean none of my hopes will be fulfilled? Is it all wilderness and sorrow? The people of Israel must have asked this while en route to Canaan. Must we follow so far? And when they were desperate for water, God led them to Marah where the water was bitter. Terrible disappointment. But then--the miracle of the tree that made it sweet!

How far shall we go with Him who calls us to fellowship with Himself? Shall we stop dead in our tracks if the water is bitter? Shall we turn tail and run if we glimpse a cross? "Whoever cares for his own safety is lost" (Mt 16:25 NEB). Think of missing the miracle of the water. Think of missing the resurrection.

Savior Christ, I want to go the whole way. Keep me from faltering today. Show the tree that transforms bitter water, and help me to live in its shade.

Learning the Father's Love
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

When my brother Dave was very small, we spent a week at the seaside in Belmar, New Jersey. In vain my father tried to persuade the little boy to come into the waves with him and jump, promising to hold him safely and not allow the waves to sweep over his head. He took me (only a year older) into the ocean and showed Dave how much fun it would be. Nothing doing. The ocean was terrifying. Dave was sure it would mean certain disaster, and he could not trust his father. On the last day of our vacation he gave in. He was not swept away, his father held him as promised, and he had far more fun than he could have imagined, whereupon he burst into tears and wailed, "Why didn't you make me go in?"

An early lesson in prayer often comes through an ordeal of fear. We face impending adversity and we doubt the love, wisdom and power of our Father in heaven. We've tried everything else and in our desperation we turn to prayer--of the primitive sort: here's Somebody who's reputed to be able to do anything. The great question is, can I get Him to do what I want? How do I twist His arm, how persuade a remote and reluctant deity to change His mind?

When the people of Israel were encamped in Pi-hahiroth and saw the Egyptians coming after them, they felt they were looking death in the face and it was all Moses' fault--"as if there weren't enough graves in Egypt that you brought us out here to die!"

"Don't be afraid," said Moses. "Stand by. The Lord will fight for you if you'll just be quiet."

You know the story of deliverance--the sea was rolled back, Israel marched through it dry shod, and when the Egyptians pursued them the sea swamped their horses, their chariots, and the whole army. "Not even one of them remained." The song of victory Moses and Israel sang reveals their recognition not only of the strength, majesty and wonder-working of the Lord, but of His loving-kindness, immeasurably beyond anything they had dared to hope.

Poor Dave! His father could have forced him to come into the water, but he could not have forced him to relax and enjoy it. As long as the child insisted on protecting himself, saving the life he was sure he would lose, he could not trust the strong love of his father. He refused to surrender. In this simple story we hear echoes of the most ancient story, of the two who, mistrusting the word of their Father, fearing that obedience to Him would ultimately bar them from happiness, chose to repudiate their dependence on Him. Sin, death, destruction for the whole race were the result.

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A Word for Fathers
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

While visiting Columbia Bible College in South Carolina, I found in the library a little book called Father and Son, written by my grandfather, Philip E. Howard. He writes:

"Do you remember that encouraging word of Thomas Fuller's, a chaplain of Oliver Cromwell's time? It's a good passage for a father in all humility and gratitude to tuck away in his memory treasures:

"'Lord, I find the genealogy of my Savior strangely checkered with four remarkable changes in four immediate generations. (1) Rehoboam begat Abijah; that is, a bad father begat a bad son. (2) Abijah begat Asa; that is, a bad father begat a good son. (3) Asa begat Jehoshaphat; that is, a good father a good son. (4) Jehoshaphat begat Joram; that is, a good father a bad son. I see, Lord, from hence that my father's piety cannot be entailed; that is bad news for me. But I see also that actual impiety is not always hereditary; that is good news for my son.'"

In another chapter Grandpa Howard tells this story.

"A sensitive, timid little boy, long years ago, was accustomed to lie down to sleep in a low 'trundle-bed,' which was rolled under his parents' bed by day and was brought out for his use by night. As he lay there by himself in the darkness, he could hear the voices of his parents, in their lighted sitting-room across the hallway, on the other side of the house. It seemed to him that his parents never slept; for he left them awake when he was put to bed at night, and he found them awake when he left his bed in the morning. So far this thought was a cause of cheer to him, as his mind was busy with imaginings in the weird darkness of his lonely room.

"After loving good-night words and kisses had been given him by both his parents, and he had nestled down to rest, this little boy was accustomed, night after night, to rouse up once more, and to call out from his trundle-bed to his strong-armed father, in the room from which the light gleamed out, beyond the shadowy hallway, 'Are you there, papa?' And the answer would come back cheerily, 'Yes, my child, I am here.' 'You'll take care of me tonight, papa, won't you?' was then the question. 'Yes, I'll take care of you, my child,' was the comforting response. 'Go to sleep now. Good night.' And the little fellow would fall asleep restfully, in the thought of those assuring good-night words.

A Word for Fathers
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

"A little matter that was to the loving father; but it was a great matter to the sensitive son. It helped to shape the son's life. It gave the father an added hold on him; and it opened up the way for his clearer understanding of his dependence on the loving watchfulness of the All-Father. And to this day when that son, himself a father and a grandfather, lies down to sleep at night, he is accustomed, out of the memories of that lesson of long ago, to look up through the shadows of his earthly sleeping place into the far-off light of his Father's presence, and to call out, in the same spirit of childlike trust and helplessness as so long ago, 'Father, you'll take care of me tonight, won't you?' And he hears the assuring answer come back, 'He that keepeth thee will not slumber. The Lord shall keep thee from all evil. He shall keep thy soul. Sleep, my child, in peace.' And so he realizes the twofold blessing of a father's goodnight words."

That story, says Grandpa, came from his own father-in-law, my great-grandfather, Henry Clay Trumbull. I have a hunch that Trumbull was that little boy, and the father my great-great-grandfather.

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A Note to Fathers
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Are you depriving your son of his sonship? "Hey! Hold it. What?..." Hebrews 12:7 says, "Can anyone be a son who is not disciplined by his father? If you escape the discipline in which all sons share, you must be bastards and no true sons" (NEB). Do you love your son or daughter enough to say no and hold to it? Would you, by cowardliness that fears to make a rule (perhaps because "nobody else" believes in it) treat your child as though you cared no more about him than you would care about a bastard?

But there are some words of caution. "Fathers, don't over-correct your children, or make it difficult for them to obey the commandment. Bring them up with Christian teaching in Christian discipline" (Ephesians 6:4, PHILLIPS).

This reminds me of the way in which the Lord teaches us. He is so patient with us who are so "slow-of-heart." The Shepherd does not make it hard for the sheep to walk in the right paths. He is always trying to make it easier for them, but they balk, they wander off, they don't listen. Children as well as adults are like sheep. They go astray. Fathers are meant to be shepherds. Don't overcorrect. "You fathers must not goad your children to resentment, but give them the instruction, and the correction, which belong to a Christian upbringing" (same verse, NEB). It's balance that is needed. Correct them, teach them. Don't go to extremes. Ask God for wisdom. It's too big a job for any ordinary human being. Look at God as a Father. How does He deal with us? Try to follow His pattern.

One Cause of Collapse
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

One excuse that is a catch-all for any failure to do our jobs is "burn-out." It's an occupational hazard in just about every occupation modern man has ever heard of. Strangely enough, we never heard about burn-out until the past couple of decades, but now everybody suffers from it. Exhaustion--physical, mental, emotional--is endemic. Why?

One reason is lack of humility. In our anxiety to compete, to prove ourselves, to be a success as the world defines it, we are wearied and overburdened. If we sought instead only the greatness of the kingdom, we would become childlike. The truly important things are hidden from the clever and intelligent and are shown to those who are willing to come and be shown, to put on the yoke Christ bears, which is the will of the Father.

We need to learn to walk side by side with Him, bearing humbly and gently the yoke He places on us, not the unbearable burdens of competition and recognition and something called fulfillment. If we do this, any burden He allows--of loss or pain or insult or responsibility or heartbreak--will be both bearable and light, for the weight is shared with Him. No yoke laid on us in this way will cause us to burn out or collapse. This yoke itself will in fact be the very means of our finding rest. There is no form of recreation or relaxation or therapy to compare with the rest, the gentle ease, of Christ's yoke. "Come," He says to us, "and learn of Me."

Hoping Under the Lord Jesus
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

When Paul was in prison, he wrote a very beautiful letter to the Christians in Philippi, a letter full of joy, love, and tenderness. It contains many little human touches which give us glimpses of a Paul who is quite different from the popular image. Here we see not a stern and redoubtable theologian-authority figure, but a kind man with a simple and thoroughly childlike trust. His heart is warm and open to these dear friends who are so important to him as he lies in chains in his cell, his every human feeling utterly submitted to the Lord for whom he is glad to suffer. Naturally he hungers for news of them and hopes Timothy will be able to bring it. Even such a common human desire is placed matter-of-factly under the authority of his Master.

"I hope under the Lord Jesus to send Timothy."

If it is possible, if it works out, if it is God's will--even this small detail he offered to the Lord Jesus for his permission, like the psalmist who prayed, "Lord, all my desire is before Thee" (Ps 38:9 AV).

Let our hopes for today be under the Lord Jesus--screened by Him who loves us and can work them all out if they are good for us and for all concerned.

Surrender Every Thought
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

"Although of course we lead normal human lives, the battle we are fighting is on the spiritual level. The very weapons we use are not those of human warfare but powerful in God's warfare for the destruction of the enemy's strongholds. Our battle is to bring down every deceptive fantasy....We fight to capture every thought until it acknowledges the authority of Christ" (2 Cor 10:4-6 JBP).

As I was praying this morning these words were in my mind. There were other things in my mind as well, things which had certainly not acknowledged the authority of Christ. I had been praying for months: Lord, have mercy on So-and-So. There was evidence that He was answering that prayer, and, far from being thankful for that, I found in my heart Jonah's anger. Why should God be merciful to the people of Nineveh or to this person? They didn't deserve it!

Right then and there the spiritual battle was drawn. Whose side was I on anyway? Everything that was opposed to God and his purposes had to be surrendered. I had been trying to explain to God why my own feelings ought to be considered, why his were all wrong. That, too, had to be captured, made to acknowledge Christ's authority. A surrendered mind is not one which is no longer in operation. It is, rather, a mind freed from rebellion and opposition. To be Christ's captive is to be perfectly free.

The Desires of My Heart
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

I had been praying for something I wanted very badly. It seemed a good thing to have, a thing that would make life even more pleasant than it is, and would not in any way hinder my work. God did not give it to me. Why? I do not know all of his reasons, of course. The God who orchestrates the universe has a good many things to consider that have not occurred to me, and it is well that I leave them to Him. But one thing I do understand: He offers me holiness at the price of relinquishing my own will.

"Do you honestly want to know Me?" He asks. I answer yes. "Then do what I say," He replies. "Do it when you understand it; do it when you don't understand it. Take what I give you; be willing not to have what I do not give you. The very relinquishment of this thing that you so urgently desire is a true demonstration of the sincerity of your lifelong prayer: Thy will be done.

So instead of hammering on heaven's door for something which it is now quite clear God does not want me to have, I make my desire an offering. The longed-for thing is material for sacrifice. Here, Lord, it's yours.

He will, I believe, accept the offering. He will transform it into something redemptive. He may perhaps give it back as He did Isaac to Abraham, but He will know that I fully intend to obey Him.

I Will Not Be Afraid
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

News reports come every day concerning economic and political calamities about to befall us all, not to mention famines, tornadoes, earthquakes, and volcanoes, things which may at any moment strike us or people we love. There are always plenty of good reasons to be afraid--unless you know that things are under control. A Christian has this "inside information." Things are, in fact, under control. God is our Refuge, our Strength, our Mighty Fortress. Nothing will get by the moat of his protection without his permission. To be afraid of what happens today or what may happen tomorrow is not only an awful waste of energy, it is not only useless, it is disobedient. We are forbidden to fear anything but the Lord Himself.

When Christians in China were being hounded to death in the 1930s, one of them (I am told) wrote this simple song, which has helped me in countless times of fear ever since I learned it as a high school girl:

I will not be afraid.
I will not be afraid.
I will look upward, and travel onward,
And not be afraid.

Will power, of course, will not always overcome human emotions. But willed obedience to the One who is in charge, coupled with prayer for his help in vanquishing our natural fears, is something else.

An Encircled Shield
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Different phases of life have different sets of fears. A newborn baby demonstrates fear of falling and of loud noises. Swaddling clothes, used for thousands of years, are still wound tightly around the babies of the Quichua Indian tribe of Ecuador. As soon as a child is born his arms are bound to his sides, his legs straightened in a neat firm package. When this is removed the baby feels insecure and cries.

Adolescent fears about popularity, pimples, and peer pressure give way to adult anxieties about responsibility and life's major decisions.

As we grow old we are beset by the fear of aging, which may bring us weakness, pain, dependence on others, loneliness. We wake in the early dark and find ourselves the targets of many fiery darts of fear. We may think we are on guard, and suddenly a dart comes at us from an unexpected angle. We can't cover all the possibilities. We dodge and duck, but some of the fears get to us--unless we take refuge in the Lord. The psalmist calls Him "my encircling shield, my glory." No need to stare into the darkness, allowing our imaginations to torment us with the "what ifs"--"Now I can lie down and go to sleep and then awake, for the Lord has hold of me" (Ps 3:3,5 JB).

The Fear of Loss
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

In C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters we see with startling clarity the cleverness of the enemy in deceiving human beings.

Selfishness has a thousand forms, most of which we are slow to recognize for what they are. I was thinking about the fear of loss and what a stranglehold it can have on me. As I listed some of the things I dreaded to lose, it occurred to me that this fear is a deadly form of selfishness. Selfishness does terrible things to us, but it does not stop there. It does terrible things to others. "Saving our own skin" usually results in skinning somebody else. Think, for example, of the fear of losing: reputation, opportunity for advancement, credit, recognition, position, beauty, youth, health, money, the love of friends or children, compliments, popularity, security, privacy, rights, people you love, job, home, dreams, power.

As I considered each of these separately, I began to think what sort of sin each kind of loss tempts me to commit. Then I thought about what kind of faith is required to enable me to commit those fears to God. Has He, in fact, made provision for these things? The list is not a list of sins--make no mistake about that. It is a list of blessings, of gifts from God. But to grasp them selfishly and greedily, to hang onto them fiercely and allow myself to be enslaved by the fear of losing them, is to deny Christ. Do not fear, He says to us. I am with you.

Submission and Independence
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Paul tells us to submit to one another out of reverence for Christ, and James tells us we ought to have "the right sort of independence" (Jas 1:4 JBP). Can the same person obey both commands? The answer is yes, for in both he is being obedient to Christ. Submission is the recognition of and obligation to authority. An independence that refuses all accountability to those assigned by God to exercise authority--parents, husbands, employers, teachers, government--is the wrong sort. The right sort, according to James, begins with the acceptance of adversity. That in itself indicates a measure of maturity. One who has not attained that maturity but tries to achieve independence will certainly have the wrong sort.

To accept adversity, obviously, goes against the grain of all of us. We don't like adversity. Acceptance takes fortitude and faith--faith that Somebody knows what this trouble is all about and has the situation well in hand. In other words, acceptance is submission to God Himself. Often the real proof of our obedience is the willingness to submit, not only to adversity, but also to the specific individuals whom God has put over us (and sometimes this comes to the same thing--those individuals spell "adversity!"). Take a close look at what James says: whatever tests our faith leads in the end to the right sort of independence.

How to Be Free
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: All That Was Ever Ours

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Isak Dinesen, the great Danish storyteller, describes two men traveling by boat to Zanzibar on a full-moon night in 1863. Mira Jama, a much-renowned old man, "the inventions of whose mind have been loved by a hundred tribes," tells a red-haired Englishman "who had been blown about by many winds," that "there are only two courses of thought at all seemly to a person of any intelligence. The one is: What am I to do this next moment?--or tonight, or tomorrow? And the other: What did God mean by creating the world, the sea, and the desert, the horse, the winds, woman, amber, dishes, wine?"

I am captivated by the scene--the warm night, the smooth sea, the creak of the mast, and the quiet voices. But beyond that Mira Jama's statement has for me the ring of truth. It touches the foundation of all that the Bible says to us, for it is a book about man's responsibility and God's purposes. But there is a question which alone is regarded as "relevant" (Mira Jama's word seemly is a much better word!) to today's generation, one "up with which I can no longer put," a question discussed in schools, churches, clubs, and "sensitivity groups" ad nauseam. It is WHO AM I? I protest the endless probing and pulse-taking, the anxious inward examination which assumes that the ego is the place to look for answers, and that the truth will somehow be found in "knowing oneself." Can we not call it plain old-fashioned selfishness if we ignore the possibility of responsibility to others and to God as the road to freedom? According to Mira Jama, "a person of any intelligence" would want to be informed not of who he is, but of what is expected of him.

One weekend three things happened to my teenage daughter, Valerie, which brought home, more powerfully than any lecture of mine could have done, the tragic delusion of modern youth's quest for identity and freedom. On Friday night her best friend ran away from home. On Saturday night Valerie saw the movie Easy Rider. Then on Sunday morning the rector's sermon was on freedom, using Easy Rider as an illustration of a misguided pilgrim's progress. Valerie herself saw the relation between these events, and was awed by the "coincidence," to me not less than providential.

Freedom from Fear
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

There is a sense in which every form of fear is essentially the fear of death. Jesus came to deliver us from that in all its forms. "He became a human being so that by going through death as a man he might destroy him who had the power of death, that is, the devil; and might also set free those who lived their whole lives a prey to the fear of death" (Heb 2:14,15 JBP).

I know people whose lives are totally controlled by fear. There is no bondage more powerful and crippling. Fear takes over the mind, coercing and circumscribing all its activity. We know where that spirit of fear originates, and we know the name of the enemy who would hold us enslaved. In the name of our God we must tread down our enemies, including all the nagging "what ifs" of our lives. To those frightening possibilities Christ answers, "I will never leave you or forsake you." Let the very worst thing come to pass--even there, especially there, his hand will hold us. If we go into darkness, He is there, has been there before us, has conquered all its powers. That's why He became a man. That's why He died. That's why He rose again.

My Lord and my God--forgive my fears. Deliver me from bondage by the power of your resurrection.

How to Be Free
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: All That Was Ever Ours

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Her friend, whom I'll call Becky, had suggested once or twice that she'd like to run away. She had not been happy with her mother, so had decided to try living with her father and stepmother. She didn't like that either. They also expected her to let them know where she was, and come home at reasonable hours. This was a bit much for Becky, who had attended a school in New York where "we never had to worry about things like getting homework done or coming to class on time." She filled Val's and other friends' ears with astonishing tales of things she had experienced, and took a condescending view of people who were not pot smokers. To her, freedom meant doing what she wanted to do. She had not yet acknowledged to herself that she did not know what she wanted to do. "Maybe the trouble's inside me," she confided to Val. "But I think it's outside. It's my environment. If I can get away from it all, find out who I am, do my own thing. . . ."

Easy Rider is the story of two young men who do just that. They use money made in selling dope to cut loose from their responsibilities and head for what looks to them like the Holy City--New Orleans, at Mardi Gras time. One of them starts out by discarding his wristwatch. None of the restrictions of time for him! He is free. And off they go, roaring across the great sunlit spaces of the West, the warm peacefulness of the South. Neither of them notices that if it weren't for the Establishment there would be no smooth highway to travel on, no high-powered bikes to carry them.

The rector's sermon pointed out that true freedom is not to be found in throwing off personal responsibility. The man who runs away from the truth will never be a free man, for it is the truth alone, sought within the circle of his commitments, which will make him free.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a man who epitomized true freedom in his acceptance, for God's sake, of the prison cell and death, wrote: "If you set out to seek freedom, then learn above all things to govern your soul and your senses. . . . Only through discipline may a man learn to be free."

How to Be Free
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: All That Was Ever Ours

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Freedom and discipline have come to be regarded as mutually exclusive, when in fact freedom is not at all the opposite, but the final reward, of discipline. It is to be bought with a high price, not merely claimed. The world thrills to watch the grace of Peggy Fleming on the ice, or the marvelously controlled speed and strength of a racehorse. But the skater and horse are free to perform as they do only because they have been subjected to countless hours of grueling work, rigidly prescribed, faithfully carried out. Men are free to soar into space because they have willingly confined themselves in a tiny capsule designed and produced by highly trained scientists and craftsmen, have meticulously followed instructions and submitted themselves to rules which others defined.

I spent some time living with a jungle tribe whose style of life looked enviably "free." They wore no clothes, lived in houses without walls, had no idea whatever of authority, paid no taxes, read no books, took no vacations. But they had a well-defined goal. They wanted to stay alive. It was as simple as that. And in a jungle, which can look very hostile indeed to one not accustomed to living there, they had learned to live. They accepted with grace and humor the awful weather, the gnats, the mud, thorns, snakes, steep hills, and deep forests which made their lives difficult. They never even spoke of "roughing it." They didn't know anything else. They'd walk for hours with hundred-pound baskets on their backs and when they reached their destination, perhaps in a tropical downpour, they did not so much as say, "Whew!" They knew what was expected of them, and did it as a matter of course. None asked, "Who am I?" They asked only, "What am I to do this next moment?" If it were to hunt or to make poison for darts, a man did that, or if it were to go out and clear new planting space, a woman did that. Their freedom to live in that jungle depended on a well-defined goal and on their willingness to discipline themselves in order to reach it. No one could "give" them this freedom.

The Way Appointed
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

One aspect of the mystery of God's sovereign will is how the calculated evil of men is not only permitted, but actually becomes a necessary part of the divine plan. We are tempted to think of the wrongs done to us as hindrances, frustrations, interruptions. "What has this got to do with the will of God?" we ask, irritated and, we suppose, justifiably impatient with human interference. But the truth is that both our time and our way are in God's hands--they are "appointed." Surely it is so for all his sons as it was for the Son of Man. When He was on the verge of being "handed over for crucifixion," and betrayed by one of his own disciples, He said, "My appointed time is near....One who has dipped his hand into this bowl with me will betray me. The Son of Man is going the way appointed for him" (Mt 26:18, 24 NEB).

Out of the deepest depths of human evil the good God brought salvation--the very salvation of man whose sinfulness killed the Son He sent.

Nothing can reach us, from any source in earth or hell, no matter how evil, which God cannot turn to his own redemptive purpose. Let us be glad that the way is not a game of chance, a mere roll of dice which determines our fortune or calamity--it is a way appointed, and it is appointed for God's eternal glory and our final good.

Love of the World
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

John tells us in his first letter that anyone who loves the world is a stranger to the Father's love. We are not to set our hearts on the world or anything in it. These words have been interpreted in many strange ways by different varieties of Christians, and I have puzzled much over them. The word used in the original is cosmos, which means the whole created order. Is there nothing here that I am allowed to love? What about the thundering, flashing sea that I see from my window? What about the rose on my desk, or even this house where I live with its warmth and pleasantness, the cup of tea in mid-afternoon, the books on my shelves? They are not going to last forever. If I love them, am I then a stranger to my heavenly Father's love?

It has helped me to think of John's words in this manner: To love the world in the wrong way is to love it without knowing the Father's love. It is when a man knows Him and receives everything from his hand that the world is redeemed for him, no longer a snare and in opposition to the love of God. We must love the world only through and because of the Father, not instead of. Our ultimate concern must be God Himself. He is eternal. His gifts are not always so.

Lord, may no gift of yours ever take your place in my heart. Help me to hold them lightly in an open palm, that the supreme object of my desire may always be You and You alone. Purify my heart--I want to love You purely.

The Hope of Holiness
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

The "openness" that is often praised among Christians as a sign of true humility may sometimes be an oblique effort to prove that there is no such thing as a saint after all, and that those who believe that it is possible in the twentieth century to live a holy life are only deceiving themselves. When we enjoy listening to some Christian confess his weaknesses and failures, we may be eager only to convince ourselves that we are not so bad after all. We sit on the edge of our chairs waiting to grasp at an excuse for continuing to do what we have made up our minds long ago to do anyway. The Lord is ready to forgive sin at any moment and to make strong servants out of the worst of us. But we must believe it; we must come to Him in faith for forgiveness and deliverance and then go out to do the work He has given us to do.

"Charity rejoiceth not in iniquity" (1 Cor 13:6 AV). Let us be willing to call iniquity what is really iniquity, rather than to call it weakness, temperament, failure, hangups, or to fall back on the tired excuse, "It's just the way I am."

Create in me a clean heart, O God, And renew a right spirit within me. (Ps 51:10 AV)

Give Way to Truth
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Through a disagreement with my husband Lars yesterday I suddenly recognized an instrument used powerfully by the enemy to drive a wedge between two people who love each other (and there is nothing which fills the enemy with such glee as destroying unity). It is reason. I had good reasons for my argument and so did he. Reason comes very close to being an idol to me at times, and I am tempted to make sacrifices on its altar.

"Be faithful to Reason!" whispers the Destroyer. "Do not let go!"

"Be faithful to Me," Christ says, "give up your reasons, give way to Truth."

Reason is one of God's great gifts. We have intelligence and the faculty of reason, to be employed in the service of God and other people. Faithfulness to Christ (who is Truth) does not negate reason, but purifies it, raises it to a higher level.

"Pure" reason, logical argument, stood between my husband and me, as it stood between Job and his friends, and Jesus and the Pharisees.

"Knowledge gives self-importance--it is love that makes the building grow. A man may imagine that he understands something, but still not understand anything in the way he ought to!" (1 Cor 8:1,2 JB).

An Antidote for Pride
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

The basis of all sin of whatever kind is pride. This was what inspired the disobedience of Adam and Eve, and it is always with us. One very common form it takes is the pride of privilege. When a man is given a special position, he forgets that it was given. He becomes proud, as though "his own arm" had gotten him the victory.

God knows well the heart and made provision for this sin of pride when He instructed the Israelites about appointing a king. He was to make a copy of the law. This would be the antidote, necessary for him and likewise for all of us (for "law" read "Word"). "He shall keep it by him and read from it all his life, so that he may learn to fear the Lord his God and keep all the words of this law and observe these statutes.

In this way he shall not become prouder than his fellow countrymen nor shall he turn from these commandments to right or left" (Dt 17:19, 20 NEB). The attempt itself to keep the commandments, one by one and day after day, will be sufficient to humble us, for the "straightedge of the law" (Rom 3:20 JBP) will only show us, as Paul found, how crooked we are. We will find, in fact, that we cannot keep it. "The whole matter is on a different plane--believing instead of achieving" (Rom 3:27 JBP). Pride won't find much foothold on that plane.

"The real test of being in the presence of God is that you either forget about yourself altogether or see yourself as a small, dirty object. It is better to forget about yourself altogether" (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity).

Willed Blindness
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

In Paphos there lived a sorcerer named Elymas, who posed as a prophet. He belonged to the governor's retinue. Seized with jealousy because the governor wanted to hear the word of the Lord from Paul and Barnabas, Elymas tried to turn him aside from faith. Having seen the light, Elymas preferred darkness and preferred also that others remain in darkness if their turning to the light should turn them away from him. He thus willfully falsified the truth and was struck blind.

The result of deliberate deception is blindness. The man who, to preserve his own position, deceives himself or another, is a swindler (this is what Paul called Elymas), "rascal, son of the devil, enemy of all goodness" (Acts 13:10 NEB).

God is light and in Him is not any darkness at all.

If we guard some comer of darkness in ourselves, we will soon be drawing someone else into darkness, shutting them out from the light in the face of Jesus Christ.

"Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen" (Book of Common Prayer).

The Root of Hostility to Others
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

When personal relationships break down, it is a sure sign that there is some rift in one's relationship with God. The deeper the rift, the broader will be the effect on the human level. Rebellion against our Creator and Redeemer--against the One who designed us and gives us the breath of life and loves us every minute of every day--is not only unreasonable but outrageous. The sense of outrage will reveal itself in our treatment of others.

We "get at" God by getting at those He has made, especially those whom his providence has placed close to us. We cannot bear the image of God in them, for we cannot bear the ineradicability of that image in our own being. It is a constant reminder of our own sin, which is the violation of the divine image. Without the consciousness of a legitimate claim on our lives, we could not know sin.

To recognize and submit to that claim is to return to peace and fellowship.

"If we claim to be sharing in his life while we walk in the dark, our words and our lives are a lie; but if we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, then we share together a common life, and we are being cleansed from every sin by the blood of Jesus His Son" (l Jn 1:6,7 NEB).

Zero Faith
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

"I had zero faith," a young woman said to me yesterday. "I believed in nothing at all. I wished I could, but it just wasn't there. I began praying, without faith, that God would help me to believe. He did. I know He answers that kind of prayer."

This young woman is a conscientious wife and mother, a faithful church member, and a growing Christian. Her life witnesses to the answer to her prayer. She started with nothing.

Sometimes we start with a small measure of faith, like that of the distraught father who asked Jesus for the healing of his son. "I have faith," he said, then, aware that it was not enough to support the weight of the thing he was asking, "Help me where faith falls short" (Mk 9:24 NEB).

Unbelief is a stronghold of such spiritual power that only mighty spiritual weapons can storm it. We have those weapons--"not merely human, but divinely potent to demolish strongholds" (2 Cor 10:4 NEB). Prayer is one of them. Must we be experts in its use? The young woman's testimony shows that we need not. We must only come, aware that our faith is not enough, aware that the Lord Himself waits to help us if only we ask.

Satan trembles when he sees

The weakest saint upon his knees.

Sunrise is an Act of God
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

The night sky, when I went to the front window this morning, was a clear dark blue, with a few sharp stars. Now, as it reddens toward dawn, a thick quilt of slate-colored cloud is moving over the whole sky, leaving only a strip of rose gold. But I am sure the sun will rise even though covered with a quilt.

We assume the sun will always rise. It always has. But it rises because God continues to will it so, not because it must in and of itself. I breathe, not because I am a smoothly functioning breathing machine, but because He who holds my breath in his hand wills me to breathe, as He wills the squirrel to breathe in the oak grove beside my house and the crow that perches in the scrub pine.

The will of God is not a given quantity. It is creative, dynamic, flowing action. Jesus participated in that action by submitting to the Will and moving with power along the "appointed way," according to the "appointed time," choosing the Father's will above his own.

The sun does no choosing. God chooses--every morning so far--to make it rise. Yet the Lord of the universe asks me to choose to follow Him--to participate, as Christ did, in the flowing action which is his ill. "Dwell in my love. If you heed my commands, you will dwell in my love, as I have heeded my Father's commands and dwell in His love" (Jn 15:10 NEB).

Cosmic Orphans
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Modern man has been described as a cosmic orphan. He no longer knows the Father of us all and feels isolated and bewildered in an ever-expanding universe. The diameter of our own galaxy is 100,000 light years, and astronomers tell us that the farthest object they can see in the universe is perhaps ten billion (billion!) light years away. Such distances, the enormity of that space, are awesome, even terrifying to those who feel orphaned. The huge advances of scientific knowledge serve only to notify us of how huge our ignorance is.

When we've explored ten thousand worlds
By scientific scan,
Omniscience still belongs to God
As always--not to man.

The prophet Isaiah wrote that with the span of the palm of his hand God "set limits to the heavens." To Him coasts and islands weigh as little as specks of dust. "Lift up your eyes to the heavens; consider who created it all, led out their host one by one and called them all by their names....Do you not know, have you not heard? The Lord, the everlasting God, creator of the wide world...gives vigor to the weary, new strength to the exhausted" (Is 40:12,15,26,28,29 NEB).

If God can fling out a galaxy so that it stays where He wants it and yet observes one exhausted person and strengthens him, can we believe that we are adrift in a fathomless void? Hear the promise of Jesus: "No, I will not abandon you or leave you as orphans in the storm--I will come to you" (Jn 14:18 LB).

Wastelands
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

There are dry, fruitless, lonely places in each of our lives, where we seem to travel alone, sometimes feeling as though we must surely have lost the way. What am I doing here? How did this happen? Lord, get me out of this!

He does not get us out. Not when we ask for it, at any rate, because it was He all along who brought us to this place. He has been here before--it is no wilderness to Him, and He walks with us. There are things to be seen and learned in these apparent wastelands which cannot be seen and learned in the "city"--in places of comfort, convenience, and company.

God does not intend to make it no wasteland. He intends rather to keep us--to hold us with his strength, to sustain us with his sure words--in a place where there is nothing else we can count on.

"God did not guide them by the road towards the Philistines, although that was the shortest...God made them go round by way of the wilderness towards the Red Sea" (Ex 13:17,18 NEB).

Imagine what Israel and all of us who worship Israel's God would have missed if they had gone by the short route--the thrilling story of the deliverance from Egypt's chariots when the sea was rolled back. Let's not ask for shortcuts. Let's keep alert for the wonders our Guide will show us in the wilderness.

What It Means to be Human
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

If Jesus had not become man, we would not have known the full meaning of being men. He, whom Richard Crashaw described as the One "who in a Throne of stars Thunders above...He whom the Sun serves...He, the old Eternal Word" came to earth as a helpless newborn, utterly dependent on his mother. Humanity is dependence. Jesus grew up in a poor peasant home in an out-of-the-way village and learned obedience.

Adam and Eve rejected God's word and accepted satan's. Their disobedience was their Declaration of Independence, which in fact meant the loss of the freedom God intended for them. It is by our acknowledging our own need, our helpless dependence on Him, that we may come to God.

Learning that in Him we live and move and have our being, we are slowly conformed to his image. Thus and only thus, in what the old Puritans called "creaturely" dependence and obedience, we become fully human and fully free.

Lord Jesus, Master of my life, my very breath is in your hands. Remind me throughout the hours of this day to depend on You for the help I need and to ask You for it.

O what peace we often forfeit, O what needless pain we bear, All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer. (Joseph M. Scriven)

Not Power But Privilege
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Jesus gave responsibility and power to those who were willing to take the path He took. They were to represent the kingdom wherever they went--their peace to rest on those who received them. Those who rejected them were actually rejecting Christ. His followers would have power over snakes and scorpions.

There are principles here for us today, I believe. Surely every believer represents Christ and his kingdom. We are promised power from the Holy Spirit. But as soon as his power is manifest, another spirit is there instantly to tempt us to take credit to ourselves. If we are thanked for something we were merely the instrument for, it can become a heady business. Wow! we say, imagining that we deserve the credit.

Jesus warned the disciples not to be impressed when spirits submitted to them. It was not by their might or power that the enemy was subdued. They were nothing more than bearers of the kingdom. He told them to rejoice, not that they had performed a miraculous feat, but that their names were written in heaven.

Open my eyes, Lord, to recognize that the power is always yours. What is mine is the privilege, given from above, for your glory.

Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

When we begin to imagine that our own problems are so deep, so insoluble, or so unusual that no one really understands us, we delude ourselves. It is one of the many delusions of pride, for Scripture tells us not only that our High Priest, Christ, has been tempted in every way as we are, but that no temptation has ever come our way that is not common to man. There are no more new temptations than there are new sins. Our story, whatever it is, is an old one, and He who has walked the human road has entered fully into our experiences of sorrow and pain and has overcome them. He has comforted others in our situation, gone with them into the same furnaces and lions' dens, has brought them out without smell of fire or mark of tooth.

It is a bad thing to take refuge in difficulties, thus excusing ourselves from responsibility to others because we think our situation is unique. If we are willing to receive help, our Helper is standing by--sometimes in the form of another human being sent by Him, qualified by Him to help us. It may be a case of our not receiving help because we were too proud to receive the kind God sent. Sometimes we really prefer to wallow.

"Ours is not a high priest unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who, because of his likeness to us, has been tested every way, only without sin. Let us therefore boldly approach the throne of our gracious God, where we may receive mercy and in his grace find timely help" (Heb 4:15, 16 NEB).

The Danger of Not Knowing God
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

We are meant to be witnesses for God--people who have seen and known Him and are willing to speak of what they see and know. Sometimes there is danger for such people--as in Russia, where it can mean forced labor, banishment, death.

In China in the early 1930s a missionary couple, John and Betty Stam, were captured by Chinese Communists and marched through the streets of the village to a chopping block where each was beheaded. If they had been willing to recant their Christian faith, their lives would have been spared. Given their commitment to Christ, such a choice was unthinkable. They placed not only their lives but the life of their baby, Helen Priscilla, in the hands of God, confident that God could protect them if He chose, and, if He chose not to, it was safer to be in those hands than anywhere else in the universe. Like thousands of Christians before them, they preferred the sword to disobedience, believing that the danger of not knowing God is infinitely greater than any other danger.

Lord, be our Sun and Shield. Shine on us, protect us as we seek to live and witness to your truth. Forgive us (especially those of us who have never faced lions, fire, or sword because of our faith) for our fears of petty loss. Remind us that it is in losing ourselves that we find You.

Christ is Message and Messenger
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Every word spoken by Jesus must be understood by the life of Jesus. The one cannot be separated from the other. If we attempt to understand what He said without reference to what He did, we do violence to God's revelation of Himself. Here are some examples:

"Give up your right to yourself." Can this mean self-destruction, masochism, obliteration of the personality? See the perfect Son of God, exercising his human will in the fullness of its God-given power, as He offers Himself, pours out his soul unto death. What life streams from that giving up. What strength springs from his weakness.

"The truth shall make you free" (Jn 8:32 AV)--words often wrested away from their context ("lf you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth and the truth will make you free") and also away from the Man who spoke them. His life, his every act, was perfectly free. It was free because He heard the Word of the Father, did what He saw Him do, and knew Him. His freedom was the result of his obedience. There is no shortcut to our freedom. We must live the life Christ lived--a life of faith, a will offered to the Father, daily obedience.

Volunteer Slaves
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

"Slave" is not a word most of us nowadays feel comfortable with. It is significant that most modern Bible translations use "servant" instead. For a slave is not his own, has no rights whatsoever, is not in charge of what happens to him, makes no choices about what he will do or how he is to serve, is not recognized, appreciated, thanked or even (except by his absence) noticed at all.

Once we give up our slavery to the world, which is a cruel master indeed, to become Christ's bondslave, we live out our servitude to Him by glad service to others. This volunteer slavery cannot be taken advantage of--we have chosen to surrender everything for love. It is a wholly different thing from forced labor. It is in fact the purest joy when it is most unobserved, most unself-conscious, most simple, most freely offered.

Lord, break the chains that hold me to myself; free me to be your happy slave--that is, to be the happy foot-washer of anyone today who needs his feet washed, his supper cooked, his faults overlooked, his work commended, his failure forgiven, his griefs consoled, or his button sewed on. Let me not imagine that my love for You is very great if I am unwilling to do for a human being something very small.

Responsibility
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

An important sign of maturity is the acceptance of responsibility. One quits depending on everybody else and acknowledges that certain duties are his alone. If he doesn't do them, nobody will. Every day there is, for example, a "cross" to take up. Who else is going to carry it? It is mine. It lies in my pathway, and unless I accept it--and accept it gladly for Christ--I simply am not following Him. He has made it perfectly clear that there are two prerequisites to following, that is, to being his disciple: denying oneself, and taking up one's cross. To know yourself is to know your cross. Francois Mauriac says, "to flee one's sorrow and evade and ignore one's cross is the whole occupation of the world; but that occupation is at the same time a fleeing from one's own self"--or, we may say, from our proper and assigned responsibility. We may not always see a particular task laid before us, but one thing is sure: to trust Him is a task, proper to every Christian, assigned to us every minute of every hour of every day, and to flee this task is worldly, irresponsible, and immature.

"The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear?" (Ps 27:1 AV).

"I will trust, and not be afraid" (Is 12:2 AV).

Limitations Are Gifts
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Yesterday as I was reading my brother Tom's book, The Achievement of C.S. Lewis, I was admiring again the scope of his knowledge, his ability to comprehend another's genius, and his wonderful command of English. By contrast my own limitations seemed severe indeed. They are of many kinds--analytical, critical, articulatory, not to mention educational. But my limitations, placing me in a different category from Tom Howard's or anyone else's, become, in the sovereignty of God, gifts. For it is with the equipment that I have been given that I am to glorify God. It is this job, not that one, that He gave me.

For some, the limitations are not intellectual but physical. The same truth applies. Within the context of their suffering, with whatever strength they have, be it ever so small, they are to glorify God. The apostle Paul actually claimed that he "gloried" in infirmities, because it was there that the power of Christ was made known to him.

If we regard each limitation which we are conscious of today as a gift--that is, as one of the terms of our particular service to the Master--we won't complain or pity or excuse ourselves. We will rather offer up those gifts as a sacrifice, with thanksgiving.

Notes From a Grandmother's Diary
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

April 30. I speak today at a theology conference on "Masculinity and Femininity Under God," attempting to show how the question is primarily a theological one for the Christian, not a trivial question of physiology, or merely sociology ("lifestyle," "changing roles," etc.), politics or pragmatics. It must, like all other created matter, mean something. I wonder who had "ears to hear"? I fly after the conference from Philadelphia to New Orleans where Walt and my daughter Val meet me, he looking handsome but harried, she radiant, great with child.

May 1. The little cottage in the cane fields is a truly happy home, though the work God has given Walt in the two small churches is well designed to put iron into his soul. Not everybody loves everybody else yet!

Today is their first anniversary. I sit on the sofa and watch Val go through her Lamaze exercises for childbirth, coached and assisted by Walt who attended the classes with her. They are breathing exercises, consisting mainly of alternate panting and puffing in certain prescribed rhythms, an excellent means of distracting a woman's attention from her pain. The concepts of masculinity and femininity find lovely expression here--the man cherishing, protecting, helping, caring for the woman who carries his child; the woman responding to him with all her heart, her body heavy with promise, preparing herself to suffer pain. They have all things in readiness: a room, emptied, painted and furnished, a crib ready to receive; tiny clothes in ordered piles, a white eyelet bag to take to the hospital, containing a diaper or two, a diminutive blue shirt (for a boy) and a rosebud-sprigged gown (it might be a girl, though I think not).

May 4. Today is "due date." Hopes high. A few minor aches that might become pains subside, along with our hopes. If only it could be today, Val would be able to be back home from the hospital on Mother's Day and show off her baby to the eager people at church, some of whom seem much more excited than she. And of course the sooner the baby arrives, the longer his grandmother will be able to help before she has to go off to Minnesota.

May 5. Trying to put together a speech for Minnesota is a difficult business when we are all in suspense. "If we could just get this baby we could get down to business and prepare sermons and things," Walt says.

May 7. Trip to the doctor in New Orleans--a five-hour round trip--for Val's regular weekly check up. Everything fine. No progress. That was his dismaying report.

pg 1 of 4

Notes From a Grandmother's Diary
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

May 9. The Lord of creation knows all about why it seems to us important that the baby come now. Would it throw off the universe if he were to allow this one child to be born today? Is it too much to ask? What does he know that makes it essential that we wait? Such are the questions I was trying to squelch as I walked in the cane field this afternoon, praying. Sovereign Lord, we await thy time. "My times are in thy hand." Thy will be done, in earth, in this corner of the earth, in this young woman, as it is in heaven.

May 12. Every morning I wake with the mockingbirds (and it's a breath-taking concert they perform, beginning at five o'clock in the live oak by my window, chirping, tweeting, whistling, trilling, chipping, warbling, trying out tunes, pulling out different stops) and wonder, Will it be today? This is a question Christians ought to be asking every morning about a very different but much longer-awaited event. "Come, Lord Jesus." I go downstairs and start fixing breakfast. Val appears, fresh as a spring stream, no pains, no signs, no complaints. She is eager for the baby but calm in her trust.

. . . It is noon, and still the mockingbird sings, praising God and it seems, mocking me. I sit at a desk near the air conditioner, writing a speech on "The Requirements of Privilege" which I am to deliver to graduating seniors, knowing well that the greatest thing that can be required of anyone is trust in the living God. I am not meeting that requirement very satisfactorily if I sit and stew over the way He times things.

May 14. At the doctor's office in New Orleans. It is 10:25 A.M., exactly twenty-four hours since we arrived here for Val's appointment, at which "no progress" was again his report. We drive home, arriving at 10:00 P.M. At 1:15 A.M. Val wakes me. "I'm having them, Mama. Pains every five minutes. I guess we'd better go." Val and Walt are both serene and happy as we drive east. We have clean diapers, a sheet and a pair of freshly boiled scissors in the back of the pickup, just in case. The CB radio is working. As we drive past the cranes, tool shops, tugboats, derricks and welding shops of Morgan City, many pickup trucks are parked outside the bars--a world of men who operate on a different set of hours. Diesel Hammers, Offshore Welders, Ocean Systems Diving Service read the signs along the main drag.

Val times her pains with a watch, writes down the intervals and the duration. Three minutes, five minutes, eleven minutes, seven minutes.

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Notes From a Grandmother's Diary
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"Honey, you're amazing," Walt says. "I love you."

We reach the Huey P. Long Bridge going into New Orleans. The moon shines, a thin sliver with a bright star balanced on its point.

"You all right, honey?" Walt says.

"I'm fine!" Val smiles. She puts her feet in my lap, her head in Walt's. "Praise the Lord, it's happening!" she says.

"You're terrific!"

"But I'm so happy!"

We reach Walt's parents' house. Walt tries the door, finds the chain fastened, but almost at once a light goes on in the bedroom. His mother lets us in. I go to bed, Val and Walt decide to go for a walk. At eight I awaken, find everyone asleep. Oh dear, I think, a false alarm. But soon they waken and I am assured that things are still moving. At ten Val calls the doctor. "Come on over," he says. So here we are....

She comes out of the office, smiling a little wistfully.

"He said to go on home. It could be today, maybe tomorrow, maybe Monday."

The afternoon wears away. Val naps, walks, counts pains, takes a shower. In the evening we go to the hospital.

May 15. 12:40 A.M. I sit in "The Stork Club," the waiting room for expectant fathers. No one else is here. I have just spent forty minutes "spelling" Walt in the labor room, massaging, counting seconds to help Val with her breathing routines, listening to the thrilling amplification of the baby's heartbeat on the monitor. "I understand why they told us this would be the hardest work we'd ever do," Val said.

2:00 A.M. I watch as Walt holds her during one of the hard ones, her head thrown back, anguish on her face, she gasping and puffing according to his quiet instructions. "Honey, you're great!" he says. "You're going to make it!"

3:35 A.M. The doctor arrives at the hospital. Walt goes to don the green garb for the delivery room. Now he comes to the waiting room.

"That daughter of yours!" (I see tears on his cheeks) "She's something! Twenty-seven hours, but she's hanging in there." The nurse calls him.

4:15 A.M. Walt comes to the door (I am no longer alone in the waiting room--a young man and his parents-in-law are there) and beckons me to the hall. He hugs me. "It's a boy. Walter Dorman Shepard III. Hear him? Listen! You can hear him cry down the hall. That's him! That's our son!"

pg 3 of 4

Notes From a Grandmother's Diary
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

A nurse comes down the hall wheeling a cart. There he is, a tiny, determined face with a dimple in the chin (his mother and father have that dimple, and his grandfather Jim Elliot had it too). We follow the nurse to the nursery where she pushes back the curtains so we can watch her weigh and measure him. We go to Val's room and in a few minutes the nurse brings in the living bundle. The room is quiet.

Mother and child.

The father, bending over them both.

Then he reads the beautiful service for the "Churching of Women" from the Prayer Book:

"O Almighty God, we give thee humble thanks for that thou hast been graciously pleased to preserve, through the great pain and peril of childbirth, this woman, thy servant, who desireth now to offer her praises and thanksgivings unto thee....

"Grant, we beseech thee, O heavenly Father, that the child of this thy servant may daily increase in wisdom and stature, and grow in thy love and service, until he come to thy eternal joy; through Jesus Christ our Lord." We all join in the Amen.

The grandmother is thinking also of the lovely words written by Amy Carmichael of India for the children she rescued:

Through life's troubled waters steer them,

Through life's bitter battle cheer them.

Father, Father, be thou near them.

And the grandmother also makes up her mind to try not to talk about this little boy to people who don't ask, and to talk moderately to those who do. But alas, here she is putting it all into words. All? No, she left out quite a lot. And nobody had to read all the way to the end if he didn't want to.

pg 4 of 4

Where There Is Injury
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

Have you ever found the taste of revenge sweet? Does there lurk in your heart, as in mine at times, a desire for at least the milder forms of revenge if you have been hurt--a desire to see the person apologize, an urge to remind him that he was nasty to you, or even the temptation to pay him back somehow? It was not God's plan that man should take revenge. That He has reserved for Himself, and when we seize that power we are taking a huge risk. It is, in another form, the risk Adam and Eve took when they ate the forbidden fruit--arrogating to themselves powers, lethal burdens, for which they were never designed.

What if God paid us for our sins? What if He were not Love? His mercy is everlasting and has brought us salvation and forgiveness. Remembering that, and how we ourselves have offended Him times without number, shall we dare to retaliate when someone sins against us? Think of the measure of forgiveness God has offered us. Think of the price. Think what the cross means. Then pray the prayer of St. Francis:

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace--
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon....
For it is in forgiving that we are forgiven,
It is in dying that we are born again to eternal life.

A Quiet Heart
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Jesus slept on a pillow in the midst of a raging storm. How could He? The terrified disciples, sure that the next wave would send them straight to the bottom, shook Him awake with rebuke. How could He be so careless of their fate?

He could because He slept in the calm assurance that His Father was in control. His was a quiet heart. We see Him move serenely through all the events of His life--when He was reviled, He did not revile in return. When He knew that He would suffer many things and be killed in Jerusalem, He never deviated from His course. He had set His face like flint. He sat at supper with one who would deny Him and another who would betray Him, yet He was able to eat with them, willing even to wash their feet. Jesus in the unbroken intimacy of His Father's love, kept a quiet heart.

None of us possesses a heart so perfectly at rest, for none lives in such divine unity, but we can learn a little more each day of what Jesus knew--what one writer called the negligence of that trust which carries God with it. Who would think of using the word negligence in regard to our Lord Jesus? To be negligent is to omit to do what a reasonable man would do. Would Jesus omit that? Yes, on occasion, when faith pierced beyond reason.

This "negligent" trust--is it careless, inattentive, indolent? No, not in His case. Jesus, because His will was one with His Father's, could be free from care. He had the blessed assurance of knowing that His Father would do the caring, would be attentive to His Son's need. Was Jesus indolent? No, never lazy, sluggish, or slothful, but He knew when to take action and when to leave things up to His Father. He taught us to work and watch but never to worry, to do gladly whatever we are given to do, and to leave all else with God.

Purity of heart, said Kierkegaard, is to will one thing. The Son willed only one thing: the will of His Father. That's what He came to earth to do. Nothing else. One whose aim is as pure as that can have a completely quiet heart, knowing what the psalmist knew: "Lord, You have assigned me my portion and my cup, and have made my lot secure" (Psalm 16:5 NIV). I know of no greater simplifier for all of life. Whatever happens is assigned. Does the intellect balk at that? Can we say that there are things which happen to us which do not belong to our lovingly assigned "portion" (This belongs to it, that does not")? Are some things, then, out of the control of the Almighty?

Every assignment is measured and controlled for my eternal good. As I accept the given portion other options are cancelled. Decisions become much easier, directions clearer, and hence my heart becomes inexpressibly quieter.

pg 1 of 3

A Quiet Heart
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

What do we really want in life? Sometimes I have the chance to ask this question of high school or college students. I am surprised at how few have a ready answer. Oh, they could come up with quite a long list of things, but is there one thing above all others that they desire? "One thing have I desired of the Lord," said David, "this is what I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life..." (Psalm 27:4 KJV). To the rich young man who wanted eternal life Jesus said, "One thing you lack. Go, sell everything" (Mark 10:21 NIV). In the Parable of the Sower, Jesus tells us that the seed which is choked by thorns has fallen into a heart full of the worries of this life, the deceitfulness of riches, and the desire for other things. The apostle Paul said, "One thing I do: forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus" (Phil 3:13-14 NIV).

A quiet heart is content with what God gives. It is enough. All is grace. One morning my computer simply would not obey me. What a nuisance. I had my work laid out, my timing figured, my mind all set. My work was delayed, my timing thrown off, my thinking interrupted. Then I remembered. It was not for nothing. This was part of the Plan (not mine, His). "Lord, You have assigned me my portion and my cup."

Now if the interruption had been a human being instead of an infuriating mechanism, it would not have been so hard to see it as the most important part of the work of the day. But all is under my Father's control: yes, recalcitrant computers, faulty transmissions, drawbridges which happen to be up when one is in a hurry. My portion. My cup. My lot is secure. My heart can be at peace. My Father is in charge. How simple!

My assignment entails my willing acceptance of my portion-in matters far beyond comparison with the trivialities just mentioned, such as the death of a precious baby. A mother wrote to me of losing her son when he was just one month old. A widow writes of the long agony of watching her husband die. The number of years given them in marriage seemed too few. We can only know that Eternal Love is wiser than we, and we bow in adoration of that loving wisdom.

Response is what matters. Remember that our forefathers were all guided by the pillar of cloud, all passed through the sea, all ate and drank the same spiritual food and drink, but God was not pleased with most of them. Their response was all wrong. Bitter about the portions allotted they indulged in idolatry, gluttony, and sexual sin. And God killed them by snakes and by a destroying angel.

pg 2 of 3

A Quiet Heart
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

The same almighty God apportioned their experience. All events serve His will. Some responded in faith. Most did not.

"No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it" (1 Corinthians 10:13 NIV).

Think of that promise and keep a quiet heart! Our enemy delights in disquieting us. Our Savior and Helper delights in quieting us. "As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you" is His promise (Is 66:13, NIV). The choice is ours. It depends on our willingness to see everything in God, receive all from His hand, accept with gratitude just the portion and the cup He offers. Shall I charge Him with a mistake in His measurements or with misjudging the sphere in which I can best learn to trust Him? Has He misplaced me? Is He ignorant of things or people which,in my view, hinder my doing His will?

God came down and lived in this same world as a man. He showed us how to live in this world, subject to its vicissitudes and necessities, that we might be changed-not into an angel or a storybook princess, not wafted into another world, but changed into saints in this world. The secret is Christ in me, not me in a different set of circumstances.

He whose heart is kind beyond all measure
Gives unto each day what He deems best,
Lovingly its part of pain and pleasure,
Mingling toil with peace and rest.
--Lina Sandell, Swedish

pg 3 of 3

The Angel in the Cell
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

My brother Dave Howard does a lot of traveling and comes back with wonderful stories. One summer when the six of us Howards with our spouses got together for a reunion, Dave told us this one, heard from the son of the man in the story.

A man whom we'll call Ivan, prisoner in an unnamed country, was taken from his cell, interrogated, tortured, and beaten nearly to a pulp. The one comfort in his life was a blanket. As he staggered back to his cell, ready to collapse into that meager comfort, he saw to his dismay that someone was wrapped up in it--an informer, he supposed. He fell on the filthy floor, crying out, "I can't take any more! whereupon a voice came from the blanket: "Ivan, what do you mean, you can't take any more?" Thinking the man was trying to get information to be used against him, Ivan didn't explain. He merely repeated what he had said.

"Ivan," came the voice, "Have you forgotten that Jesus is with you?"

Then the figure in the blanket was gone. Ivan, unable to walk a minute before, now leaped to his feet and danced round the cell praising the Lord. In the morning the guard who had starved and beaten him asked who had given him food. No one, said Ivan.

"But why do you look so different?"

"Because my Lord was with me last night."

"Oh, is that so? And where is your Lord now?"

Ivan opened his shirt, pointed to his heart--"Here."

"OK. I'm going to shoot you and your Lord right now," said the guard, pointing a pistol at Ivan's chest.

"Shoot me if you wish. I'll go to be with my Lord."

The guard returned his pistol to its holster, shaking his head in bewilderment.

Later Ivan learned that his wife and children had been praying for him on that same night as they read Isaiah 51:14: "The cowering prisoners will soon be set free; they will not die in their dungeon, nor will they lack bread" (NIV).

Ivan was released shortly thereafter and continued faithfully to preach the gospel until he died in his eighties.

A Small Section of the Visible Course
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: A Lamp For My Feet

The house where I was born, at 52 Rue Ernest Laude in Brussels, looks exactly as it does in the picture in my mother's photo album. The old snapshot is a study in grays. The one my husband Lars took much more recently is in color. The cobblestone street is the same in both. The bricks of which the house is built turn out to be rather pink; the white marble facade of the second and third stories has not changed. They have put new shades in the two first-floor windows, and the people in the pictures are different. In the first, on the second-floor wrought-iron balcony in sunshine, stands my mother, twenty-four years old, slim and straight, with a wonderful pile of dark satiny hair. She is wearing a dark ankle-length dress with a wide white cape-collar.

In the colored picture there are two cars, and near the front door, very wind-blown, stand I. How I longed to ask the present tenants to allow me to go up to the balcony, even into the kitchen where I was born.

Over sixty years have passed since I was last there. My mother had locked the front door when she fumed to the Dutch lady who was her helper.

"I feel as though I've forgotten something."

Adri knew very well what it was and wondered how far my mother would get before realizing that the five-month-old baby was still upstairs, wrapped in her bunting, ready for the ocean voyage.

There was something wondrously comforting about knowing, as I stood before that unremembered house, that this is where my parents lived, where they loved, where they welcomed into their small cold-water flat the newborn sister of their son Philip.

They were missionaries, working with what was then the Belgian Gospel Mission. Lars and I visited the old buildings; the little Flemish chapel where my father taught Sunday School and probably played the Steinway piano that stands there--bought by Mrs. Norton, wife of the founder of the mission (she sold her jewels to pay for it). We looked at an old photo album there with pictures of my grandparents, my great uncle, and my parents.

All of the past, I believe, is a part of God's story of each child of His--a mystery of love and sovereignty, written before the foundation of the world, never a hindrance to the task He has designed for us, but rather the very preparation suited to our particular personality's need.

"How can that be?" ask those whose heritage has not been a godly one as mine was, whose lives have not been peaceful. "It is the glory of God to conceal a matter" (Proverbs 25:2, NIV). God conceals much that we do not need to know, yet we do know that He calls His own sheep by name and leads them out. When does that begin? Does the Shepherd overlook anything that the sheep need?

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A Lesson in Things Temporal
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

I am upset when things are lost. Even small things. I like to know that things have places and are in them. It's much worse when something like a manuscript is lost. I had worked for a number of weeks on a certain piece, and when I went to do the final rewriting it was gone. It just wasn't anywhere. I looked, then Lars looked, then we both looked. In all the likely and all the unlikely places. We prayed about it, of course, together and separately, but we could not find it. At last I told the Lord that if I did not find it today I would begin again from scratch, as the deadline was closing in. That day Uncle Tom, who was eighty-nine and was staying with us, became very ill. There was no time to think of manuscripts.

The next day we happened to move a piece of furniture and discovered that moths were doing their dastardly work underneath it. Lars went out and bought a can of moth spray and proceeded to fumigate every nook and cranny. The manuscript was behind a desk. It had fallen down and lodged standing up on the baseboard. If Uncle Tom had not gotten sick I would have done a day's unnecessary work on that piece that I was so worried about. If the moths had not taken it into their tiny heads to chew my carpet, we probably would not have fumed up that sheaf of papers until next spring. It was not for nothing that the collect in my church that Sunday (the eighth after Pentecost) was: "O God, the protector of all who trust in you, without whom nothing is strong, nothing is holy: Increase and multiply upon us your mercy, that, with you as our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things temporal, that we lose not the things eternal; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen."

Nevertheless We Must Run Aground
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Love Has A Price Tag

Have you ever put heart and soul into something, prayed over it, worked at it with a good heart because you believed it to be what God wanted, and finally seen it "run aground"?

The story of Paul's voyage as a prisoner across the Adriatic Sea tells how an angel stood beside him and told him not to be afraid (in spite of winds of hurricane force), for God would spare his life and the lives of all with him on board ship. Paul cheered his guards and fellow passengers with that word, but added, "Nevertheless, we must run aground on some island" (Acts 27:26, NIV).

It would seem that the God who promises to spare all hands might have "done the job right," saved the ship as well, and spared them the ignominy of having to make it to land on the flotsam and jetsam that was left. The fact is He did not, nor does He always spare us.

Heaven is not here, it's There. If we were given all we wanted here, our hearts would settle for this world rather than the next. God is forever luring us up and away from this one, wooing us to Himself and His still invisible Kingdom, where we will certainly find what we so keenly long for.

"Running aground," then, is not the end of the world. But it helps to make the world a bit less appealing. It may even be God's answer to "Lead us not into temptation"--the temptation complacently to settle for visible things.

There Are No Accidents
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

My friend Judy Squier of Portola Valley, California, is one of the most cheerful and radiant women I know. I met her first in a prayer meeting at the beginning of a conference. She was sitting in a wheel chair, and I noticed something funny about her legs. Later that day I saw her with no legs at all. In the evening she was walking around with crutches. Of course I had to ask her some questions. She was born with no legs; she had artificial ones which she used sometimes, but they were tiresome, she said (laughing) and she often left them behind. When I heard of a little baby boy named Brandon Scott, born without arms or legs, I asked if she would write to his parents. She did:

"The first thing I would say is that all that this entails is at least one hundred times harder on the parents than the child. A birth defect by God's grace does not rob childhood of its wonder, nor is a child burdened by high expectations. Given a supportive, creative, and loving family, I know personally that I enjoyed not a less-than-average life nor an average life, but as I've told many, my life has been not ordinary but extra-ordinary.

"I am convinced without a doubt that a loving Heavenly Father oversees the creative miracles in the inner sanctum of each mother's womb (Psalm 139), and that in His sovereignty there are no accidents.

"'What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Creator calls a butterfly.' As humanity we see only the imperfect, underside of God's tapestry of our lives. What we judge to be 'tragic--the most dreaded thing that could happen,' I expect we'll one day see as the awesome reason for the beauty and uniqueness of our life and our family. I think that's why James 1:2 is a favorite verse of mine. Phillips' translation put it this way: 'When all kinds of trials and temptations crowd into your lives, my brothers, don't resent them as intruders but welcome them as friends.'

"I love Joni Eareckson Tada's quote. When I saw it on the front of Moody Monthly, October 1982, I was convinced she'd penned the words for my epitaph. Now my husband David is aghast to hear me say I want it on my tombstone! Glory be!

People with disabilities are God's best visual aids to demonstrate who He really is. His power shows up best in weakness. And who by the world's standards is weaker than the mentally or physically disabled? As the world watches, these people persevere. They live, love, trust and obey Him. Eventually the world is forced to say, "How great their God must be to inspire this kind of loyalty."

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There Are No Accidents
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"Being Christian didn't shield my family from the pain and tears that came with my birth defect. In fact, ten years ago when David and I interviewed our parents for a Keepsake Tape, I was stunned to hear my mother's true feelings. I asked her to tell the hardest thing in her life. Her response: 'the day Judy Ann was born and it still is....' And yet when we as a family look back over the years, our reflections are invariably silenced by the wonder of God's handiwork. Someday I hope to put it in a book and I know it will be to the glory of God.

"Getting married and becoming a mother were dreams I never dared to dream, but God, the doer of all miracles intended that my life be blessed with an incredible husband and three daughters. Emily is nine, Betsy will soon be seven, and Naphtalie Joy is four. I've decided that every handicapped person needs at least one child. They are fantastic helpers and so willing to let me 'borrow their legs' when I need help.

"You as a family have been chosen in a special way to display His unique Masterwork. I pray that your roots of faith will grow deep down into the faithfulness of God's Loving Plan, that you will exchange your inadequacy for the Adequacy of Jesus' resurrection power, and that you will be awed as you witness the fruits of the Spirit manifested in your family."

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A Lighthouse in Brooklyn
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

For forty years a little piece of my heart has been in Brooklyn, New York. For a few months in 1951 I lived there in order to attend a Spanish-speaking church and take language lessons before going to Ecuador. But now a bigger piece of my heart is in Brooklyn--so big, in fact, that I have felt a longing to give up the house we live in and the work we do and just move there!

I'll explain. I'd been invited to speak to a group of women on a Saturday afternoon at Brooklyn Tabernacle. It sounded interesting, but I was not expecting anything quite so thrilling as it proved to be. Brooklyn, for a start, is a tough place. There's a lot of poverty. Drugs and muggings and murders are practically everyday occurrences, and there had been some very ugly riots between Jews and blacks in one of the most "civilized" sections. The neighborhood where I had lived was pretty bleak back then, so I wondered if it could be any worse now. I was eager to try to find 519 Bushwick Avenue (a fifth-floor walk-up, at $17 per month--lots of noise, strange cooking odors, large rats, and very little heat or hot water). Abraham, the kind man who drove us around, managed to find the location all right, but the whole block had been razed (no wonder). There was nothing there but empty lots. Well, not empty really--mattresses, old refrigerators, bedsprings, tires, sofas with the stuffings coming out--you name it, you could have picked it up. In fact, there were such mountains of trash everywhere, I wondered where they'd put it if they ever did decide to clean up the place. Desolate and depressing in the extreme. Graffiti, that hideous evidence of defiance of all law and order, covered every surface within reach of the ground and many high above it. Abraham said thousands of people are always cleaning it up, and it's back the next morning.

I kept thinking about the old gospel song, "Let the Lower Lights Be Burning" Here's part of it:

Dark the night of sin has settled,
Loud the angry billows roar;
Eager eyes are watching, longing,
For the lights along the shore
Let the lower lights be burning,
Send a gleam across the wave,
Some poor, fainting, struggling seaman
You may rescue, you may save.

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A Lighthouse in Brooklyn
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

There on Flatbush Avenue stands Brooklyn Tabernacle, sending its gleam across the wave. Thousands have "made the harbor" because of its light. My audience was a wonderful mixture of colors and ethnic backgrounds, the music was louder than I'm used to but wonderfully exuberant and heartfelt. There was no doubt about it--those women were worshipping. I heard some of their stories--to me nearly unimaginable--of drugs, alcohol, abuse, poverty, abandonment. One mother's anonymous letter to the pastor told of her own heartbreak. Just that week she had learned that her fourteen-year-old daughter was pregnant. The father of the baby was the girl's seventeen-year-old brother. That mother said she had wanted to kill herself and her children, "But I'm making it," she wrote, "with Jesus and the help of this church."

We heard their two-hundred-voice choir at the Billy Graham rally in Central Park on Sunday afternoon. In the evening, after I had spoken again at the Tabernacle, we were having supper with a group of the church folks. I asked a woman named Marie to tell me her story. Her husband smiled and said, "She loves to tell it! It's her favorite story." How I wish I had room for the whole thing.

Her mother, five months pregnant, died of cancer. Marie, the baby, survived and was put in a foundling hospital. Later she was entrusted to the care of nuns who treated her cruelly, although they taught her about God. She felt sure God was better than they were, and she knew her daddy loved her, but she was hungry for more. At age ten she began sniffing glue. This led to smoking pot, then doing drugs for the next fifteen years. On a Club Med vacation in Mexico with her boyfriend she began to wonder why she was born. Why had God made her? What meaning was there in it all? God clearly spoke to her "Maria, give me your life. This is your last chance." Suddenly she lost her desire for drugs and told her boyfriend she would not sleep with him anymore. On her return to New York she found that a group of friends had been praying for her at the very time when this happened. Hers is a totally transformed life. She's married to the boyfriend, who is now a pastor.

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A Lighthouse in Brooklyn
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"You should have seen me," he said, "long hair, three earrings in each ear, feathers!"

I thought of my own upbringing--Christ as the Head of our house, parents who loved Him, each other, and us. No alcohol or drugs, just the Bible and hymn-singing. A clean house on a clean street. I thought of Nicky Cruz's testimony that same afternoon at the Graham meeting--from deep sin and sorrow to joy; and of Johnny Cash's simple words: "Alcohol never gave me peace. Drugs never brought me happiness. I found both in Jesus Christ. He changed my life." Then he sang, "The Old Account Was Settled Long Ago," while his dear June burst in with her lusty refrain, "Down on my knees!"

Tears come as I write, remembering the unutterable JOY I saw on those upturned faces during those two days. Those people were still living with huge tribulations and deep heartbreaks, yet there was joy, there was peace, and there was love such as I see in few churches. I don't know when I've had so many hugs. How to account for it all? It's quite simple:

This doctrine of the cross is sheer folly to those on their way to ruin, but to us who are on the way to salvation, it is the power of God.... To shame the wise, God has chosen what the world counts folly, and to shame what is strong, God has chosen what the world counts weakness. He has chosen things low and contemptible, mere nothings, to overthrow the existing order. So there is no place for human pride in the presence of God....He is our righteousness; in him we are consecrated and set free.

1 Corinthians 1:18, 27-30, NEB

Copyright 1995, used with permission, all rights reserved.

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Does God Allow His Children to Be Poor?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

God allows both Christians and non-Christians to experience every form of suffering known to the human race, just as He allows His blessings to fall on both. Poverty, like other forms of suffering, is relative, as Lars and I were reminded while we were in India. Our country's definition of the "poverty level" would mean unimaginable affluence to the girls we saw working next to our hotel. For nine hours a day they carried wet concrete in wooden basins on their heads, pouring it into the forms for the foundation of a large building. They were paid thirty cents a day.

On my list of Scriptures which give clues to some of God's reasons for allowing His children to suffer is 2 Corinthians 8:2: "Somehow, in most difficult circumstances, their joy and the fact of being down to their last penny themselves, produced a magnificent concern for other people" (PHILLIPS). It was the Macedonian churches that Paul was talking about, living proof that it is not poverty or riches that determine generosity, and sometimes those who suffer the most financially are the ones most ready to share what they have. "They simply begged us to accept their gifts and so let them share the honors of supporting their brothers in Christ" (v. 4).

Money holds terrible power when it is loved. It can blind us, shackle us, fill us with anxiety and fear, torment our days and nights with misery, wear us out with chasing it. The Macedonian Christians, possessing little of it, accepted their lot with faith and trust. Their eyes were opened to see past their own misery. They saw what mattered far more than a bank account, and, out of "magnificent concern," contributed to the needs of their brothers.

If through losing what this world prizes we are enabled to gain what it despises--treasure in heaven, invisible and incorruptible--isn't it worth any kind of suffering? What is it worth to us to learn a little bit more of what the Cross means--life out of death, the transformation of earth's losses and heartbreaks and tragedies?

Poverty has not been my experience, but God has allowed in the lives of each of us some sort of loss, the withdrawal of something we valued, in order that we may learn to offer ourselves a little more willingly, to allow the touch of death on one more thing we have clutched so tightly, and thus know fullness and freedom and joy that much sooner. We're not naturally inclined to love God and seek His Kingdom. Trouble may help to incline us--that is, it may tip us over, put some pressure on us, lean us in the right direction.

Why is God Doing This to Me?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

An article appeared in the National Geographic years ago which has affected my thinking ever since. "The Incredible Universe," by Kenneth F. Weaver and James P. Blair, included this paragraph:

How can the human mind deal with the knowledge that the farthest object we can see in the universe is perhaps ten billion light years away! Imagine that the thickness of this page represents the distance from the earth to the sun (93,000,000 miles, or about eight light minutes). Then the distance to the nearest star 14-1/3 light years) is a 71-foot-high stack of paper. And the diameter of our own galaxy (l00,000 light years) is a 310-mile stack, while the edge of the known universe is not reached until the pile of paper is 31,000,000 miles high, a third of the way to the sun.

Thirty-one million miles. That's a very big stack of paper. By the time I get to thirty-one-and-a-half million I'm lost--aren't you? I read somewhere else that our galaxy is one (only one) of perhaps ten billion.

I know the One who made all that. He is my Shepherd. This is what He says: "With my own hands I founded the earth, with my right hand I formed the expanse of sky; when I summoned them, they sprang at once into being.... I teach you for your own advantage and lead you in the way you must go. If only you had listened to my commands, your prosperity would have rolled on like a river in flood..." (Isaiah 48:13, 17, 18, NEB).

Hardly a day goes by without my receiving a letter, a phone call, or a visit from someone in trouble. Almost always the question comes, in one form or another, Why does God do this to me?

When I am tempted to ask that same question, it loses its power when I remember that this Lord, into whose strong hands I long ago committed my life, is engineering a universe of unimaginable proportions and complexity. How could I possibly understand all that He must take into consideration as He deals with it and with me, a single individual! He has given us countless assurances that we cannot get lost in the shuffle. He choreographs the "molecular dance" which goes on every second of every minute of every day in every cell in the universe. For the record, one cell has about 200 trillion molecules. He makes note of the smallest seed and the tiniest sparrow. He is not too busy to keep records even of my falling hair.

Yet in our darkness we suppose He has overlooked us. He hasn't. I have been compiling a list of the answers God Himself has given us to our persistent question about adversity:

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Why is God Doing This to Me?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

1. We need to be pruned. In Jesus' last discourse with His disciples before He was crucified (a discourse meant for us as well as for them), He explained that God is the gardener, He Himself is the vine, and we are branches. If we are bearing fruit, then we must be pruned. This is a painful process. Jesus knew that His disciples would face much suffering. He showed them, in this beautiful metaphor, that it was not for nothing. Only the well-pruned vine bears the best fruit. They could take comfort in knowing that the pruning proved they were neither barren nor withered, for in that case they would simply be burned up in the brushpile.

Pruning requires the cutting away not only of what is superfluous but also of what appears to be good stock. Why should we be so baffled when the Lord cuts away good things from our lives? He has explained why. "This is my Father's glory, that you may bear fruit in plenty and so be my disciples" (John 15:8, NEB). We need not see how it works. He has told us it does work.

2. We need to be refined. Peter wrote to God's scattered people, reminding them that even though they were "smarting for a little while under trials of many kinds" (they were in exile--the sort of trial most of us would think rather more than "smart"), they were nevertheless chosen in the purpose of God, hallowed to His service, and consecrated with the blood of Jesus Christ. With all that, they still needed refining. Gold is gold, but it has to go through fire. Faith is even more precious, so faith will always have another test to stand. Remember God's loving promise of 2 Corinthians 12:9, "My grace is all you need; power comes to its full strength in weakness" (NEB).

But Thou art making me, I thank Thee, sire.
What Thou hast done and doest Thou knows't well.
And I will help Thee; gently in Thy fire
I will lie burning; on Thy potter's wheel
I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel.
Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell,
And growing strength perfect through weakness dire.
--George MacDonald
--Diary Of an Old Soul, October 2

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Ever Been Bitter?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Sometimes I've said, "O Lord, you wouldn't do this to me, would you? How could you, Lord?" I can recall such times later on and realize that my perspective was skewed. One Scripture passage which helps me rectify it is Isaiah 45:9-11 (NEB): "Will the pot contend with the potter, or the earthenware with the hand that shapes it? Will the clay ask the potter what he is making?... Thus says the Lord, would you dare question me concerning my children, or instruct me in my handiwork? I alone, I made the earth and created man upon it." He knows exactly what He is doing. I am clay.

The word humble comes from the root word humus, earth, clay. Let me remember that when I question God's dealings. I don't understand Him, but then I'm not asked to understand, only to trust. Bitterness dissolves when I remember the kind of love with which He has loved me--He gave Himself for me. He gave Himself for me. He gave Himself for me. Whatever He is doing now, therefore, is not cause for bitterness. It has to be designed for good, because He loved me and gave Himself for me.

Is it a sin to ask God why?

It is always best to go first for our answers to Jesus Himself. He cried out on the cross, "My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?" It was a human cry, a cry of desperation, springing from His heart's agony at the prospect of being put into the hands of wicked men and actually becoming sin for you and me. We can never suffer anything like that, yet we do at times feel forsaken and cry, Why, Lord?

The psalmist asked why. Job, a blameless man, suffering horrible torments on an ash heap, asked why. It does not seem to me to be sinful to ask the question. What is sinful is resentment against God and His dealings with us. When we begin to doubt His love and imagine that He is cheating us of something we have a right to, we are guilty as Adam and Eve were guilty. They took the snake at his word rather than God. The same snake comes to us repeatedly with the same suggestions: Does God love you? Does He really want the best for you? Is His word trustworthy? Isn't He cheating you? Forget His promises. You'd be better off if you do it your way.

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Lord, Please Remove the Dilemma
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Because my husband Lars is a Norwegian who would happily eat fish three times a day if I'd give it to him (I seldom do), I often have fishheads and fishbones to discard. I don't like the noise the disposal makes if I put them in there, so I fire them out the window onto the grass. A prompt and thorough garbage service is provided free of charge by the seven resident crows who materialize out of nowhere (nine minutes is the maximum time it has taken them to detect my offerings). Recently I watched one of them attempt to stuff all the pieces into his beak before his buddies had arrived. He carefully picked up everything except one long backbone. Here was a dilemma. How was he to grab the backbone without dropping the beakful he already had? Solemnly he surveyed the scene, stepped slowly around the bone and cogitated. So everything is done by instinct, is it? I don't believe it. He was reasoning. He made a decision. He dropped the smaller pieces, grasped the bone right in the middle and raised it. Too unwieldy. More cogitation. Then, delicately, he lifted one end of the backbone, bent it around with his claw and picked up the other end. Now, holding both ends in his beak he succeeded somehow (I couldn't for the life of me see exactly how) in gathering all but a few small bits and flew off, triumphant, to relish his find in solitude.

Is there anyone reading this who is not faced with a perplexity of some sort? Some of you face serious dilemmas. We want to pray, "Lord, please remove the dilemma." Usually the answer is "No, not right away." We must face it, pray over it, think about it, wait on the Lord, make a choice. Sometimes it is an excruciating choice.

St. Augustine said, "The very pleasures of human life men acquire by difficulties." There are times when the entire arrangement of our existence is disrupted and we long then for just one ordinary day--seeing our ordinary life as greatly desirable, even wonderful, in the light of the terrible disruption that has taken place. Difficulty opens our eyes to pleasures we had taken for granted.

I recall one of the times my second husband Add was released from the hospital when he had cancer. I did not suppose he was cured, but just having him at home once more was all I asked for that day. I set the table in the dining room with candlelight as I always did for dinner. I had fixed his favorite meal--steak, baked potato, salad, my homebaked apple pie. As he bowed his head to give thanks in the usual way, I had a sudden urge to do something very unusual--to drop to the floor and clutch his hands and sing "Let us break bread together on our knees." I didn't do it. Things proceeded in the ordinary way, but there was a new radiance about them simply because we had been deprived for a while, and knew we would soon be deprived again, probably permanently.

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Lord, Please Remove the Dilemma
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Paul said he had been "very thoroughly initiated into the human lot with all its ups and downs" (Philippians 4:12, NEB). He was hard-pressed, bewildered, persecuted, and struck down. God in His mercy did not choose to remove the dilemmas with which he was faced (some of His greatest mercies are His refusals), but chose instead to make Himself known to Paul because of them, in ways which would strengthen his faith and make him a strengthener and an instrument of peace to the rest of us. Hard-pressed he was, but not hemmed in--God promises that none of us will ever be tempted beyond our power to endure. Bewildered he was, but never at wit's end--God promises wisdom to those who ask for it. Persecuted, but never left to "stand it alone"--God promises His unfailing presence, all the days of our lives. Struck down, Paul was not left to die, though some of his rescues were ignominious in the extreme--the great apostle, let down over a wall in a basket, and on occasion making it to land on a chunk of flotsam! Hardly the means he would have envisioned God's using to fulfill His promises. But on second thought, why not? The absurdity of it all does us good. Life is absurd--on the surface of things--but every bit of it is planned, as Paul goes on to say:

"It is for your sake that all things are ordered, so that, as the abounding grace of God is shared by more and more, the greater may be the chorus of thanksgiving that ascends to the glory of God" (2 Corinthians 4:15, NEB). Maybe Paul's testimony, which has cheered countless millions, will cheer somebody who still faces a dilemma he has begged the Lord to remove. All of Paul's were solved, but not all of them in Paul's way or Paul's time, Selah.

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Maybe This Year...?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"I hardly know where to start," a letter begins. "My story is not one involving men. That's the problem. Male companionship seems not to be found, and, I fear, may never be found. They never ask me out twice. I'm always 'dumped.' The problem is I want a relationship. I have this overwhelming desire...."

Someone else said to me, "I fell deeply in love. He fell deeply in love, too--with someone else."

Another letter tells of the agonized yearning of one couple for a child. Since God has not removed the desire, they ask, may we not conclude that He wants us to employ whatever means we can (e.g., in vitro fertilization) in order to have a child?

God's not having taken away a perfectly normal human desire does not by any means indicate that we are free to pursue its fulfillment in any way we choose. A woman who had, after years of struggles, quickly lost sixty pounds told me that she had been expecting God to take away her appetite. When she realized He did not intend to do so (she had been asking for the removal of our God-given protection from starvation!), she stopped gratifying that appetite in the wrong ways.

Will the young woman find a mate? Will the couple have a child? Maybe this year will be the year of desire fulfilled. Perhaps, on the other hand, it will be the year of desire radically transformed, the year of finding, as we have perhaps not yet truly found, Christ to be the All-Sufficient One, Christ the "deep, sweet well of Love."

"Why won't God let someone into my life? I feel left out, abandoned. When will it be my turn?" The petulant letter goes on. "I feel deprived! Will He deny me the one small desire of my heart? Is it too big a treasure to ask? I sit in torture and dismay."

Life is likely to continue to hold many forms of torture and dismay for that unhappy person and for all who refuse to receive with thanksgiving instead of complaint the place in life God has chosen for them. The torture is self-inflicted, for God has not rejected their prayers. He knows better than any of us do what furthers our salvation. Our true happiness is to be realized precisely through his refusals, which are always mercies. His choice is flawlessly contrived to give the deepest kind of joy as soon as it is embraced.

Joseph Eliot, in the seventeenth century, said, "I need everything God gives me, and want [or feel the lack of] nothing He denies me."

In Moses' review of God's leading of the children of Israel he said,

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Maybe This Year...?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart.... He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then fed you with manna which neither you nor your fathers had known, to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord.... Know then in your heart that as a man disciplines his son, so the Lord your God disciplines you.... For the Lord your God is bringing you into a good land--a land with streams and pools of water, with springs flowing in the valleys and hills; a land with wheat and barley, vines and fig trees, pomegranates, olive oil and honey; a land where bread will not be scarce and you will lack nothing."

Deuteronomy 8:2-3, 5, 7-9, NIV

The cause of our discontent: We simply do not believe God. The wilderness experience leads to the Promised Land. It is the path God chose for us. His Word is established forever, and He tells us in a thousand ways that His will is our peace, His choices for us will lead to fulfillment and joy, the way of transgressors is hard. Do we suppose that we could find a better way than His?

One of George Eliot's characters says:

"You are seeking your own will, my daughter. You are seeking some good other than the law you are bound to obey. But how will you find good? It is not a thing of choice; it is a river that flows from the foot of the Invisible Throne, and flows by the path of obedience. I say again, man cannot choose his duties. You may choose to forsake your duties, and choose not to have the sorrow they bring. But you will go forth, and what will you find, my daughter? Sorrow without duty--bitter herbs, and no bread with them."

Instead of seeing His everlasting love, tenderly bending down to our humanness, longing over each one of us with a father's speechless longing; we sometimes think of Him as indifferent, inaccessible, or just plain unfair.

The worst pains we experience are not those of the suffering itself but of our stubborn resistance to it, our resolute insistence on our independence. To be "crucified with Christ" means what Oswald Chambers calls "breaking the husk" of that independence. "Has that break come?" he asks. "All the rest is pious fraud." And you and I know, in our heart of hearts, that that sword-thrust (so typical of Chambers!) is the straight truth.

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Do Not Forecast Grief
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Sitting one still and sunny afternoon in a tiny chapel on an island in the South, I thought I heard someone enter. A young woman was weeping quietly. After a little time I asked if I could help. She confided her fears for the future--what if her husband should die? Or one of her children? What if money ran out?

All our fears represent in some form, I believe, the fear of death, common to all of us. But is it our business to pry into what may happen tomorrow? It is a difficult and painful exercise which saps the strength and uses up the time given us today. Once we give ourselves up to God, shall we attempt to get hold of what can never belong to us--tomorrow? Our lives are His, our times in His hand, He is Lord over what wil1 happen, never mind what may happen. When we prayed "Thy will be done," did we suppose He did not hear us? He heard indeed, and daily makes our business His and partakes of our lives. If my life is once surrendered, all is well. Let me not grab it back, as though it were in peril in His hand but would be safer in mine!

Today is mine. Tomorrow is none of my business. If I peer anxiously into the fog of the future, I will strain my spiritual eyes so that I will not see clearly what is required of me now.

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof"--and the work thereof. The evil is not a part of the yoke Jesus asks us to take. Our work is, and He takes that yoke with us. I will overextend myself if I assume anything more.

God chains the dog till night; wilt loose the chain
And wake thy sorrow?
Wilt thou forestall it, and now grieve tomorrow,
And then again
Grieve over freshly all thy pain?
Either grief will not come, or if it must,
Do not forecast;
And while it cometh, it is almost past.
Away, distrust;
My God hath promis'd; He is just.
--George Herbert, "The Discharge"

How Long is God's Arm?
By
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

How do we reconcile God's promises for protection with the fact that so many evil things do happen in our lives? Can we believe God for protection?

This question comes up often, and no wonder, since there are many promises in the Bible about protection, including (especially in the Old Testament) physical protection. We must be careful to interpret Scripture with Scripture, and if we examine the record we find that God did not by any means always protect His people from harm. He has absolute power to keep us safe, both physically and spiritually, but His engineering of the universe made room for man's freedom to choose--that is, freedom to will to obey or to disobey Him. This is a deep mystery. Man's disobedience brought evil into the world, and all of us are subject to it. God does not cancel out its effects, even for His choicest servants (John the Baptist, Stephen, those nameless victims of Hebrews 11:35-37, for example).

Nevertheless, we have the promises. Romans 8:35-39 is one of my most reread passages. I believe we can rest assured that we are invulnerable so long as God does not give permission for us to be hurt. If He gives that permission, He will not leave us alone. He goes with us through the valley, the deep water, the furnace. He will never, absolutely never, leave us or forsake us.

There Is No Other Way
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

In order to get to a place called Laity Lodge in Texas you have to drive into a riverbed. The road takes you down a steep, rocky hill into a canyon and straight into the water. There is a sign at the water's edge which says, "Yes. You drive in the river."

One who has made up his mind to go to the uttermost with God will come to a place as unexpected and perhaps looking as impossible to travel as that riverbed looks. He may glance around for an alternative route, but if he wants what God promises His faithful ones, he must go straight into the danger. There is no other way.

The written word is our direction. Trust it. Obey it. Drive in the river and get to Laity Lodge. Moses said to Israel, "I offer you the choice of life or death, blessing or curse. Choose life and then you and your descendants will live; love the Lord your God, obey him, and hold fast to him: that is life for you."

When you take the risk of obedience, you find solid rock beneath you--and markers, evidence that someone has traveled this route before. "The Lord your God will cross over at your head... he will be with you; he will not fail you or forsake you. Do not be discouraged or afraid" (Deuteronomy 30:19, 20; 31:3, 8, NEB). It's what the old gospel song puts so simply:

"Trust and obey, for there's no other way
To be happy in Jesus but to trust and obey.
--John H. Sammis

Moonless Trust
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Some of you are perhaps feeling that you are voyaging just now on a moonless sea. Uncertainty surrounds you. There seem to be no signs to follow. Perhaps you feel about to be engulfed by loneliness. There is no one to whom you can speak of your need.

Amy Carmichael wrote of such a feeling when, as a missionary of twenty-six, she had to leave Japan because of poor health, then travel to China for recuperation, but then realized God was telling her to go to Ceylon. (All this preceded her going to India, where she stayed for fifty-three years.) I have on my desk her original handwritten letter of August 25, 1894, as she was en route to Colombo. "All along, let us remember, we are not asked to understand, but simply to obey.... On July 28, Saturday, I sailed. We had to come on board on Friday night, and just as the tender (a small boat) where were the dear friends who had come to say goodbye was moving off, and the chill of loneliness shivered through me, like a warm love-clasp came the long-loved lines--'And only Heaven is better than to walk with Christ at midnight, over moonless seas.' I couldn't feel frightened then. Praise Him for the moonless seas--all the better the opportunity for proving Him to be indeed the El Shaddai, 'the God who is Enough."'

Let me add my own word of witness to hers and to that of the tens of thousands who have learned that He is indeed Enough. He is not all we would ask for (if we were honest), but it is precisely when we do not have what we would ask for, and only then, that we can clearly perceive His all-sufficiency. It is when the sea is moonless that the Lord has become my Light.

Don't Forfeit Your Peace
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

It would not be possible to exaggerate the importance hymns and spiritual songs have played in my spiritual growth. One of the latter, familiar to most of you, has this line: "O what peace we often forfeit, O what needless pain we bear, all because we do not carry everything to God in prayer" (Joseph Scriven). Prayerlessness is one of many ways by which we can easily forfeit the peace God wants us to have. I've been thinking of some other ways. Here's a sampling:

1. Resent God's ways.
2. Worry as much as possible.
3. Pray only about things you can't manage by yourself.
4. Refuse to accept what God gives.
5. Look for peace elsewhere than in Him.
6. Try to rule your own life.
7. Doubt God's word.
8. Carry all your cares.

If you'd rather not forfeit your peace, here are eight ways to find it (antidotes to the above eight):

1. "Great peace have they which love thy law: and nothing shall offend them" (Psalm 119:165 KJV). "Circumstances are the expression of God's will," wrote Bishop Handley Moule.
2. "Don't worry about anything whatever" (Philippians 4:6, PHILLIPS).
3. "In everything make your requests known to God in prayer and petition with thanksgiving. Then the peace of God... will guard your hearts" (Philippians 4:6,7, NEB).
4. "Take my yoke upon you and learn from me... and you will find rest" (Matthew 11:29, NIV).
5. "Peace is my parting gift to you, my own peace, such as the world cannot give" (John 14 27, NEB).
6. "Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts" (Colossians 3:15, NIV).
7. "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing" (Romans 15:13, KJV).
8. "Cast all your cares on him for you are his charge" (1 Peter 5:7, NEB).

"Grant, O Lord my God, that I may never fall away in success or in failure; that I may not be prideful in prosperity nor dejected in adversity. Let me rejoice only in what unites us and sorrow only in what separates us. May I strive to please no one or fear to displease anyone except Yourself. May I seek always the things that are eternal and never those that are only temporal. May I shun any joy that is without You and never seek any that is beside You. O Lord, may I delight in any work I do for You and tire of any rest that is apart from You. My God, let me direct my heart towards You, and in my failings, always repent with a purpose of amendment."

--St. Thomas Aquinas

A Tiny Treasure in Heaven
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

One December I spent two weeks in a hotel within walking distance of my daughter Valerie's home in Mission Viejo, California. This gave me the chance to have uninterrupted writing time for mornings and early afternoons, then spend the rest of the day with her family. Four of the children thought it a wonderful lark to spend a night in the hotel with me (one of the six is too young, one too old). What pleasure for me to watch and listen and savor the marvel of each dear unfolding personality.

Early on the morning of December 4, as six-year-old Jim and four-year-old Colleen were still sleeping the sleep of the carefree and innocent (how utterly relaxed little children can be!), I was going over various matters with the Lord. Finding myself a bit anxious about a few of them, I turned to Philippians 4:5-7 "The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Copying the words into my journal helps me to obey them on the spot, so that's what I did. At seven o'clock Val called. Could I come over as soon as possible? She needed to see her doctor. We lost no time.

Later that morning when she and Walt came home I saw that she was crying. The baby she was carrying (perhaps in her fourth month) had died. Two days later, following the agonies of induced labor (much worse than I had imagined), she gave birth to a tiny girl whom they named Joy. I held her in my hand--perfectly formed, the fingers and toes about the size of hyphens. I could not help but think of the millions of babies this size who have been purposefully destroyed and cast out as "hospital waste."

The Shepard family grieved. There was no question that Joy was one of God's little lambs. The children hung a tiny stocking on the mantelpiece along with theirs. They now have a new treasure in heaven, known and loved and cared for by the Lord. Someday they will know her too. "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be." Walt and Valerie found peace in the only place it is to be found--acceptance--and were greatly comforted by the words of Philippians 3:10: "I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death" (NIV).

Those last six words embody, I think, what Jesus meant when He said His followers must take up the cross. Other translations: "growing conformity with his death," "reproducing the pattern of his death," "even to die as He died." How did He die? In utter self-abandonment to the Father's will. Valerie was also comforted, she told me, by the reading for that day, December 5, in Joy and Strength (World Wide Publications, Minneapolis, 1986):

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What's Out There?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Time magazine once reported the discovery of the most massive object ever detected in the universe. The odd thing is nobody knows what it is. The Kitt Peak telescope picked up two quasars ("intensely bright bodies so far away that the light they emit travels for billions of years before reaching the earth") which seemed to be identical, an occurrence astronomers consider about as likely as finding two people with identical fingerprints. Something called a "gravitation lens" seemed to be bending the light (get that!) from a single quasar in such a way as to produce two identical images. Nothing astonishing about that--Einstein predicted it more than seventy years ago, and Arthur Eddington confirmed it a few years later.

The great question is just exactly what is acting as a gravitational lens. Whatever it is, it has to have the mass of a thousand (1,000) galaxies. If it's a black hole, it is "at least a thousand times as large as the Milky Way (which consists of hundreds of billions of stars, including the sun)." Got that? I was bemused by the statement, "Astrophysicists find it difficult to explain how so tremendous a black hole could have formed." I guess they do. They're turning over a third possibility, much too arcane for me to peer into at all, but it has to do with the Big Bang theory of the origin of the universe.

The most numbing of the facts of this story for me is that people go to such elaborate lengths to avoid mentioning one vastly prior fundamental possibility that (surely?) stares them in the face: creation.

How much faith does it take to believe in God? Less, I venture to say--a great deal less--than to believe in the Unconscious generating the Conscious, Mindlessness creating Mind, Nothing giving birth to Something.

What we know of God we have seen in His Son. He in whom we are asked to trust is Love, creative Love; thinking of us, I suppose, before He thought of gravitational lenses; giving Himself in sacrificial love long before He gave us His own breath of life--for the Lamb was slain before the foundation of the world.

My Lord and my God. Forgive my faithlessness.

The Incarnation is a Thing Too Wonderful
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Some things are simply too wonderful for explanation--the navigational system of the Arctic tern, for example. How does it find its way over twelve thousand miles of ocean from its nesting grounds in the Arctic to its wintering grounds in the Antarctic! Ornithologists have conducted all sorts of tests without finding the answer. Instinct is the best they can offer--no explanation at all, merely a way of saying that they really have no idea. A Laysan albatross was once released 3,200 miles from its nest in the Midway Islands. It was back home in ten days.

The migration of birds is a thing too wonderful.

When the angel Gabriel told Mary, "You will be with child and give birth to a son," she had a simple question about the natural: How can this be, since I am a virgin?!

The answer had to do not with the natural but with something far more mysterious than the tern's navigation--something, in fact, entirely supernatural: "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the Most High will overshadow you" (Luke 1:35, NIV). That was too wonderful, and Mary was silent. She had no question about the supernatural. She was satisfied with God's answer.

The truth about the Incarnation is a thing too wonderful for us. Who can fathom what really took place first in a virgin's womb in Nazareth and then in a stable in Bethlehem!

At the end of the book of Job, instead of answering his questions, God revealed to Job the mystery of Who He was. Then Job despised himself. "I have uttered what I did not understand,/ things too wonderful for me, which I did not know" (Job 42:3, RSV).

In one of David's "songs of ascents" he wrote, "My heart is not proud, O Lord,/ my eyes are not haughty;/ I do not concern myself with great matters/ or things too wonderful for me./ But I have stilled and quieted my soul; / like a weaned child with its mother,/ like a weaned child is my soul within me" (Psalm 131:1,2, NIV).

A close and fretful inquiry into how spiritual things "work" is an exercise in futility. Even wondering how "natural" things are going to work if you bring God into them--how God will answer a prayer for money, for example, or how your son-in-law is going to find a house for eight in southern California (on a pastor's salary) is sometimes an awful waste of energy. God knows how. Why should I bother my head about it if I've turned it over to Him? If the Word of the Lord to us is that we are "predestined according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with his purpose" (Ephesians 1:11, NIV), we may apprehend this fact by faith alone. By believing that God means just what He says, and by acting upon the word (faith always requires action), we apprehend it--we take hold of it, we make it our own. We cannot make it our own by mere reason--"I don't see how such-and-such an incident can possibly have anything to do with any divine 'plan.'"

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The Incarnation is a Thing Too Wonderful
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Why should we see how! Is it not sufficient that we are told that it is so? We need not see. We need only believe and proceed on the basis of that assured fact.

Mary's acceptance of the angel's answer to her innocent question was immediate, though she could not imagine the intricacies and mysteries of its working in her young virgin body. She surrendered herself utterly to God in trust and obedience.

Do you understand what is going on in the invisible realm of your life with God? Do you see how the visible things relate to the hidden Plan and Purpose? Probably not. As my second husband Addison Leitch used to say, "You can't unscrew the Inscrutable." But you do see at least one thing, maybe a very little thing, that He wants you to do. "Now what I am commanding you today is not too difficult [other translations say too hard, too wonderful] for you or beyond your reach. It is not up in heaven.... nor is it beyond the sea.... no, the word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart so you may obey it" (Deuteronomy 30:11-14, NIV).

Let it suffice you, as it sufficed Mary, to know that God knows. If it's time to work, get on with your job. If it's time to go to bed, go to sleep in peace. Let the Lord of the Universe do the worrying.

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The Supremacy of Christ
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Last October I received a copy of the Auca (now known as Waorani) translation of the New Testament. The orthography has been greatly altered since my day, so I can't read much of it now, but leafing through the pages I thought long, long thoughts. I had had nothing to do with the translation. I was with the Aucas only two years, during which Rachel Saint and I worked on reducing the language to writing, but we had barely begun to translate a few Bible stories when my daughter Valerie and I returned to Quichua work.

Sometimes I am asked to speak to young people who are toying with the idea of being missionaries. They want to know how I discovered the will of God. The first thing was to settle once and for all the supremacy of Christ in my life, I tell them. I put myself utterly and forever at His disposal, which means turning over all the rights: to myself, my body, my self-image, my notions of how I am to serve my Master. Oswald Chambers calls it "breaking the husk of my individual independence of God." Until that break comes, all the rest is "pious fraud." I tell these earnest kids that the will of God is always different from what they expect, always bigger, and, ultimately, infinitely more glorious than their wildest imaginings.

But there will be deaths to die. Paul found that out--daily, he said. That is the price of following the way of the cross--of course. If our object is to save others we must be clear that we cannot save ourselves. Jesus couldn't either.

This scares people. Yet what is there to fear when Christ holds first place in our lives? Where, other than in the will of the Father, shall we expect to find significance, security, and serenity?

God's guidance for me has been so different from my early notions--I was to be a jungle missionary for life! The complete futility, humanly speaking, of all the language work I did (Colorado, Quichua, and Auca, for various reasons, all came to nothing) was a deep lesson in the supremacy of Christ. Whom had I set out to serve? May He not do as He wills, then, with His servant and with that servant's work? Is anything offered to Christ ever wasted? I thought about the sacrifices of Old Testament times. When a man brought a lamb, the priest laid it on the altar, slit its throat, and burned it. The offering, then, was accepted. But what was left of it? Amy Carmichael, Irish missionary to India and author of forty books, taught me the implications of a living sacrifice. She wrote:

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Lord of All Seasons
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

A few years ago I spoke to a group of women in Florida about Jesus Christ being "Lord of All Seasons." The topic was their choice, and I found myself, as usual, tested along the very lines on which I was going to speak. During the previous week, Lars and I had learned that all twenty-eight of the nice new (and very expensive) windows we had installed in our new house leaked. I was anxious about many things--my mother's health, my coming grandchild, a new word processor which I wasn't sure I was smart enough to learn to use, and (alas!) a tooth which seemed about to fall out. What a list of varied things to worry about.

But Jesus died for me! He's risen and coming again! He has given me an inheritance that nothing can "destroy or spoil or wither" (1 Peter 1:4, NEB) and a Kingdom which is unshakable (Hebrews 12:28). That's the gospel. Has it anything to do with leaking windows, computers, grandchildren, teeth? Well, I told myself, if it hasn't, you've got no business getting up in front of those women and opening your mouth at all. If I can't give thanks, trust, and worship the Lord in every "season," in the face of any set of facts which may touch my life, I am not really a believer. It is here, in my corner of God's earth, that I am assigned my lessons in the School of Faith.

P.S. Later: They fixed the windows for us, but then we found that all four of the outside doors needed to be fixed. God hadn't finished with us yet.

God's Curriculum
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

One day recently something lit a fuse of anger in someone who then burned me with hot words. I felt sure I didn't deserve this response, but when I ran to God about it, He reminded me of part of a prayer I'd been using lately: "Teach me to treat all that comes to me with peace of soul and with firm conviction that Your will governs all."

Where could that kind of peace come from? Only from God, who gives "not as the world gives."

His will that I should be burned? Here we must tread softly. His will governs all. In a wrong-filled world we suffer (and cause) many a wrong. God is there to heal and comfort and forgive. He who brought blessing to many out of the sin of the jealous brothers against Joseph means this hurt for my ultimate blessing and, I think, for an increase of love between me and the one who hurt me. Love is very patient, very kind. Love never seeks its own. Love looks to God for his grace to help.

"It was not you who sent me here but God," Joseph said to his brothers. "You meant to do me harm; but God meant to bring good out of it" (Genesis 45:8, 50:20, NEB).

There is a philosophy of secular education which holds that the student ought to be allowed to assemble his own curriculum according to his preferences. Few students have a strong basis for making these choices, not knowing how little they know. Ideas of what they need to learn are not only greatly limited but greatly distorted. What they need is help from those who know more than they do.

Mercifully, God does not leave us to choose our own curriculum. His wisdom is perfect, His knowledge embraces not only all worlds but the individual hearts and minds of each of His loved children. With intimate understanding of our deepest needs and individual capacities, He chooses our curriculum. We need only ask, "Give us this day our daily bread, our daily lessons, our homework." An angry retort from someone may be just the occasion we need in which to learn not only longsuffering and forgiveness, but meekness and gentleness; fruits not born in us but borne only by the Spirit. As Amy Carmichael wrote, "A cup brimful of sweetness cannot spill even one drop of bitter water, no matter how suddenly jarred" (From her book IF published by Christian Literature Crusade).

God's curriculum for all who sincerely want to know Him and do His will will always include lessons we wish we could skip. But the more we apply ourselves, the more honestly we can say what the psalmist said: "I, thy servant, will study thy statutes. / Thy instruction is my continual delight; / I turn to it for counsel. / I will run the course set out in thy commandments, / for they gladden my heart" (Psalm 119:23, 24, 32, NEB).

Little Things
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

When we were growing up our parents taught us, by both word and example, to pay attention to little things. If you do a thing at all, do it thoroughly: make the sheets really smooth on the bed, sweep all the comers and move all the chairs when you sweep the kitchen, roll the toothpaste tube neatly and put the cap back on, clean the hair out of your brush each time you use it, hang your towel straight on the rod, fold your napkin and put it into the silver ring before you leave the table, never wet your finger when you turn pages. They kept promises made to us as faithfully as they kept those made to adults. They taught us to do the same.

You didn't accept an invitation to a party and then not turn up, or agree to help with the Vacation Bible School and back out because a more interesting activity presented itself. The only financial debt my parents ever incurred was a mortgage on a house, which my father explained was in a special class because it was real estate which would always have value.

When I went to boarding school the same principles I had been taught at home were emphasized. There was a hallway with small oriental rugs which we called "Character Hall" because the headmistress, Mrs. DuBose, could look down that hall from the armchair where she sat in the lobby and spot any student who kicked up the comer of a rug and did not replace it. She would call out to correct him, "It's those tiny little things in your life which will crack you up when you get out of this school!" In the little things our character was revealed. Our response would make or break us. "Don't go around with a Bible under your arm if you didn't sweep under the bed," she said, for she would have no pious talk coming out of a messy room.

"Great thoughts go best with common duties. Whatever therefore may be your office regard it as a fragment in an immeasurable ministry of love" (Bishop Brooke Foss Westcott, b. 1825).

It is not easy to find children or adults who are dependable, careful, thorough, and faithful. So many lives seem honeycombed with small failures, neglectful of the little things that make the difference between order and chaos. Perhaps it is because they are so seldom taught that visible things are signs of an invisible reality; that common duties may be "an immeasurable ministry of love." The spiritual training of souls must be inseparable from practical disciplines, as Jesus so plainly taught; "The man who can be trusted in little things can be trusted in great; the man who is dishonest in little things will be dishonest in great. If then you cannot be trusted with money, that tainted thing, who will trust you with genuine riches! And if you cannot be trusted with what is not yours, who will give you what is your very own?" (Luke 16:10-12, JB). (The footnote to "your very own" says, "Jesus is speaking of the most intimate Possessions a man can have; these are spiritual.")

What Do You Mean By Submission?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

People are always asking me this. What is this business of "submission" you're always talking about? We're not really very comfortable with this. Seems kinds of negative. Sounds as though women are not worth as much as men. Aren't women supposed to exercise their gifts? Can't they ever open their mouths?

I wouldn't be very comfortable with that kind of submission either. As a matter of fact, I'm not particularly comfortable with any kind, but since it was God's idea and not mine, I had better come to terms with what the Bible says about it and stop rejecting the whole thing just because it is so often misunderstood and wrongly defined. I came across a lucid example of what it means in 1 Chronicles 11:10, NEB: "Of David's heroes these were the chief, men who lent their full strength to his government and, with all Israel, joined in making him king." There it is. The recognition, first of all, of God-given authority. Recognizing it, accepting it, they then lent their full strength to it, and did everything in their power to make him--not them--king.

Christians--both men and women--recognize first the authority of Christ. They pray "Thy will be done." They set about making an honest effort to cooperate with what He is doing, straightening out the kinks in their own lives according to His wishes. A Christian woman, then, in submission to God, recognizes the divinely assigned authority of her husband (he didn't earn it, remember, he received it by appointment!. She then sets about lending her full strength to helping him do what he's supposed to do, be what he's supposed to be--her head. She's not always trying to get her own way. She's trying to make it easier for him to do his job. She seeks to contribute to his purpose, not to scheme how to accomplish her own.

If this sounds suspiciously like some worn-out traditionalist view, or (worse) like a typical Elisabeth Elliot opinion, test it with the straightedge of Scripture. What does submission to Christ mean? "Wives, submit yourself to your husbands, as to the Lord." Compare and connect.

Where Will Complaining Get You?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

When we were in Dallas for a visit, we were the guests of our dear friend Nina Jean Obel. As we sat one morning in her beautiful sunshiny yellow and pale-green kitchen, she reminded us of how, in the story in Deuteronomy 1, when the Israelites were within fourteen days of the Promised Land, they complained. Complaining was a habit which had angered Moses, their leader, to the point where he wished he were dead. "How can I bear unaided the heavy burden you are to me, and put up with your complaints?" he asked. They headed for Horeb, but when they reached the hill country of the Amorites they refused to believe the promises and insisted on sending spies to see what sort of a land it was. The spies came back with a glowing report, but the people didn't believe that either. Never mind the lovely fruit the land offered. There were giants in the land; they'd all be killed. There were huge fortifications towering to the sky. How would they ever conquer them?

It was the neurotic's attitude. No answer would do. No solution offered was good enough. The promises of God, the direction of Moses, the report of the spies--all unacceptable. The people had already made up their minds that they didn't like anything God was doing. They "muttered treason." They said the Lord hated them. He brought them out only to have them wiped out by the Amorites. O God, what a fate. O God, why do you treat us this way? O God, how are we going to get out of this? It's your fault. You hate us. Moses hates us. Everything and everybody's against us.

Nina Jean said she made up her mind that if complaining was the reason God's people were denied the privilege of entering Canaan, she was going to quit it. She set herself a tough task: absolutely no complaining for fourteen days. It was a revelation to her--first, of how strong a habit it had become, and second, of how different the whole world looked when she did not complain. I get the impression when I'm around Nina Jean that the fourteen-day trial was enough to kick the habit. I've never heard her complain.

It's not just the sunshine and the colors that make her kitchen a nice place to be. It's that Nina Jean is there. I'd like to create that sort of climate for the people I'm around. I've set myself the same task.

Copyright 1995, used with permission, all rights reserved.

Humdudgeons or Contentment
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

The word humdudgeon is a new one to me and I like the sound of it. It means "a loud complaint about a trifle." Heard any of those lately around your house? One mother thought of an excellent antidote: all humdudgeons must be presented not orally but in writing, "of two hundred words or more." There was a sudden marked reduction in whining and complaining.

Parents, by example, teach their children to whine. No wonder it is so difficult to teach them not to! Listen to conversations in the elevator, at the hairdresser's, at the next table in the restaurant. Everybody's whining about everything--weather, health, the president, the IRS, the insurance mess, traffic, the kids.

Human life is full of trouble, which doesn't come from the dust, said Job's friend Eliphaz, nor does it sprout from the ground. Man is born to trouble. Compare your list of troubles with one famous man's:

1. He had a difficult childhood
2. Less than one year of formal schooling
3. Failed in business at age 31
4. Defeated for legislature at 32
5. Failed again in business at 33
6. Elected to the legislature at 34
7. His fiancee died when he was 35
8. Defeated for speaker at 38
9. Defeated for electorate at 40
10. At 42 married a woman who became a burden, not a help
11. Only one of four sons lived past age 18
12. Defeated for congress at 43
13. Elected to congress at 46
14. Defeated for congress at 48
15. Defeated for senate at 55
16. Defeated for vice president at 56
17. Defeated for senate at 58
18. Finally elected president.

He was Abraham Lincoln, of course. When I look at his list of setbacks, I wonder if I've ever had a problem.

Adler said, "It is a categorical demand of the neurotic's lifespan that he should fail through the guilt of others and thus be free of responsibility." That sobered me. Is my response to failure instantly to lay the blame on somebody else? Is there always an excuse, a complaint, an inner whine!

A spirit of calm contentment always accompanies true godliness. The deep peace that comes from deep trust in God's lovingkindness is not destroyed even by the worst of circumstances, for those Everlasting Arms are still cradling us, we are always "under the Mercy." Corrie ten Boom was "born to trouble" like the rest of us, but in a German concentration camp she jumped to her feet every morning and exuberantly sang "Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus!" She thanked the Lord for the little parade of ants that marched through her cell, bringing her company. When Paul and Silas were in prison, they prayed and sang. It isn't troubles that make saints, but their response to troubles.

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Humdudgeons or Contentment
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Even miracles can't make us holy. Paul reminded the Corinthians that the Israelites were all guided by the same cloud, all had the experience of passing through the sea, all ate the same supernatural food, and all drank the same supernatural drink. "In spite of this, most of them failed to please God and their corpses littered the desert" (1 Corinthians 10:5, JB). The reason for His displeasure came down to a single root: discontent, which included "wicked lusts for forbidden things (idols and illicit sex, for which 23,000 were killed in one day) and complaining because they wanted things perfectly legitimate in themselves which God had not given--leeks and onions and garlic and cucumbers and fish--and stood at their tent doors, parents and children together wailing "Here we are, wasting away, stripped of everything; there is nothing but manna for us to look at!" Numbers 11:6, JB). Many were struck with a plague and died.

When Paul's flesh was tormented by a sharp thorn, he naturally wanted it removed. He made this request known to God, but the answer was No. God didn't change Paul's physical condition, He changed his spiritual one. He gave him what he needed more than healing. He gave him the high ministry of heaven called grace. Paul not only accepted the answer, he learned even to be very thankful for weakness itself, for "power comes to its full strength in weakness."

Everything about which we are tempted to complain may be the very instrument whereby the Potter intends to shape His clay into the image of His Son--a headache, an insult, a long line at the check-out, someone's rudeness or failure to say thank you, misunderstanding, disappointment, interruption. As Amy Carmichael said, "See in it a chance to die," meaning a chance to leave self behind and say YES to the will of God, to be "conformable unto His death." Not a morbid martyr-complex but a peaceful and happy contentment in the assurance that goodness and mercy follow us all the days of our lives. Wouldn't our children learn godliness if they saw the example of contentment instead of complaint? acceptance instead of rebellion? peace instead of frustration?

May ours be the spirit of the seventeen-year-old Lady Jane Grey, who prayed this prayer in her prison cell before she was beheaded in 1554:

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Several Ways to Make Yourself Miserable
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

1. Count your troubles, name them one by one--at the breakfast table, if anybody will listen, or as soon as possible thereafter.
2. Worry every day about something. Don't let yourself get out of practice. It won't add a cubit to your stature but it might burn a few calories.
3. Pity yourself. If you do enough of this, nobody else will have to do it for you.
4. Devise clever but decent ways to serve God and mammon. After all, a man's gotta live.
5. Make it your business to find out what the Joneses are buying this year and where they're going. Try to do them at least one better even if you have to take out another loan to do it.
6. Stay away from absolutes. It's what's right for you that matters. Be your own person and don't allow yourself to get hung up on what others expect of you.
7. Make sure you get your rights. Never mind other people's. You have your life to live, they have theirs.
8. Don't fall into any compassion traps--the sort of situation where people can walk all over you. If you get too involved in other people's troubles, you may neglect your own.
9. Don't let Bible reading and prayer get in the way of what's really relevant--things like TV and newspapers. Invisible things are eternal. You want to stick with the visible ones--they're where it's at now.

Indecision
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

It is painfully obvious that many young people today have an awful time making up their minds about anything. They're not "really sure" what college to go to, what to major in, whom to room with, what career to prepare for, whether or whom to marry, whether to bother with children if they do marry, when to bother with them, what to do with them if they get them, whether to attempt to instill any values in their children (not to make up your mind on this issue is, of course, already to have instilled a value in the mind of the child).

Garry Trudeau, author of the cartoon "Doonesbury," has noticed this prevalent indecisiveness. In one strip he has a young man appearing for an interview with the president of an advertising company.

"So you want to be an ad man, eh, son?" says the executive.

"Well, I think so, sir," says the youth. "I mean, I can't be certain, of course, but it seemed worth looking into, you know, to see if it worked out, if it felt right and... I... uh..."

I guess there's nothing new about indecision. James wrote about it in his epistle, and he shows that the remedy for it is trust. He tells us to ask for wisdom if we don't know what to do. "But when you ask him, be sure that you really expect him to tell you, for a doubtful mind will be as unsettled as a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind; and every decision you then make will be uncertain, as you turn first this way and then that. If you don't ask with faith, don't expect the Lord to give you any solid answer" (James 1:6-8, LB).

The Fear of Man or Woman
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"The majority of men have thought of women as sublime separately but horrible as a herd," noted the wise G.K. Chesterton. Alas. Are we so formidable? Robert Bly, in his best-selling IRON JOHN, declares that men are petrified of female anger. Then there's a TIME correspondent named Sam Allis who says "Women are often daunting obstacles to male peace of mind, and for all their brave talk, men remain utterly flummoxed by the situation."

"The fear of man bringeth a snare," according to God's Word. Meseemeth the fear of woman bringeth a worse one. These comments have set me thinking (again) about fear in general. If men and women were surer of their God there would be more genuine manliness, womanliness, and godliness in the world, and a whole lot less fear of each other.

Jesus told us not to fear those who can kill only the body, but rather to fear Him who can destroy both soul and body in hell--in other words, fear God and fear nothing else. Moses, by faith, "left Egypt, not fearing the king's anger; he persevered because he saw him who is invisible" (Hebrews 11:27, NIV). When Daniel learned of King Darius's decree forbidding prayer to any god or man except the king himself, he proceeded with his regular manner of worship, on his knees, windows open, "just as he had done before," and was caught in the act (Daniel 6). He feared God; therefore, he feared neither the king nor the lions. His three friends, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, faced with the choice between two evils, worshipping a golden image or burning to a crisp in a furnace, made an instant decision (Daniel 3). Fear of God made worship of an idol unthinkable. Fear of the fire was, by comparison, thinkable. That's manliness.

Uzziah, who became king of Judah when he was sixteen, was taught by Zechariah to fear God. A child who is not taught to fear wrongdoing when he is small will have great difficulty learning to fear God when he is a man. "Freedom from fear" is what Russell Kirk calls "a silly piece of demagogic sophistry," for we all have "a natural yearning for the challenge of the dreadful."

One of the nicest things any of the listeners to my broadcast, has written to me came from a little girl: "You make me brave." Sometimes I wonder what has happened to words like courage and endurance. What reason is there in our feel-comfortable society ever to be brave? Very little, and, when you think about it, we miss it, don't we? To be really brave is to lay oneself open to charges of hypocrisy, of being "in denial," or out of touch with one's feelings. Moses charged Joshua to be strong and very courageous. Courage is not the absence of fear but the willingness to do the thing we fear. Go straight into the furnace or the lion's den. Were those men out of touch with their feelings or with reality? No. Nor was the psalmist who said, "When I am afraid, I will trust" (Psalm 56:3, NIV). There's a big difference between feeling and willing.

Spiritual Opposition
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

When Lars and I returned from a fortnight in Scotland and England there was the expected pile-up of work awaiting us, and the usual temptation to feel overwhelmed by it. The suitcase had to be unpacked, clothes washed, mail opened, read, and answered. The house had been partially cleaned by the student who lives with us, but upstairs I had to deal with the dust. There were phone messages waiting, and phone calls we needed to make to family members. Do you know the feeling of utter inadequacy to cope? I'm sure you do. But I believe the enemy of our souls is specially alert at such times, seeking to use them to turn us in on ourselves rather than upwards to the One who stands ready to be our Refuge and Helper.

Laying all the work before the Lord on the first morning after our return, I asked for His help to do it faithfully, carefully, and in an orderly way. I believe He answered that prayer--I'm sure He did. Everything that had to be done in those first three days was done, and I couldn't possibly have done it on my own. Then there was the lovely respite of Sunday, with time to read and think. I looked forward to tackling Monday's work (radio talks, scheduling of speaking) at a clean desk.

Monday came. The day was committed to God as always. But I felt like the wheels of the Egyptian chariots which "drave heavily." There were interruptions, distractions. I could not get on as expected. My mind was dull, confused. At the end of the day I could not see what I had done with my time.

Tuesday was a continuation of the day before. Where had those hours gone? I took my usual walk after lunch around Ocean Drive--a cloudless sky, a glittering sea. I walked alone, talking to God about my failures, asking Him to clarify things. When I got back home, such an unexpected source of help came to hand--a letter written to my father thirty years ago by an old missionary. Things were not going well at that time with the paper, THE SUNDAY SCHOOL TIMES, of which my father was editor, and he was on the verge of what was then called a nervous breakdown. He had asked counsel of this old veteran, E.L. Langston, in Africa.

"The devil does not like that paper nor its articles, and is evidently attacking you in your inmost heart, not causing you to doubt so much as causing a spirit of discontent. Fortunately we both know that temptation is not sin, it is yielding to temptation that causes us to sin and I feel that you must count it joy that you are passing through these times of difficulty, for they are sure signs that the Lord is blessing you....

"There is another reason, I think, for the cause of the feeling within us. It comes from the flesh and self-introspection. It is good for us to look at self and know how loathsome it is, but with one look at self we must take ten looks at Christ....

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The Gift of Work
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

The principal cause of boredom is the hatred of work. People are trained from childhood to hate it. Parents often feel guilty about making children do anything but the merest gestures toward work. Perhaps the children are required to make their beds and, in a feeble and half-hearted fashion, tidy up their rooms once a month or so. But take full responsibility to clear the table, load the dishwasher, scrub the pots, wipe the counters? How many have the courage to ask this of a ten-year-old? It would be too much to ask of many ten-year-olds because parents have seriously asked nothing of them when they were two or three. Children quickly pick up the parents' negative attitudes toward work and think of it as something most sedulously to be avoided.

Our Lord and Savior worked. There is little doubt that He served in the carpenter shop under the instruction of His earthly father Joseph, putting in long hours, learning skill, care, responsibility, and above all, the glory of work as a gift to glorify His heavenly Father. He did always those things that please the Father. Later He chose almost all His disciples from those who labored with their hands. Even the apostle Paul, a man of brilliant intellect, made tents.

Booker T. Washington, an African-American who grew up in the South when members of his race were expected to do the hardest and dirtiest jobs, learned his greatest lesson from the example of a Christian woman. A New Englander, the founder of the Hampton Institute, she herself washed the windows the day before school started, so it would be nice for those children who had been born slaves.

Is work a necessary evil, even a curse? A Christian who spent many years in Soviet work camps, learning to know work at its most brutal, its most degrading and dehumanizing, testified that he took pride in it, did the best he could, worked to the limit of his strength each day. Why? Because he saw it as a gift from God, coming to him from the hand of God, the very will of God for him. He remembered that Jesus did not make benches and roofbeams and plow handles by means of miracles, but by means of saw, axe, and adze.

Wouldn't it make an astounding difference, not only in the quality of the work we do (in office, schoolroom, factory, kitchen, or backyard), but also in our satisfaction, even our joy, if we recognized God's gracious gift in every single task, from making a bed or bathing a baby to drawing a blueprint or selling a computer? If our children saw us doing "heartily as unto the Lord" all the work we do, they would learn true happiness. Instead of feeling that they must be allowed to do what they like, they would learn to like what they do.

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The Universal Thump
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

It's so refreshing to find some encouragement to work and to be cheerful and take orders, instead of what is more common today, an outright dislike, even hatred, of work and an unwillingness to take orders from anybody. We've really had just about enough of that, don't you think? So here's an antidote in the musings of a sailor in Herman Melville's great classic, MOBY DICK:

"What of it if some old hunk of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weigh, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunk in that particular instance? Who ain't a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way--either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content."

Most of us are not exactly under the orders of "some old hunk of a sea-captain," but we are meant to be willing and cheerful servants of anybody who happens to need us. Have I a true servant-heart? I should have. I will not be anything like my Lord Jesus if I haven't, for He came not to be served but to serve. He set for us a radiant example of how practically He meant it. He washed feet. Knowing His own origin and destiny, He did it with grace and He did it with love.

And what is our origin? Our destiny? We, too, "come from God and are going back to God." Is there any job, then, that is really "beneath us?" Any "thump" that we really mind?

"You, my brothers, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the sinful nature; rather, serve one another in love" (Galatians 5:13, NIV).

Last summer a certain fifteen-year-old worked at a ranch, where his job included not only dishwashing but cleaning out the garbage truck. They weren't jobs he'd have opted for (he'd far rather have exercised horses or even mucked out stables), so I gave him "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving" (Colossians 3:23-24, NIV). He wrote me a sweet letter, said God was helping him.

But I Have a Graduate Degree
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

A woman was asked to speak to the women students of a seminary about job opportunities for those with seminary degrees. She writes, "I talked to them first principally about being, doing, and going as God wills (not who am I, but whose am I). Then I listed both traditional and creative ways to fulfill needs in the Kingdom of God. Three feminists were offended especially that I should mention a nanny among the 70+ jobs. But Aristotle was a 'nanny' to Alexander the Great! These women had bought into the values of the world and were ready to fight for their ten years of executive computer programming. They said my talk had 'put them down more than any man's.'"

Theology means the study of God, but if an earned degree in that field confers a position in life which makes servanthood "beneath us" (three women felt "put down"), something is badly amiss. "The servant is not greater than his master," Jesus said. "Once you have realized these things, you will find your happiness in doing them" (John 13:16,17, PHILLIPS).

Happiness--never mind the "status" of the job. The disciples had been occupied with petty rivalries and questions about greatness. Jesus, "with the full knowledge that the Father had put everything into His hands" (John 13:3, PHILLIPS), took into those hands the dusty, calloused feet of each of the twelve, washed them, and dried them with a towel. It was His happiness to do the will of His Father, but it was a shock to those rugged men. The washing of feet hadn't occurred to them as coming under that heading, I suppose, even though they had heard the principle before. I can imagine the bewilderment on their faces. Can't you just hear Peter's tone as he says, "You, Lord, washing my feet?" (v. 6, NEB).

Values get skewed so easily nowadays, don't they? TIME (Nov. 7, 1988) carried the testimony of one man who, according to the world's measurement of success, had hit the top. He was playwright Eugene O'Neill, and if it's success that makes people happy he should have been the happiest of men. He sounded like the most miserable: "I'm fed to the teeth with the damned theatre.... The game isn't worth the candle. If I got any real spiritual satisfaction out of success in the theatre it might compensate. But I don't. Success is as flat, spiritually speaking, as failure. After the unprecedented critical acclaim to 'Mourning Becomes Electra' I was in bed nearly a week, overcome by the profoundest gloom and nervous exhaustion."

Lay O'Neill's words alongside Jesus': "Once you have realized these things you will find your happiness in doing them." It's hard for us earthbound mortals to realize them. It's easy to be beguiled by temporal rewards, short-lived promises of fulfillment. The brighter the prospects the world offers, the more obscure become the principles of the Kingdom in which, as Janet Erskine Stuart said, "humility and service are the only expression and measure of greatness."

The Key to Supernatural Power
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

The world cannot fathom strength proceeding from weakness, gain proceeding from loss, or power from meekness. Christians apprehend these truths very slowly, if at all, for we are strongly influenced by secular thinking. Let's stop and concentrate on what Jesus meant when He said that the meek would inherit the earth. Do we understand what meekness truly is? Think first about what it isn't.

It is not a naturally phlegmatic temperament. I knew a woman who was so phlegmatic that nothing seemed to make much difference to her at all. While drying dishes for her one day in her kitchen I asked where I should put a serving platter.

"Oh, I don't know. Wherever you think would be a good place," was her answer. I wondered how she managed to find things if there wasn't a place for everything (and everything in its place).

Meekness is not indecision or laziness or feminine fragility or loose sentimentalism or indifference or affable neutrality.

Meekness is most emphatically not weakness. Do you remember who was the meekest man in the Old Testament? Moses! (See Numbers 12:3). My mental image of him is not of a feeble man. It is shaped by Michelangelo's sculpture and painting and by the biblical descriptions. Think of him murdering the Egyptian, smashing the tablets of the commandments, grinding the golden calf to a powder, scattering it on the water and making the Israelites drink it. Nary a hint of weakness there, nor in David who wrote, "The meek will he guide in judgment" (Psalm 25:9, KJV), nor in Isaiah, who wrote, "The meek also shall increase their joy in the Lord" (Isaiah 29:19, KJV).

The Lord Jesus was the Lamb of God, and when we think of lambs we think of meekness (and perhaps weakness), but He was also the Lion of Judah, and He said, "I am meek and lowly in heart" (Matthew 11:29, KJV). He told us that we can find rest for our souls if we will come to Him, take His yoke, and learn. What we must learn is meekness. It doesn't come naturally to any of us.

Meekness is teachability. "The meek will he teach his way" (Psalm 25:9, KJV). It is the readiness to be shown, which includes the readiness to lay down my fixed notions, my objections and "what ifs" or "but what abouts," my certainties about the rightness of what I have always done or thought or said. It is the child's glad "Show me! Is this the way? Please help me." We won't make it into the kingdom without that childlikeness, that simple willingness to be taught and corrected and helped. "Receive with meekness the engrafted word, which is able to save your souls" (James 1:21, KJV). Meekness is an explicitly spiritual quality, a fruit of the Spirit, learned, not inherited. It shows in the kind of attention we pay to one another, the tone of voice we use, the facial expression.

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The Key to Supernatural Power
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

One weekend I spoke in Atlanta on this subject, and the following weekend I was to speak on it again in Philadelphia. As very often happens, I was sorely tested on that very point in the few days in between. That sore test was my chance to be taught and changed and helped. At the same time I was strongly tempted to indulge in the very opposite of meekness: sulking. Someone had hurt me. He/she was the one who needed to be changed! I felt I was misunderstood, unfairly treated, and unduly berated. Although I managed to keep my mouth shut, both the Lord and I knew that my thoughts did not spring from a depth of loving-kindness and holy charity. I wanted to vindicate myself to the offender. That was a revelation of how little I knew of meekness.

The Spirit of God reminded me that it was He who had provided this very thing to bring that lesson of meekness which I could learn nowhere else. He was literally putting me on the spot: would I choose, here and now, to learn of Him, learn His meekness? He was despised, rejected, reviled, pierced, crushed, oppressed, afflicted, yet He did not open His mouth. What was this little incident of mine by comparison with my Lord's suffering? He brought to mind Jesus' willingness not only to eat with Judas who would soon betray Him, but also to kneel before him and wash his dirty feet. He showed me the look the Lord gave Peter when he had three times denied Him--a look of unutterable love and forgiveness, a look of meekness which overpowered Peter's cowardice and selfishness, and brought him to repentance. I thought of His meekness as He hung pinioned on the cross, praying even in His agony for His Father's forgiveness for His killers. There was no venom or bitterness there, only the final proof of a sublime and invincible love.

But how shall I, not born with the smallest shred of that quality, I who love victory by argument and put-down, ever learn that holy meekness? The prophet Zephaniah tells us to seek it (Zephaniah 2:3). We must walk (live) in the Spirit, not gratifying the desires of the sinful nature (for example, my desire to answer back, to offer excuses and accusations, my desire to show up the other's fault instead of to be shown my own). We must "clothe" ourselves (Colossians 3:12) with meekness--put it on, like a garment. This entails an explicit choice: I will be meek. I will not sulk, will not retaliate, will not carry a chip.

A steadfast look at Jesus instead of at the injury makes a very great difference. Seeking to see things in His light changes the aspect altogether.

In PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, Prudence asks Christian in the House Beautiful, "Can you remember by what means you find your annoyances at times, as if they were vanquished?"

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The Key to Supernatural Power
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"Yes," says Christian, "when I think what I saw at the Cross, that will do it."

The message of the cross is foolishness to the world and to all whose thinking is still worldly. But "the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man's strength" (1 Corinthians 1:25, NIV). The meekness of Jesus was a force more irresistible than any force on earth. "By the meekness and gentleness of Christ," wrote the great apostle, "I appeal to you.... Though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds" (2 Corinthians 10:1, 3-4, NIV). The weapon of meekness counters all enmity, says author Dietrich Von Hildebrand, with the offer of an unshielded heart.

Isn't this the simple explanation for our being so heavy-laden, so tired, so overburdened and confused and bitter? We drag around such prodigious loads of resentment and self-assertion. Shall we not rather accept at once the loving invitation: "Come to Me. Take My yoke. Learn of Me--I am gentle, meek, humble, lowly. I will give you rest" (Matthew 11:28-29 paraphrased).

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Be Honest With God
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Since God knows our thoughts even before we think them, isn't it absurd of us to hesitate to tell Him the straight truth about ourselves? When we feel we ought to try to cover our spiritual nakedness it is good for us to open up Psalm 139: "O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.... You perceive my thoughts from afar.... You are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.... You created my inmost being" (Psalm 139:1-4,13, NIV).

There are times when I hesitate even to pray, knowing how far short I fall from God's standard.

George MacDonald writes:

"If I felt my heart as hard as a stone; if I did not love God, or man, or woman, or little child, I would yet say to God in my heart, 'O God, see how I trust Thee, because Thou art perfect, and not changeable like me. I do not love Thee. I love nobody. I am not even sorry for it. Thou seest how much I need Thee to come close to me, to put Thy arm round me, to say to me, MY CHILD: for the worse my state, the greater my need of my Father who loves me. Come to me, and my day will dawn; my love will come back, and, oh! how I shall love Thee, my God! and know that my love is Thy love, my blessedness Thy being.'"

We may pray the prayer that closes Psalm 139: "Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting" (Psalm 139:23-24, NIV).

"Be persuaded, timid soul," writes Archbishop Fenelon, in his SPIRITUAL LETTERS TO WOMEN, "that He has loved you too much to cease loving you."

An Old Prayer
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Christians in the Orthodox Church use a prayer called the Jesus Prayer. Sometimes they pray it in the rhythm of breathing, learning in this way almost to "pray without ceasing." The words are simple, but they cover everything we need to ask for ourselves and others: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us."

The Lord did not say we should not use repetition. He said we should not use vain repetition. A prayer prayed from the heart of the child to the Father is never vain.

The Very Reverend Kenneth R. Waldron, a priest of both the Ukrainian Orthodox Church and of the Anglican Church, wrote to me of his having had surgery. "The last moment of consciousness before the anaesthetic took over, I heard my surgeon repeating in a whisper GOSPODI POMILUY, GOSPODI POMILUY, GOSPODI POMILUY [Dr. Waldron put the Russian words into phonetic spelling]--Lord, have mercy on us.... It is wonderful to drift off into unconsciousness hearing these words on the lips of the man whose hands you trust to bring you out of your troubles. It is great to have a surgeon who knows how to pray at such a time. Think of the comfort and help that this simple prayer has brought to thousands through the years, a prayer that was a big help to me in January 1982. Some of my hospital friends thought they would not see me alive again, but the good Lord had a bit more work for this old priest to do."

The Jesus Prayer was one my husband Add and I often used together when he was dying of cancer, when we seemed to have "used up" all the other prayers. I recommend it to you.

Lost and Found
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Here is a little story about a simple answer to prayer. Lars was away. I had to take the car to the repairman's house. Li Zeng, our live-in student, followed me in his car to bring me home. Directions to the house had been ambiguous, and Gloucester, Massachusetts gets the prize for town-easiest-to-get-lost-in. I prayed that I might not get lost--Li had to get to class, the repairman had to leave at 7:15. I got lost, made a quick turn without checking to see that Li was still with me. He wasn't. "Lord, Li will be late for class, the man will leave in a few minutes--what shall I do?" It's a long story, but after a phone call I found the house, left the car, declined the man's kind offer to take me home because I wanted to find Li so he would not miss his class. How was I to find him? "Lord, help me." I stood at an intersection and prayed that he would come along--an absurd request in a place like Gloucester. He'd been on a one-way street which would take him far out around the shore drive, with no reason to happen upon the intersection where I stood. Within five minutes there he was! God teaches us to ask so that He may answer our prayers. This reminds us of the source of our blessings. The answer to my prayer not to get lost was No--in order that I might be specially blessed in the way I was found.

Remember how the Lord brought Israel out (of Egypt) in order to bring them in (to Canaan)? He got me lost that He might get me found! Let's never forget that some of His greatest mercies are His refusals. He says no in order that He may, in some way we cannot imagine, say yes. All His ways with us are merciful. His meaning is always love.

After I had written the above, I received the following much more astonishing story from Brenda Foltz of Princeton, Minnesota. She went rock-climbing for the first time:

"I started up the rock as fast as I could, determined to 'set my face like a flint' toward the peak. After a time, I came to a difficult ledge, and my breathless scrambling came to an abrupt halt. Suddenly, the rope was pulled too taut and hit me square in the eye. 'Oh NO!' I thought wildly, 'my contact lens is GONE!' From my precarious perch I looked everywhere on the rope and sharp granite rock for a tiny, transparent lens, which could easily be mistaken for a water droplet.

"'Lord Jesus, help me find it!' I prayed and pleaded, knowing the hopelessness of my search with such limited mobility. I looked as long as I could maintain my hold, praying with a sinking heart. Finally I resumed my climb with one last glimmer of hope--maybe the contact was still in my eye, crumpled in the corner or up under my eyelid. When I reached the top, I had a friend check to see if she could find it in my eye. It wasn't there. Every hope was gone.

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Lost and Found
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"I was disappointed, and anxious about getting a new contact so far away from home. As we sat and rested, surveying the world from such a gloriously high perspective, the fragment of a verse popped into my head: 'The eyes of God go to and fro through the whole earth.'

"God knows exactly where my contact is this moment from His high vantage point, the amazing thought struck me. But I'll never see it again, I concluded.

"So, still glum, I headed down the path to the bottom where the others were preparing to climb. About half an hour later another girl set out where I had also begun my climb. She had no inkling of the missing contact. But there, at the steep bottom of the rock face, she let out an excited cry: 'Hey you guys--did anyone lose a contact?'

"I rushed over as she continued yelling, 'There's an ANT carrying a contact down the mountain!'

"Sure enough. Special delivery! I bent down, retrieved my contact from the hardworking ant, doused it with water and put it back in my eye, rejoicing. I was in awe, as if my Father had just given me, though so undeserving, a big hug, and said, 'My precious daughter, I care about every detail of your life.'

"I wrote to tell my family. My dad drew a cartoon portraying an ant, lugging a big contact five times its size. The ant was saying to God, 'Lord, I don't understand why You want me to drag this thing down! What use is it anyway? I don't even know what it is, and I certainly can't eat it and it's so BIG and HEAVY. Oh well, if you say so, Lord, I'll try, but it seems like a useless piece of junk to me!'

"I marvel at God's ways and how He chooses to reveal His mercy in ways far beyond our human comprehension."

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Thanksgiving for What is Given
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Some people are substituting "Turkey Day" for Thanksgiving. I guess it must be because they are not aware that there's anybody to thank, and they think that the most important thing about the holiday is food. Christians know there is Somebody to thank, but often when we make a list of things to thank Him for we include only things we like. A bride and groom can't get away with that. They write a note to everybody, not only the rich uncle who gave the couple matching BMWs, but the poor aunt who gave them a crocheted toilet-paper cover. In other words, they have to express thanks for whatever they've received.

Wouldn't that be a good thing for us to do with God? We are meant to give thanks "in everything" even if we're like the little girl who said she could think of a lot of things she'd rather have than eternal life. The mature Christian offers not just polite thanks but heartfelt thanks that springs from a far deeper source than his own pleasure. Thanksgiving is a spiritual exercise, necessary to the building of a healthy soul. It takes us out of the stuffiness of ourselves into the fresh breeze and sunlight of the will of God. The simple act of thanking Him is for most of us an abrupt change of activity, a break from work and worry, a move toward re-creation.

I am not suggesting the mouthing of foolish platitudes, or evasion of the truth. That is not how God is glorified, or souls fortified. I want to see clearly what I have been given and to thank Him with an honest heart. What are the "givens"?

Thankless children we all are, more or less, comprehending but dimly the truth of God's fathomless love for us. We do not know Him as a gracious Giver, we do not understand His most precious gifts, or the depth of His love, the wisdom with which He has planned our lives, the price He pays to bring us to glory and fulfillment. When some petty private concern or perhaps some bad news depresses or confuses me, I am in no position to be thankful. Far from it. That is the time, precisely then, that I must begin by deliberately putting my mind on some great Realities.

What are these "givens"? What do I most unshakably believe in? God the Father Almighty. Jesus Christ His only Son. The Holy Ghost, the holy catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, the life everlasting. Not a long list, but all we need. "The necessary supplies issued to us, the standard equipment of the Christian." We didn't ask for any of them. (Imagine having nothing more than we've asked for!) They are given.

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A New Thanksgiving
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Those who call Thanksgiving "Turkey Day," I suppose, take some such view as this: Unless we have Someone to thank and something to thank Him for, what's the point of using a name that calls up pictures of religious people in funny hats and Indians bringing corn and squash?

Christians, I hope, focus on something other than a roasted bird. We do have Someone to thank and a long list of things to thank Him for, but sometimes we limit our thanksgiving merely to things that look good to us. As our faith in the character of God grows deeper we see that heavenly light is shed on everything--even on suffering--so that we are enabled to thank Him for things we would never have thought of before. The apostle Paul, for example, saw even suffering itself as a happiness (Colossians 1:24, NEB).

I have been thinking of something that stifles thanksgiving. It is the spirit of greed--the greed of doing, being, and having.

When Satan came to tempt Jesus in the wilderness, his bait was intended to inspire the lust to do more than the Father meant for Him to do--to go farther, demonstrate more power, act more dramatically. So the enemy comes to us in these days of frantic doing. We are ceaselessly summoned to activities: social, political, educational, athletic, and--yes--spiritual. Our "self-image" (deplorable word!) is dependent not on the quiet and hidden "Do this for My sake," but on the list the world hands us of what is "important." It is a long list, and it is both foolish and impossible. If we fall for it, we neglect the short list.

Only a few things are really important, and for those we have the promise of divine help: sitting in silence with the Master in order to hear His word and obey it in the ordinary line of duty--for example, in being a good husband, wife, father, mother, son, daughter, or spiritual father or mother to those nearby who need protection and care--humble work which is never on the world's list because it leads to nothing impressive on one's resume. As Washington Gladden wrote in 1879, "O Master, let me walk with Thee/In lowly paths of service free...."

Temptation comes also in the form of being. The snake in the garden struck at Eve with the promise of being something which had not been given. If she would eat the fruit forbidden to her, she could "upgrade her lifestyle" and become like God. She inferred that this was her right, and that God meant to cheat her of this. The way to get her rights was to disobey Him.

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A New Thanksgiving
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

No new temptation ever comes to any of us. Satan needs no new tricks. The old ones have worked well ever since the Garden of Eden, although sometimes under different guises. When there is a deep restlessness for which we find no explanation, it may be due to the greed of being--what our loving Father never meant us to be. Peace lies in the trusting acceptance of His design, His gifts, His appointment of place, position, capacity. It was thus that the Son of Man came to earth--embracing all that the Father willed Him to be, usurping nothing--no work, not even a word--that the Father had not given Him.

Then there is the greed of having. When "a mixed company of strangers" joined the Israelites, the people began to be greedy for better things (Numbers 11:4, NEB). God had given them exactly what they needed in the wilderness: manna. It was always enough, always fresh, always good (sounds good to me, anyway, "like butter-cakes"). But the people lusted for variety. These strangers put ideas into their heads. "There's more to life than this stuff. Is this all you've got? You can have more. You gotta live a little!"

So the insistence to have it all took hold on God's people and they began to wail, "all of them in their families at the opening of their tents." There is no end to the spending, getting, having. We are insatiable consumers, dead set on competing, upgrading, showing off ("If you've got it, flaunt it"). We simply cannot bear to miss something others deem necessary. So the world ruins the peace and simplicity God would give us. Contentment with what He has chosen for us dissolves, along with godliness, while, instead of giving thanks, we lust and wail, teaching our children to lust and wail too. (Children of the jungle tribe I knew years ago did not complain because they had not been taught to.)

Lord, we give You thanks for all that You in Your mercy have given us to be and to do and to have. Deliver us, Lord, from all greed to be and to do and to have anything not in accord with Your holy purposes. Teach us to rest quietly in Your promise to supply, recognizing that if we don't have it we don't need it. Teach us to desire Your will--nothing more, nothing less, and nothing else. For Jesus' sake. Amen.

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An Overflowing Cup
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"The Lord is gracious and compassionate.: good to all... faithful to all his promises... loving toward all he has made.... righteous in all his ways.... near to all who call on him.... watches over all who love him.... My mouth will speak in praise of the Lord" (from Psalm 145, NIV).

As the year dwindles my heart swells. How to express the joy and gratitude for daily evidence of all the above? I thank God for all the saints whose lives have demonstrated to me what it means to be a Christian. Dr. May Powell, a remarkable English lady, died at age ninety-five. She had joined Amy Carmichael in her work in India in 1924, helping to build up the medical work and then, when Amy was injured, becoming co-leader with her of the Dohnavur Fellowship. After Amy's death in 1951 the responsibility of leader fell to Dr. Powell. Eventually, she returned to England to care for two older sisters. Following their deaths she continued to serve the Lord she loved, always available to many who needed her prayers and her counsel.

I visited her in England in 1983 when I was working on A Chance to Die, the biography of Amy Carmichael. She had given me specific instructions by phone as to train, taxi, and finding the residential home where she lived. She was waiting at the door, very tiny and erect, very cheerful and direct, reminding me at once (but in appearance only) of the old lady in "Beverly Hillbillies"!

"So you're Elisabeth. Come in. Do you know the word loo? (I did--British nickname for toilet.) Yes. There's the loo. There's your room. Tea at the top of these stairs in twenty minutes." Up the stairs she went with great energy. Her room was not much more than a cell. A narrow cot, a small table with the teakettle, cups and biscuits all ready on a neat cloth, two chairs. A short bookshelf on the wall. Half of the books were Amy Carmichael's. I had my notebook in hand.

"What would you like to know?" she asked. There wasn't time for nearly all my questions, but in those hours I knew that I had been with a very great woman, one of God's hidden ones whose strength lies in nothing explainable by personality or heredity, but in Him who is Rock, Fortress, and Might, who is, "in the darkness drear their one true light," whose distant song of triumph steals on our ears sometimes and makes our hearts brave again and our arms strong. Praise to God for such living flames of His love.

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An Overflowing Cup
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

And then there are my parents, both of whom are now also with the Lord, but with whom I feel that I have been living again during the past year as I worked on a book on the shaping of one Christian family. Studying minutely their letters and diaries, rereading the autobiography Mother wrote for us children, poring over the pictures, ransacking my memory and the memories of my brothers and sister, I have often paused and said, "Thank You," to Him who gave us such parents and such a home. I have also been solemnly aware of the weight of responsibility that is laid upon us because "to whomsoever much is given much is required."

As an editor my father spent his life reading other people's writings and never thought of writing a book. Three collections of his short writings were published in book form, however, one entitled New Every Morning (published by Zondervan in 1969, now out of print). Here's the title piece, an exercise in thanksgiving, and a glimpse of the man he was. I think you'll see why I'm thankful for such a father.

"Blessings taken for granted are often forgotten. Yet our Heavenly Father 'daily loadeth us with benefits' (Psalm 68:19). Think of some of the common things which are nevertheless wonderful:

"--the intricate, delicate mechanism of the lungs steadily and silently taking in fresh air eighteen to twenty times a minute;

"--the untiring heart, pumping great quantities of clean blood through the labyrinth of blood vessels;

"--the constant body temperature, normally varying less than one degree;

"--the atmospheric temperature, varying widely it is true, but never so much as to destroy human and animal life;

"--the orderly succession of day and night, spring, summer, autumn, and winter, so that, with few exceptions, man can make his plans accordingly;

"--the great variety of foods, from the farm, the field, the forest, and the sea, to suit our differing desires and physical needs;

"--the beauties of each day--the morning star and growing light of sunrise, the white clouds of afternoon, the soft tints of a peaceful sunset, and the glory of the starry heavens;

"--the symphony of early morning bird songs, ranging from the unmusical trill of the chipping sparrow to the lilting ecstasy of the goldfinch and the calm, rich, bell-like tones of the wood and hermit thrushes;

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Hints for Quiet Time
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Having a quiet time with the Lord every day is absolutely essential if you expect to grow spiritually. But you have to plan it. It won't "just happen." We're all much too busy. Early morning is best, and there are plenty of scriptural precedents for that (Jesus rose "a great while before day"; the psalmist said, "In the morning shalt Thou hear my voice").

If you meet the Lord before you meet anybody else, you'll be "pointed in the right direction" for whatever comes. God knows how difficult it is for some to do this, and if you have a reason you can offer Him why early morning won't work, I'm sure He'll help you to find another time. Sometimes the children's afternoon nap time can be quiet time for a mother. At any rate, plan the time. Make up your mind to stick with it. Make it short to begin with--fifteen minutes or so, perhaps. You'll be surprised at how soon you'll be wanting more.

Take a single book of the Bible. If you're new at this, start with the Gospel of Mark. Pray, first, for the Holy Spirit's teaching. Read a few verses, a paragraph, or a chapter. Then ask, What does this passage teach me about: (1) God, (2) Jesus Christ, (3) the Holy Spirit, (4) myself, (5) sins to confess or avoid, (6) commands to obey, (7) what Christian love is?

Keep a notebook. Write down some of your special prayer requests with the date. Record the answer when it comes. Note, also, some of the answers you've found to the above questions, or anything else you've learned. Tell your children, your spouse, your friends some of these things. That will help you to remember them. You'll be amazed at what a difference a quiet time will make in your life.

Chronicle of a Soul
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

I kept a five-year diary from high school through college, and began spiritual journals during my senior year in college (1948), which I continue to keep. These are chronicles of growth: mental, emotional, and spiritual. It is astounding to go back through them and learn things I had completely forgotten. It is wonderfully faith-strengthening to see that indeed "all the way my Savior leads me," hears my prayers, supplies my needs, teaches me of Himself. As God said to Israel, "Thou shalt remember all the way which the Lord thy God led these forty years in the wilderness."

My memory is poor. A journal is a record of His faithfulness (and my own faithlessness too--which teaches me to value His grace and mercy). If you decide to begin recording your pilgrimage, buy yourself a notebook (or one of those pretty flowered cloth-bound blank books available in gift and stationery stores) and begin to put down (not necessarily every day):

1. Lessons learned from your reading of Scripture. (If you put these in a journal instead of marking up your Bible, you will find new things each time you read the Bible instead of reading it through the grid of old notes. Worth a try?)
2. Ways in which you intend to apply those lessons in your own life. (Reading your journal later will reveal answers to prayer you would otherwise have overlooked.)
3. Dialogues with the Lord. What you say to Him, what He seems to be saying to you about some problem or issue or need.
4. Quotations from your spiritual reading other than the Bible.
5. Prayers from the words of hymns which you want to make your own.
6. Reasons for thanksgiving. (Caution: when you get into the habit of recording these, the list gets out of hand!)
7. Things you're praying about. You might choose to have a separate notebook for this, or an "appendix" in another section of the same book--date on which a prayer was prayed; date on which answered, with space for how the answer came in some cases.

If you have a family, I would strongly urge you as a family to keep a prayer notebook together. This will help everybody first of all to learn to pray about everything, instead of merely talking or worrying or arguing. It will also help you to be specific, to hold your requests before the Lord together, and then to note the answers and give thanks together (especially when the answers weren't the ones you were looking for).

As George MacDonald wrote, "No gift unrecognized as coming from God is at its own best: therefore many things that God would gladly give us, things even that we need because we are, must wait until we ask for them, that we may know whence they come: when in all gifts we find Him, then in Him we shall find all things."

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Waiting
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry" (Psalm 40:1, NIV).

The tests of our willingness to wait patiently for the Lord come almost daily for most of us, I suppose. Probably I am among the Lord's most impatient servants, so the lesson has to be renewed again and again. A tough test came when my daughter's family (of ten) was searching for a house. Southern California is not a place where one would wish to conduct that search. It's a long story, but at last, all other possibilities having been exhausted, a house was found, an offer made. That night word came that two other offers, of unknown amounts, had also been made. Dark pictures filled my mind: the others would surely get the house, the Shepards would be reduced to renting and we'd been told that rentals start at about $2000 per month (imagine an owner willing to rent to a family with eight children!).

"Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord" (Psalm 27:14, NIV).

I lay awake in the wee hours ("when all life's molehills become mountains" as Amy Carmichael said), repeating Scripture about God's faithfulness, trusting, casting all cares, waiting. I had to keep offering up my worries and my impatience. At four I was up reading the story of Abraham and Isaac. Abraham called the place where he had offered up Isaac "The Lord Will Provide." I took that as the Lord's word to me that morning.

Before nine o'clock, my son-in-law Walt called to say "Offer accepted. Other offers, both higher, turned down." No explanation. It was the Lord's doing.

Waiting requires patience--a willingness calmly to accept what we have or have not, where we are or where we wish we were, whomever we live or work with.

To want what we don't have is impatience, for one thing, and it is to mistrust God. Is He not in complete control of all circumstances, events, and conditions? If some are beyond His control, He is not God.

A spirit of resistance cannot wait on God. I believe it is this spirit which is the reason for some of our greatest sufferings. Opposing the workings of the Lord in and through our "problems" only exacerbates them. It is here and now that we must win our victories or suffer defeats. Spiritual victories are won in the quiet acceptance of ordinary events, which are God's "bright servants," standing all around us.

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Waiting
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Restlessness and impatience change nothing except our peace and joy. Peace does not dwell in outward things, but in the heart prepared to wait trustfully and quietly on Him who has all things safely in His hands. "Peace I leave with you; I do not give to you as the world gives" (John 14:27, NEB). What sort of peace has He to give us? A peace which was constant in the midst of ceaseless work (with few visible results), frequent interruptions, impatient demands, few physical comforts; a peace which was not destroyed by the arguments, the faithlessness, and hatred of the people. Jesus had perfect confidence in His Father, whose will He had come to accomplish. Nothing touched Him without His Father's permission. Nothing touches me without my Father's permission. Can I not then wait patiently? He will show the way.

If I am willing to be still in my Master's hand, can I not then be still in everything? He's got the whole world in His hands! Never mind whether things come from God Himself or from people-- everything comes by His ordination or permission. If I mean to be obedient and submissive to the Lord because He is my Lord, I must not forget that whatever He allows to happen becomes, for me, His will at that moment. Perhaps it is someone else's sinful action, but if God allows it to affect me, He wills it for my learning. The need to wait is, for me, a form of chastening. God has to calm me down, make me shut up and look to Him for the outcome.

His message to me every day
Is wait, be still, trust, and obey.

And this brings me to the matter of counseling. Upon our return from a trip to England I found a pile of mail, so many letters asking me what to do about things, for example: a wife's critical spirit, unemployment, a wife who has abandoned husband and children, a single mother doing a job she hates, an unfaithful husband, a woman (who tells me she is Spirit-filled) having an affair with her pastor, a farmer who'd like a wife, a mother-in-law who is nasty to her daughter-in-law, a stepson who is angry because "we don't spend enough money on his children," a wife who snaps at her husband each time he tries to snuggle up, and a husband who "drinks like a fish, curses like a sailor, and says he loves God."

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God's Sheep-Dogs
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

From a friend whose son, two and a half, had to have surgery for a cyst (always a worrisome sign): "The cyst was benign! We are so grateful! We set the Lord before us so we will not be shaken for the living of life. Our goal is not to be comfortable and have everything turn out fine, but to be godly and make an impact on our dying world and its values.... May God continue to refine your life message as 'He keeps you from willful sins as His servant; may they not rule over you' (Psalm 19:13). Barrett (my son) memorized Genesis 4:7, and as he faces temptation he says the verse. He is learning to make wise choices and to be obedient.... We have not spared the rod on him but it has really worked. He says 'the rod drives out my foolishness.'"

That letter came on the same day that I was reading Hannah Whitall Smith's Everyday Religion. She quotes George MacDonald. His words illuminate what Barrett's mother wrote:

"Man has a claim on God, a divine claim for any pain, want, disappointment, or misery that will help to make him what he ought to be. He has a claim to be punished, and to be spared not one pang that may urge him toward repentance; yea, he has a claim to be compelled to repent; to be hedged in on every side, to have one after another of the strong, sharp-toothed sheep-dogs of the Great Shepherd sent after him, to thwart him in any desire, foil him in any plan, frustrate him of any hope, until he comes to see at length that nothing will ease his pain, nothing make life a thing worth having, but the presence of the living God within him; that nothing is good but the will of God; nothing noble enough for the desire of the heart of man but oneness with the eternal. For this God must make him yield his very being, that He himself may enter in and dwell with him."

Common Courtesy
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Talking with a group of seminary students I mentioned that the common rules of courtesy are often overlooked nowadays, especially by those who grew up in the past two decades, an era in which all conventions and traditions were suspect. "Mere convention" came to mean "pure hypocrisy." If a thing was labeled "traditional", it had to be discarded as no longer "relevant," "meaningful," or even intelligent. If a man had the temerity to hold a door open for a woman, he was sometimes labeled "sexist." My point in bringing up the subject of courtesy was simply that it is a small way of demonstrating that deep principle, central to our Christian faith, of "my life for yours." I asked if any of the husbands in the room made a habit of helping their wives into their chairs at the table, even when company was not present. A week later one of the men stopped me in the seminary hall.

"I just want to tell you that my behavior toward my wife has been altered since last week's lecture. And you know what! It's changed my attitude toward her as well as hers toward me. It's really been revelatory! Just wanted to say thanks."

I was immensely cheered. It's always cheering to know somebody has had ears to hear, and has actually done something about what he's heard.

Interruptions, Delays, Inconveniences
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Emily, wife of America's first foreign missionary, Adoniram Judson, wrote home from Moulmein, Burma, in January 1847:

"This taking care of teething babies, and teaching natives to darn stockings and talking English back end foremost . . . in order to get an eatable dinner, is really a very odd sort of business for Fanny Forester [her pen name--she was a well-known New England writer before marrying Judson].... But I begin to get reconciled to my minute cares." She was ambitious for "higher and better things," but was enabled to learn that "the person who would do great things well must practice daily on little ones; and she who would have the assistance of the Almighty in important acts, must be daily and hourly accustomed to consult His will in the minor affairs of life."

About eighty years ago, when James 0. Fraser was working as a solitary missionary in Tengyueh, southwest China, his situation was, "in every sense, 'against the grain.'" He did not enjoy housekeeping and looking after premises. He found the houseboy irritable and touchy, constantly quarreling with the cook. Endless small items of business cluttered up the time he wanted for language study, and he was having to learn to be "perpetually inconvenienced" for the sake of the gospel. He wrote after some weeks alone:

"I am finding out that it is a mistake to plan to get through a certain amount of work in a certain time. It ends in disappointment, besides not being the right way to go about it, in my judgment. It makes one impatient of interruptions and delay. Just as you are nearly finishing--somebody comes along to sit with you and have a chat! You might hardly think it possible to be impatient and put out where there is such an opportunity for presenting the Gospel--but it is. It may be just on mealtime, or you are writing a letter to catch the mail, or you were just going out for needed exercise before tea. But the visitor has to be welcomed, and I think it is well to cultivate an attitude of mind which will enable one to welcome him from the heart and at any time. 'No admittance except on business' scarcely shows a true missionary spirit."

There is nothing like the biographies of great Christians to give us perspective and help us to keep spiritual balance. These two are well worth reading. It was J.O. Fraser who so inspired my husband Jim Elliot with missionary vision that Jim planned to name his first son after him.

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My Life for Yours
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

About ten years ago, a young Canadian woman sat in the assembly hall at the University of Illinois in Urbana, along with seventeen thousand other students attending InterVarsity's missionary convention. She thrilled to the singing of the great hymns, led by Bernie Smith. She heard the peakers. "I remember the incredible excitement and desire to know and serve God that I experienced at that time. Now I have walked through some deep waters, and I feel compelled to write to you," her letter to me said. She had read two of my books just before the convention, and I happened to have been among the speakers. Another was Helen Roseveare, author of Give Me This Mountain and other books. At the time, Barbara was especially moved by the thought of the cost of declaring God's glory. Her letter told me this story:

Three years after Urbana she married Gerry Fuller, "a wonderful man who demonstrated zeal for Christ, a passion for souls, a beautiful compassion for hurting, broken people who needed to know the healing love of Jesus Christ." Following seminary and student pastorates, he became a prison chaplain and an inner-city missionary. Then he married Barbara and together they worked in Saint John, New Brunswick, with street kids, ex-convicts, and glue-sniffers.

The time came when Barbara saw Gerry seeking the Lord with such great intensity it made her question her own commitment to Christ. Was she prepared to die to self as he was? What was it that drove him to pray as he did--at least once until four in the morning? Was her own love for the Lord as deep as his, or was it perhaps shadowed by her love for her husband?

Gerry had a nephew named Gary, "a quiet guy with an artistic nature and talents that had been squelched as a child, leaving him very insecure, undisciplined." He couldn't hold down a job, got in trouble with the law. When relatives consented to his using their vacation cottage, a neighboring cottage was broken into. The owner called Gerry to say that his gun had been taken; Gary was the prime suspect, but they didn't want to call the police until they'd called Gerry.

Gerry was "scared stiff," but knew what he had to do the next day; put his whole trust in God, go to the cottage, try to persuade his nephew to turn himself in. He and Barbara went to bed.

Next morning when they prayed together he asked the Holy Spirit especially to strengthen Barbara in raising little Josh and Ben. Should she go with him to see Gary? She was relieved that his answer was no--"If anything happens to him, the children will need me," was the thought that flashed into her mind.

Gerry said goodbye. Barbara fasted, prayed, cared for the little boys, worked in the garden, waited. All day she waited. He did not come. Oh well, Gerry was always late for everything. No doubt they were deep in conversation. He had tried so often to help Gary. Lord, may He help him now.

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My Life for Yours
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

At last the sound of a car. Eagerly Barbara looked up from her weeding. It was the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. She froze, then fell to the ground sobbing. Gerry was dead. But looking up at the bewildered faces of her sons, four and two years old, she pulled herself together, took their little hands, and told them Daddy was with Jesus and they wouldn't see him again for a long time. "From that point on there was the sense of being carried through the whole dream-like event. God surrounded me with His presence and an overwhelming sense that 'It's all right.' I knew He was in charge."

The murder was a deliberate act. Gary is serving a life sentence in a penitentiary with some who were led to Christ through Gerry's witness. They loved Gerry, but for love of his Lord they have forgiven his killer. A number of lives have been changed as a result of his testimony, but "in spite of the good things that came of his death there is always the WHY," Barbara writes. "As you say, we must let God be God. It's hard to explain, though, to a tired three-year-old when he wails, 'I miss Daddy!'

"One of my greatest blessings and comforts came as a surprise about six weeks after my husband's death when I discovered that I was pregnant with a baby conceived the eve of his homegoing. And how like the Lord and His perfect timing to present me with a beautiful child on Easter Sunday--the girl I had prayed for. Her name is Marah Grace and it is by God's grace that she has made my bitter wafers sweet.

"People say I am brave, but I don't see any great bravery in walking through one of the difficult experiences of life. God is the One who strengthens us at the time for the things we must face. My greatest fear was the fear of losing Gerry, but when the time came God swooped under me as a great bird and carried me on eagle's wings above the storm.

"So that is my story. I wanted to share it with you--I feel somewhat akin to you. My husband went in obedience to God, well aware of the danger, and laid down his life for Christ's sake. My task is to follow that example and to instill in my children the values Gerry and I shared: the supreme value of knowing Jesus Christ and serving Him with our whole selves."

Thank you, dear Barbara, for being one more faithful witness to a wholly faithful and sovereign Lord. Like Jim Elliot, Gerry knew that "he is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose." He would have understood the motto of the Coast.

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Visit to Dohnavur
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Because I had been invited to write a new biography of Amy Carmichael of Dohnavur, Lars and I visited the work she founded in South India. We arrived on their monthly prayer day in time to attend the evening meeting. The House of Prayer is a beautiful terra-cotta-colored building with a red tile roof and a tower which holds the chimes that play a hymn at 6:00 A.M. and 9:00 P.M. There is no furniture inside except a few chairs for older ones and decrepit foreigners such as we who aren't used to sitting on the floor. Everyone filed in in perfect silence, bare feet moving noiselessly over polished red tile floors, and sat in rows according to age, the tiny ones up front, dressed in brightly colored cotton dresses. Behind them sat the next age group, girls in skirts and blouses; then came those in skirts, blouses, and half-saris; finally the "accals" (older ones who look after the younger) in blue or purple or green saris. All had smoothly combed and oiled black hair, many of them with flowers in it. An Indian man played the little pump organ while they sang several traditional hymns in English, as well as songs written by "Amma" (the Tamil term of respect, used for Amy Carmichael). There was Scripture reading, then a prayer of thanksgiving for the new child who had just come, a little girl of two whose mother could not keep her. Her new mother, an accal, carried her to the platform and stood holding her while they prayed and then sang "Jesus Loves Me."

At another service in the House of Prayer, Lars and I sat in the tiny balcony which leads up to the tower. We looked down on the lovely scene made even brighter this time because the smallest children had been given colored flags to wave in time to the music of certain songs; a custom instituted by Amma which I think should be adopted by every Sunday School and church, for it enables the tiny ones to participate by doing something even when they are too young to know the words by heart. Older ones played tambourines, triangle, and bells, while one drummed softly with a leather flap on the mouth of a clay pot.

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Visit to Dohnavur
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

I was allowed to use Amma's room for my reading and writing. Called the Room of Peace, it is spacious, has high ceilings and tiled floors, many doors and windows opening onto a verandah on three sides where there is a walk-in bird cage. A brick runway leads from the verandah to a platform under the trees where, following the accident which disabled her for the rest of her life, Amy Carmichael used to be taken to sit in the cool of the evening. Glass-doored bookcases, filled with her beloved books, stand around the walls of the room. Above them hang paintings of snowcaps by her friend, Dr. Howard Somervell, of Everest fame. There are hand-carved and painted wooden texts, "Good and Acceptable and Perfect" (referring to the lesson she found so hard to learn after the accident, of acceptance of the will of God), "A Very Present Help," "By one who loveth is another kindled" (from St. Augustine), and, the largest of all, blue letters on teak, "God hath not given us the spirit of fear." Also on the walls are a mounted tiger head, a pendulum clock, and one of the very few photographs ever taken of Amma.

In that Room of Peace I was glad not to be wearing shoes (nobody wears shoes in the houses of Dohnavur)--it seemed holy ground as I studied the marginal notes and underlinings of her favorite books, read the handwritten notebooks in which she explained for members of the Dohnavur Fellowship the "pattern shewn," the principles and practices which the Lord had given her at the inception of her work. I thumbed through worm-eaten ledgers, clippings, photographs--priceless documents that trace the day-by-day history of a task accepted for the Lord, the rescuing of little girls from temple prostitution and little boys from dramatic societies in which they were used for evil purposes. In later years the work included children in other kinds of need.

The most powerful witness to the quality of the service Amma rendered is to be seen in the Indian men and women who were reared there and who have remained to lay down their lives for others. Pungaja, for example, lives in the compound called Loving Place, where some of the mentally handicapped are cared for.

"I have no professional training," she told me. "The Holy Spirit gives me new wisdom each day to deal with them. Some are like wild animals, but the Lord Himself is my helper. I can't see on one side, but even in my weakness He has helped me. First Corinthians says that God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the mighty, that no flesh should glory in His presence.

"One day I went to Amma with a burdened heart, but when she hugged me all my sorrow went.

"'What work are you doing?' Amma asked me. I told her.

"'Do you find it difficult?' I said yes.

"'These are soldiership years,' she said.

"Now it is my joy to serve these very difficult people."

She spoke quietly, looking out into the courtyard where some of them went back and forth. She had lost an eye as a child, and her face revealed suffering, but I saw the joy she spoke of written there, the joy of a laid-down life. I saw it in very many faces in Dohnavur. They do not mention that there are no diversions, no place to go, no time off (except two weeks per year--I asked about that). They do their work for Him who came not to be ministered unto.

We came away smitten, thinking of Amma's own words from her little book If, "...then I know nothing of Calvary love." The meaning of the living sacrifice, the corn of wheat, the crucified life, had been shown to us in twentieth century flesh and blood.

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Title: Regrets
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

When my father was twelve years old he lost his left eye through disobedience. He had been forbidden to have firecrackers, but he sneaked out early in the morning of July 4, 1910, and, with the help of a neighboring farmer, set off some dynamite caps. A piece of copper penetrated his eye.

Four years later my grandfather wrote this letter to my grand-mother:

Dearest:

I am not one bit surprised that after all our experiences of the past four years you should suffer from sad memories, but I really do not believe for a moment that you should feel you have any occasion to let remorse bite into your life on account of Philip's accident. Surely we cannot guard against all the contingencies of this complex life, and no one who has poured out life as you have for each one of your children should let such regrets take hold.

None of us could be alive to the pressing needs of today if we should carry along with us the dark heaviness of any past, whether real or imagined. I know, dearest, that your Lord cannot wish anything of that sort for you, and I believe your steady, shining, and triumphant faith will lead you out through Him, into the richest experiences you have ever had. I believe that firmly.

I have had to turn to Him in helplessness today to overcome depression because of my failures. My Sunday School fiasco at Swarthmore bears down pretty hard. But that is not right. I must look ahead, and up, as you often tell me, and I will. I know how sickening remorse is, if anyone knows; yet I also know, as you do, the lift and relief of turning the whole matter over to Him. We must have more prayers and more study together, dearest. I haven't followed the impulses I have so often had in this.

Lovingly, your own Phil.

My grandfather was the most cheerful and serene man I knew in my childhood. It is hard for me to imagine his having had any cause for remorse or temptation to depression. This letter, which bears a two-cent stamp and a Philadelphia postmark, was sent to Grandma in Franconia, New Hampshire, where they had a lovely vacation house. I spent my childhood summers in that house. I can picture her sitting on the porch, perhaps on the anniversary of her son's accident, looking out toward Mounts Lafayette, Bald, and Cannon, wrestling with the terrible thoughts of her own carelessness and failure. I thank God for my heritage. I thank Him for the word of His faithful servant Paul: "I concentrate on this: I leave the past behind and with hands outstretched to whatever lies ahead, I go straight for the goal--my reward the honor of being called by God in Christ" (Philippians 3:13, 14, PHILLIPS).

Title: Stillness
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Full moon on a silver sea, throwing into sharp relief the luminous rocks. I sat in the antique rocking chair by the window, a cup of hot Postum in my hand, fascinated by the undulation of great swaths of foam on the ocean, almost fluorescent in the moonlight.

Stillness. Perfect stillness. It is a very great gift, not always available to those who would most appreciate it and would find joy in it, and often not appreciated by those who have it but are uncomfortable with it. External noise is inescapable in many places--traffic on land and in the air, sirens, horns, chain saws, loud voices and, perhaps worst of all, screaming rock music with thundering amplification which makes the very ground shudder.

I think it is possible to learn stillness--but only if it is seriously sought. God tells us, "Be still, and know that I am God" (Psalm 46:10, NIV). "In quietness and confidence shall be your strength" (Isaiah 30:15, KJV).

The stillness in which we find God is not superficial, a mere absence of fidgeting or talking. It is a deliberate and quiet attentiveness--receptive, alert, ready. I think of what Jim Elliot wrote in his Journal: "Wherever you are, be all there. Live to the hilt every situation you believe to be the will of God."

This is not so difficult, perhaps, for a sports fan, eyes riveted on the game. For me, however, this quietness in the presence of God, this being "all there" for Him, though I treasure it and long for it, is not easy to maintain, even in the beautiful place where I live. I am easily distracted, more so, it seems, as soon as I try to focus on God Himself and nothing else. Why should this be? I think C.S. Lewis puts his finger right on it in The Screwtape Letters, which purports to be the correspondence between Screwtape, under-secretary to the devil, and his nephew, Wormwood, instructing him in the best ways to tempt the followers of the Enemy, God:

"My dear Wormwood: Music and silence--how I detest them both! How thankful we should be that ever since our Father entered Hell--though longer ago than humans, reckoning in light years, could express, no square inch of infernal space and no moment of infernal time has been surrendered to either of those abominable forces, but all has been occupied by Noise--Noise, the grand dynamism, the audible expression of all that is exultant, ruthless, and virile--Noise which alone defends us from silly qualms, despairing scruples, and impossible desires. We will make the whole universe a noise in the end. We have already made great strides in this direction as regards the Earth. The melodies and silences of Heaven will be shouted down in the end. But I admit we are not yet loud enough, or anything like it. Research is in progress."

C.S. Lewis died in 1963. Research in noise-making has made considerable progress since then, don't you think? To learn stillness we must resist our ancient foe, whose craft and power are great, and who is armed with cruel hate. There is One far greater who is on our side. His voice brought stillness to fierce winds and wild waves, and He will surely help us if we put ourselves firmly and determinedly in His presence--"I'm here, Lord. I'm listening." If no word seems to be forthcoming, remember "it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord," and "when He gives quietness, who then can make trouble?" (Lamentations 3:26, NIV; Job 34:29, KJV).

Silence is one form of worship. When the seventh seal was opened (in St. John's Revelation), there was silence in heaven for the space of half an hour. What would happen in our homes if we should try to prepare ourselves for those heavenly silences by having just one half-hour when there is no door slamming, no TV, no stereo or video, and a minimum of talk, in quiet voices? Wouldn't it also be a calming thing just to practice the stillness which is the absence of motion? My father used to have us try this every now and then. Why not try a Quiet Day or even a Quiet Week without the usual noises? It might open vistas of the spiritual life hitherto closed, a depth of communion with the Lord impossible where there is nothing but noise. Does God seem absent? Yes, for most of us He sometimes does. Even at such a time may we not simply be still before Him, trusting that He reads the perplexity we cannot put into words?

Title: Discerning the Call of God
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

As a little girl I especially loved the story of God's call to the child Samuel as he lay sleeping in the temple. I wondered if God would ever call me. Would I hear Him? What would He say? Throughout my growing years I read missionary stories and heard them told at our dinner table by guests from many lands who came to stay with us. I was always eager to know just how they were called. As a college student I worried much about whether I would fail to follow the Shepherd, would be deaf to His call. I thought it such a bewildering matter.

It is not a worry anymore. Experience has taught me that the Shepherd is far more willing to show His sheep the path than the sheep are to follow. He is endlessly merciful, patient, tender, and loving. If we, His stupid and wayward sheep, really want to be led, we will without fail be led. Of that I am sure.

When we need help, we wish we knew somebody who is wise enough to tell us what to do, reachable when we need him, and even able to help us. God is. Omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent--everything we need. The issue is confidence in the Shepherd Himself, a confidence so complete that we offer ourselves without any reservation whatsoever and determine to do what He says.

What He says? But how shall I know that?

He calls us every day, "o'er the tumult of our life's wild, restless sea." He comes to us in the little things, in the ordinary duties which our place in life entails. When I was a child He called me. The duty which my place in life entailed was obedience to my father and mother. In school and Sunday School He called me through the teacher. What she said I knew I was supposed to do. In first grade (yes, in public school) we sang the hymn, "Father, We Thank Thee." The second stanza says, "Help us to do the things we should, to be to others kind and good, in all we do at work or play to grow more loving every day." God's call again.

It's alluring to think of our own situation as very complex and ourselves as deep and complicated, so that we waste a good deal of time puzzling over "the will of God." Frequently our conscience has the answer.

My friend Jim O'Donnell tells how he, a hard-headed, hard-hearted man of the world, found Christ. His conscience was awakened. The call of God was immediate: "Go home and love your wife." The change was so sudden and so radical, Lizzie could not make head or tail of what had come over him. This self-confident and self-interested man had quit living for himself. He had died. An altogether new kind of life was now his. The first difference it made was the difference that mattered most--in his private life. It was there that he began to obey.

We are not talking here about audible voices. Although people in Bible times often heard God speak, we can expect that He will usually speak today through conscience, through the written Word, through other people, and through events. Events themselves, the seemingly insignificant happenings of every day, reveal the will of God. They are the will of God for us, for while we live, move, and have our being here on earth, in this place, this family, this house, this job, we live, move, and have our being in God. He "pulls strings through circumstances," as Jim Elliot said, even the bad circumstances (see Genesis 45:8, 50:20).

Three questions may help to clarify the call of God. Have I made up my mind to do what He says, no matter what the cost? Am I faithfully reading His Word and praying? Am I obedient in what I know today of His will?

"Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul" (Psalm 143:8, NIV).

Title: How to Discover What God Wants
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

A young woman came in great perplexity to a Scottish preacher, asking how she could resolve the question of her own desires when they seemed to be in such contradiction to the will of God. He took out a slip of paper, wrote two words on it, handed it to her with the request that she sit down for ten minutes, ponder the words, cross out one of them, and bring the slip back to him. She sat down and read: No Lord. Which to cross out? It did not take her long to see that if she was saying No she could not say Lord, and if she wanted to call Him Lord, she could not say No.

No question comes up more often among Christian young people who face what seem to be limitless options than this one of how to discover what God wants them to do. What, exactly, is one's calling?

There are two very simple conditions to discovering the will of God. Paul states them clearly in his letter to the Romans, chapter 12. The first is in verse 1 (Jerusalem Bible): "... offering your living bodies as a holy sacrifice, truly pleasing to God." The place to start is by putting yourself utterly and unconditionally at God's disposal. You say Yes Lord. You turn over all the rights at the very beginning. Once that's settled you can go on to the second, in verse 2: "Do not model yourselves on the behavior of the world around you, but let your behavior change, modelled by your new mind." I said that the conditions were simple. I did not say they were easy. Exchanging a No Lord for a Yes Lord has often been painful for me. But I do want a "new mind"--one that takes its cues from the Word of God, not the mass media. I pray for a clear eye to see through the fog of popular opinion, and a will strong enough to withstand the currents--a will surrendered, laid alongside Christ's. He is my model. This means a different set of ambitions, a different definition of happiness, a different standard of judgment altogether. Behavior will change, and very likely it will change enough to make me appear rather odd--but then my Master was thought very odd.

Paul goes on to say that these conditions are "the only way to discover the will of God and know what is good, what it is that God wants, what is the perfect thing to do." No wonder we scratch our heads and ask, "What is the secret of knowing the will of God?" We haven't started at the right place--the offering of that all-inclusive sacrifice, our very bodies, and then the resolute refusal of the world's values.

"Make Thy paths known to me, O Lord; teach me Thy ways. Lead me in Thy truth and teach me; Thou art God my Savior."

Psalm 25:4, 5, NEB

"When we cannot see our way
Let us trust and still obey;
He who bids us forward go
Cannot fail the way to show.
Though the sea be deep and wide,
Though a passage seem denied,
Fearless let us still proceed,
Since the Lord vouchsafes to lead."

Anonymous

"If there is any man who fears the Lord, he shall be shown the path that he should choose."

Psalm 25:12, NEB

Title: Ungodly Counsel
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

"Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly" (Psalm 1:1, AV).

At a recent convention a young woman told me that her husband had wanted a divorce, but consented to see a Christian counselor before making it final. A member of the team in the counseling center told him that he himself was divorced and very happily remarried. That was all the husband needed. The man to whom he looked for help set the example he was hoping to find. Of course he went ahead and divorced his wife.

The twenty-third chapter of Jeremiah describes what is happening in our country today. The land is full of adulterers. Pastures have dried up. Powers are misused. Prophet and priest alike are godless, doing evil even in the Lord's house. Jeremiah's description of the prophets seems terribly fitting for some of those from whom Christian people are seeking guidance: "The vision they report springs from their own imagination. It is not from the mouth of the Lord.... To all who follow the promptings of their own stubborn heart they say, 'No disaster shall befall you.' But which of them has stood in the council of the Lord, seen him and heard his word? Which of them has listened to his word and obeyed?" (Jeremiah 23:16-18, NEB).

Here is a good test to apply to any of whom we seek counsel. Has this person stood in the council of the Lord? Seen Him? Heard His word? Listened and obeyed? Note the few who have actually paid a price for their obedience (like Jeremiah who was flogged, imprisoned, dropped into a pit of slime, etc.). These few are the ones to follow.

The chapter goes on to describe prophets who speak lies in God's name, dream dreams, give voice to their own inventions, concoct words of their own, and then say, "This is his very word." They mislead with "wild and reckless falsehoods."

"If a prophet has a dream, let him tell his dream; if he has my word, let him speak my word in truth. What has chaff to do with grain? says the Lord" (v. 28).

Beware of those who are afraid to quote Scripture, who say it's too "simplistic," doesn't apply here, won't work. Beware of the counselor who is "nondirectional." Be cautious when the advice given makes you feel comfortable when you know you're really wrong. "Do not my words scorch like fire? says the Lord. Are they not like a hammer that splinters rock?" (v. 29).

It wasn't only the awesome prophets of the Old Testament who spoke this way. Think of the words of Jesus. Though often He spoke "comfortable words," words that brought peace and hope, He spoke also those words that seared like fire ("Depart from me, I never knew you"; "Get behind me, Satan!") and splintered rock ("You will never get out until you have paid the last farthing"; "Whoever wants to be first must be the willing slave of all").

"The form of words you shall use in speaking amongst yourselves is: 'What answer has the Lord given?' or 'What has the Lord said?'" (Jeremiah 23:35, NEB).

This applies, of course, only to those who care what the Lord wants. Those who have already decided to do their own thing need not apply for truly godly counsel.

Title: Self-Pity
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

A single woman missionary writes, "I've never dated anyone. Is it realistic for a woman to desire confirmation of her femininity at one point in her life? Do I have cause to feel sorry for myself? To be mad at God for leaving me in such dire social straits? I already know the answer, of course! I'm like the children of Israel demanding of Samuel, 'We want a king such as all the other nations have.' Here I am with the greatest of Bridegrooms, complaining because I'm physically lonely and want to be like other women.... I long to know what it's like to be loved by a man. The thought of a life without ever experiencing it makes me so very sad and all the more aware that I have a long way to go before I'll ever be the kind of woman God wants me to be."

To the first question I would answer yes, it's realistic, it's natural, it's not wrong. A real woman's desire is to be a real woman, and a man's love helps to confirm that. But human desire is to be brought under the lordship of Christ for fulfillment according to His wisdom and choosing. (See Psalm 10:17; 37:4; 38:9; 145:19.)

"He gives the very best to those who leave the choice with Him."

To the second and third questions I would say no, as my correspondent guessed. We are never warranted in feeling sorry for ourselves or being "mad" at God--He loves us with an Everlasting Love; He died for us; His will is always love and, when we accept it in loving trust, it is our peace.

Another letter came just a couple of weeks after the above, also from a single woman missionary. "I appreciate very much the honesty and openness with which you talk about missionary life, and the importance you place on obedience and leaving the results in God's hands. That has helped me to know the cost, and to know and give credit to the One who makes any success here possible.... Being obedient to Him is good! Obedience gives an incredible peace, and every now and then I think God allows us a glimpse of how He's working out His plan here, and it's awesome! You're right--obedience is worth the cost!"

Title: The Childless Man or Woman
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Children, God tells us, are a heritage from Him. Is the man or woman to whom He gives no children therefore disinherited? Surely not. The Lord gave portions of land to each tribe of Israel except one. "The tribe of Levi... received no holding; the Lord God of Israel is their portion, as he promised them" (Joshua 13:14, NEB). Withholding what He granted to the rest, He gave to Levi a higher privilege. May we not see childlessness in the same light? I believe there is a special gift for those to whom God does not give the gift of physical fatherhood or motherhood.

I have known many women (and a few men) who have sorrowed deeply over being childless. My brother-in-law Bert Elliot and his wife Colleen, missionaries in Peru for more than forty years, longed for children of their own. They asked the Lord for children if that would best glorify Him. His answer was no. They wondered about adoption, which would not have been nearly so difficult there as it is in the States. Again the answer seemed to be no, but God has given them the privilege of fathering and mothering hundreds of Peruvians, both white and Indian, in the jungle and in the high Andes, where they bear on their shoulders the care of dozens of little churches.

A woman of about fifty wrote, "Each Mother's Day became a little harder for me as I realized another year had gone by and after many years of marriage I am still childless--the only woman in my Sunday School class who is not a mother. The morning service started... I could not see the pastor for the tears in my eyes. Almost at the end of his message he said, 'I know there are some of you women here this morning who would like to be mothers, but for some reason God has chosen differently. Don't question Him. He has a reason."

Childlessness, for those who deeply desire children, is real suffering. Seen in the light of Calvary and accepted in the name of Christ, it becomes a chance to share in His sufferings. Acceptance of the will of the Father took Him to the Cross. We find our peace as we identify with Him in His death and resurrection.

Look around your church. If you are a parent, look for those who aren't. Might they not be ready to "father" or "mother" you or your children, to be adopted as a grandparent, for example, or an aunt or uncle? My life was enriched by unmarried aunts and friends who paid attention to us children, celebrated our birthdays and sometimes even helped us with homework. The love they would have poured out on their own children had God given them marriage, they poured out instead on us, and we were blessed as we could not have been had they had children. Their loss was our gain, and, as Ugo Bassi a young Italian preacher, said many years ago, we are to measure our lives "by loss and not by gain, not by the wine drunk but by the wine poured forth, for Love's strength standeth in Love's sacrifice, and he who suffereth most hath most to give."

What of the thousands who have not had the mothers and fathers they desperately longed for while they were growing up? Is not God calling all whose ears are open to Him to recognize the wounds of the world and to pour forth His love to the lonely young man whose relationship with his father seems to have destroyed his fitness for manhood? Or to the expectant mother whose own mother is far away, or indifferent, or dead, who longs for a mother to share her joy? Whose will be the strong shoulder of sympathy (the word means "to suffer with") ready to bear another's burdens?--not with the tepid sentimentality which only weakens, but with the burning love which gives hope and cheer and strength?

My correspondent says God has given her "several kids adopted in my heart to pray for, whose mothers say they haven't time to pray." Another girl asked her to be grandmother to her new baby. "Well, what a blessing and how this has changed my life!" she says. "If I had sat around and felt sorry for myself look at the above blessings I would have missed. What a thrill on Mother's Day this year to get a Grandmother card!"

And what of the young childless woman? Is she merely to mark time, hoping against hope that someday she will be given a child? There are always younger people who need a boost, some encouragement in their struggles against the pull of the world, a listening ear when they face hard decisions, someone who will simply take time out to pray with them, to walk with them the way of the cross with its tremendous demand--the difficult and powerful life of glad surrender and acceptance. As the branches of the wine pour out their sweetness, so young women may see their opportunity, as branches of the True Vine to pour out their lives for the world.

Title: Church Troubles
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

When the church prays "hallowed be thy name" it is usually pretty obvious that that holy name is far from hallowed in the way we as church members behave. In our travels we see and hear much about church troubles, and I am always reminded of the high priestly prayer of the Lord Jesus just before He went to the cross. As He prayed for believers ("those you have given me") His petition was, "Holy Father, protect them by the power of your name--the name you gave me--so that they may be one as we are one" (John 17:11, NIV). For those who would later believe He prayed, "that all of them may be one, Father.... May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me" (John 17:21; 23, NIV).

The answer to that prayer seems yet remote. Ought we not to put ourselves, each of us as individuals, in a position to cooperate with God in His bringing about this unity? How shall the world recognize His love unless we act in love toward one another? No one, I feel sure, would disagree here--in theory. Love each other. The obstacle is our selfish, self-determined selves.

Most churches have problems with the choir. Martin Luther said, "If you can confine the devil's work to the choir, do so." But let's suppose that the problem seems to be the pastor. (I confess to a certain bias in favor of these harried souls--I have a nephew, two nephews-in-law, a son-in-law, and a brother who are pastors). He's too young or too old, too conservative or too liberal, his sermons are irrelevant to our needs, or too long or too pointed for this congregation, he's a social mismatch, not sensitive to the variety of folks we've got here, he's partial--in short, we got the wrong man, it's a bad mix, the solution is simple: get rid of him. Then all will be well.

Before we take such a position of sovereignty, assuming we know the root of the trouble and are warranted in enforcing our "solution," might we not ask ourselves a few questions? (I do not refer here, of course, to cases which unequivocally call for dismissal, such as immorality or heresy.)

1. Who called this pastor? Was it the bishop? The church? Was the decision prayed over? Do we believe in the Holy Spirit's guidance?
2. Do we understand the shepherd of the flock to be one who bears responsibility and authority? "Encourage and rebuke with all authority" was the apostle Paul's word to a young shepherd (Titus 2:15, NIV). To Timothy he said, "Command and teach" (1 Timothy 4:11, NIV). "Obey your leaders and submit to their authority...so that their work will be a joy, not a burden" (Hebrews 13:17, NIV). Have we respected that divine assignment?
3. If the sheep send the shepherd out of the fold, will not the sheep themselves be devastated, as well as the shepherd? Spiritual devastation is often the result of taking things into our own hands. No humility is wrought in us, no more robust faith is born.
4. Have we learned the meekness which understands the power of patience, of quiet waiting on God, and the futility of employing massive methods to get our own way? What about the reverence that trusts God's hidden, seemingly slow, working out of His own mysterious purposes? Impatience hardens.
5. Have we challenged evil with the wrong weapons? "By the meekness and gantleness of Christ, I appeal to you.... Though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds" (2 Corinthians 10:1,3-4, NIV).
6. Are we willing to accept suffering? How much do we know of costly action, sacrificial love? Have we been willing to lay down our lives for this man, travail in prayer, accept the cross in the depths of our own hearts? The demands of faith cut across human logic and politics, and often oppose all ordinary methods and even common sense.
7. Have we pondered Jesus' warning not to expect His church to be without spot or wrinkle? The net brings in good fish and bad. The tares grow along with the wheat. He is at work perfecting His own bride--we'll never manage it ourselves.
8. Are we willing to let the cross cut painfully--humbly to relinquish our grasp of what we believe to be the true nature of the conflict, let go of our certainties of what "ought to be," and of our particular "rights"? Can we, in the spirit of Christ, mortify our whims, accept setbacks, accustom ourselves to misunderstanding, quit asking "What about my needs?" Let God take care of those--He promised He would, all of them.

"The Christian turns again and again from that bewildered contemplation of history in which God is so easily lost, to the prayer of filial trust in which He is always found, knowing here that those very things which seem to turn to man's disadvantage may yet work to the Divine advantage. On the frontier between prayer and history stands the Cross, a perpetual reminder of the price by which the Kingdom is brought in" (Evelyn Underhill, Abba).

Perhaps, if we would earnestly and prayerfully consider these things, both pastor and flock might be changed and the severance thus avoided. Perhaps not, but in the process we, the sheep, will certainly have learned to trust the Chief Shepherd more fully, and will have become a little more like Him.

"Love divine has seen and counted
Every tear it caused to fall,
And the storm which Love appointed
Was its choicest gift of all."

Title: Starting a WOTTS Group
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Men and women who are committed to obedience to Titus 2:1-5 are desperately needed in the world, in the church, and in the home. Writing on what I called spiritual motherhood I referred to them as WOTTs (Women of Titus Two). A reader asks if I have guidelines, structure, organization, information about such a group. Well, not much--for this reason: as soon as you organize, you have to have meetings! What we don't need is one more meeting to take us away from our homes and telephones. My suggestions are simply these:

1. Pray. Ask God to show you the needs and ways in which you yourself can help. Pray (perhaps on the phone if it's difficult to get together) with one or two others who understand the need.
2. Ask your pastor if he might preach on the Titus passage. It will take courage for him to do this.
3. In Bible studies, Sunday School classes, over your kitchen table or wherever you have opportunity, raise the subject of spiritual motherhood. Tell others of the blessing your own spiritual mothers have been to you. (If you had none, find a model in a book, as I did in missionary author Amy Carmichael. Then seek to be one.)
4. Post a list on the church bulletin board of the WOTTs, women who earnestly desire to be available. Mothers (in the usual sense and in the spiritual) are people who must be available--not all the time, not to meet every demand, but as needs arise which they can meet. They are prepared to do so, no matter how humble and unsung the job. The deepest needs are for godly examples, ears to hear, shoulders to cry on, hearts to pray. Then there are the humble tasks which lighten others' burdens: drive someone to the doctor, do somebody's ironing, take a friend and go clean somebody's refrigerator and oven (jobs young mothers find it hard to get around to); babysit--in your house or theirs. Rock a baby, read a story, cook the supper, do the mending. Take an old person shopping and to lunch. Clean the house, do the gardening, write letters at his or her dictation or acquire some government postcards--so cheap, so easy to write a note on if you address them first.

God will give you many other ideas if you ask Him.

Title: Women of Like Passions
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

The leader of a women's conference asked me if I would be able to talk privately with a young woman who was in deep sorrow. This woman didn't want to "bother" me, the leader said, didn't feel she ought to take my time when there were hundreds of others who needed it. In fact, she was scared of me. Of course I said I'd be very glad to talk with her, and please to tell her I was not fierce.

After the talk, the young woman went to report to the leader.

"Oh, it wasn't bad after all! I walked in--I was shaking. I looked into her eyes, and I knew that she, too, had suffered. Then she gave me this beautiful smile. When I saw that huge space between her front teeth, I said to myself, 'it's OK--she's not perfect!'"

My daughter Valerie once taught a women's Bible class in Laurel, Mississippi. It happened that she lost her place in her notes as she was speaking. She tried to find it while continuing to speak, realized she couldn't, apologized and paused to search the page. The pause grew agonizingly long. At last she gave up and adlibbed through the rest of the lesson. She couldn't find the application, couldn't find the conclusion. Leaving the platform afterwards, she was on the point of tears because of what seemed an abysmal failure. A lady came to her to say it was the best class so far. Later someone called to thank Val for things which had helped her.

"Mama," she told me on the phone, "I couldn't understand why this had happened. I had prepared faithfully, done the best I could. But then I remembered a prayer I'd prayed that week (Walt told me it was a ridiculous prayer!)--asking the Lord to make those women know that I'm just an ordinary woman like the rest of them and I need His help. I guess this was His answer, don't you think?"

Title: Nothing is Lost
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

A pastor's wife asked, "When one witnesses a work he has poured his life into 'go up in flames' (especially if he is not culpable), is it the work of Satan or the hand of God?"

Often it is the former, always it is under the control of the latter. In the biographies of the Bible we find men whose work for God seemed to be a flop at the time--Moses' repeated efforts to persuade Pharaoh, Jeremiah's pleas for repentance, the good king Josiah's reforms, rewarded in the end by his being slain by a pagan king. Sin had plenty to do with the seeming failures, but God was then, as He is now, the "blessed controller of all things" (1 Timothy 6:15, PHILLIPS). He has granted to us human beings responsibility to make choices and to live with the consequences. This means that everybody suffers--sometimes for his or her own sins, sometimes for those of others.

There are paradoxes here which we cannot plumb. But we can always look at the experiences of our own lives in the light of the life of our Lord Jesus. How shall we learn to "abide" (stay put) in Christ, enter into the fellowship of His sufferings, let Him transform our own? There is only one way. It is by living each event, including having things "go up in flames," as Christ lived: in the peace of the Father's will. Did His earthly work appear to be a thundering success? He met with argument, unbelief, scorn in Pharisees and others. Crowds followed Him--not because they wanted His Truth, but because they liked handouts such as bread and fish and physical healing. His own disciples were "fools and slow of heart to believe." (Why didn't Jesus make them believe? For the reason given above.) These men who had lived intimately with Him, heard His teaching for three years, watched His life and miracles, still had little idea what He was talking about on the evening before His death. Judas betrayed Him, Peter denied Him. The rest of them went to sleep when He asked them to stay awake. In the end they all forsook Him and fled. Peter repented with tears and later saw clearly what had taken place. In his sermon to the Jews of Jerusalem (Acts 2:23, PHILLIPS) he said, "This man, who was put into your power by the predetermined plan and foreknowledge of God, you nailed up and murdered.... But God would not allow the bitter pains of death to touch him. He raised him to life again--and there was nothing by which death could hold such a man."

There is nothing by which death can hold any of His faithful servants, either. Settle it, once and for all--YOU CAN NEVER LOSE WHAT YOU HAVE OFFERED TO CHRIST. It's the man who tries to save himself (or his reputation or his work or his dreams of success or fulfillment) who loses. Jesus gave us His word that if we'd lose our lives for His sake, we'd find them.

Title: The Unseen Company
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Many of us belong to churches where a creed is often repeated by the congregation. Several of the ancient creeds include these words, "I believe in the communion of saints." For some the word saints means only certain specially holy people who have been officially designated as such. For others it means those who are now in heaven. The Bible is very matter-of-fact in showing that those who belong to Christ, i.e., Christians, are saints. Look at Acts 9:32 and 41 for a start. Then note the salutations in Romans 1:7, 1 Corinthians 1:2, and other places.

Do you ever think much about that communion? Do you actually believe in it? I'm learning. The communion of saints takes no notice of location. Here or on the other side of the world or in heaven, all who love the Lord are included, bound together as a body whose Head is Christ. The gallery of heroes of the faith in Hebrews 11 comprises not only those who achieved thrilling victories through faith, but also the destitute and persecuted, those who were tortured, flogged, imprisoned, and even sawn in two--people whom the world would never deem worthy, yet the Bible says the world was not worthy of them! And here's something worth pausing over: all were "commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised. God had planned something better for us, so that only together with us would they be made perfect" (vv. 39-40).

When I pray I am often preoccupied and distracted, aware that my efforts are feeble and seemingly quite useless, but the thought that those distinguished heroes are to be perfected along with me (and with the writer of Hebrews, and with you and all the rest of the followers of the Lamb) changes the picture altogether and puts new heart into me. Grand and mysterious things are in operation. We are not alone. My prayers are perhaps a single note in a symphony, but a necessary note, for I believe in the communion of saints. We need each other. The prayers of one affect all. The obedience of one matters infinitely and forever.

We are told that we are "surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses" (Hebrews 12:1, KJV)--those who found in Christ "their Rock, their Fortress, and their Might, their Captain in the well-fought fight" (to borrow the words of an old hymn), and "in the darkness drear their one true Light--Alleluia" (W.W. How: "For All the Saints").

When newly married and living in a little palm-thatched house in the jungle, Jim Elliot and I remembered that even in so remote a place we were still gathered in that great communion, and we used often to sing John Ellerton's hymn, "The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Ended." (Lars and I sometimes sing it now.) My favorite stanzas:

We thank Thee that Thy Church, unsleeping,
While earth rolls onward into light,
Through all the world her watch is keeping,
And rests not now by day or night.

As o'er each continent and island
The dawn brings on another day,
The voice of prayer is never silent,
Nor die the strains of praise away.

Maybe there is a reader who is very weak and very lonely as he reads this today, tempted to feel that prayer is futile and goes nowhere. Think of the great Unseen Company that watches and prays as we "run with perseverance the race marked out for us"(Hebrews 12:1, NIV)! Think of that and be of good cheer--it's much too soon to quit!

Title: The World Must Be Shown
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

When Jesus was speaking with His disciples before His crucifixion, He gave them His parting gift: peace such as the world can never give. But He went on immediately to say, "Set your troubled hearts at rest and banish your fears.... I shall not talk much longer with you, for the Prince of this world approaches. He has no rights over me, but the world must be shown that I love the Father and do exactly as he commands" (John 14:27, 30-31, NEB).

A young mother called to ask for "something that will help me to trust in the Lord." She explained that she had several small children, she herself was thirty years old, and she had cancer. Chemotherapy had done its hideous work of making her totally bald. The prognosis was not good. Could I say to her, "Set your troubled heart at rest. God is going to heal you"? Certainly not. Jesus did not tell His disciples that He would not be killed. How do I know whether God would heal this young woman? I could, however, remind her that He would not for a moment let go of her, that His love enfolded her and her precious children every minute of every day and every night, and that underneath are the Everlasting Arms.

But is that enough? The terrible things in the world seem to make a mockery of the love of God, and the question always arises: Why!

There are important clues in the words of Jesus. The disciples' worst fears were about to be realized, yet He commanded (yes, commanded) them to be at peace. All would be well, all manner of things would be well--in the end. In a short time, however, the Prince of this world, Satan himself, was to be permitted to have his way. Not that Satan had any rights over Jesus. Far from it. Nor has he "rights" over any of God's children, including that dear mother. But Satan is permitted to approach. He challenges God, we know from the Book of Job, as to the validity of His children's faith.

God allows him to make a test case from time to time. It had to be proved to Satan, in Job's case, that there is such a thing as obedient faith which does not depend on receiving only benefits. Jesus had to show the world that He loved the Father and would, no matter what happened, do exactly what He said. The servant is not greater than his Lord. When we cry "Why, Lord?" we should ask instead, "Why not, Lord? Shall I not follow my Master in suffering as in everything else?"

Does our faith depend on having every prayer answered as we think it should be answered, or does it rest rather on the character of a sovereign Lord? We can't really tell, can we, until we're in real trouble.

I never heard more from the young woman. I neglected to ask her address. But I prayed for her, asking God to enable her to show the world what genuine faith is--the kind of faith that overcomes the world because it trusts and obeys, no matter what the circumstances. The world does not want to be told. The world must be shown. Isn't that part of the answer to the great question of why Christians suffer?

Title: Two Views
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

One morning I received an article from a Christian magazine, written by a consulting physician at a well-known Christian clinic, entitled "Learning to Love Yourself." Ironically, in the same mail came a news magazine with its cover story, "The Curse of Self-Esteem."

I said, "Well." (That's a byword from my sister-in-law's family. When they think it best not to say what they're really thinking, but need to say something, they've found this useful: I said, "Well.")

The doctor's suggestions for improving your self-esteem included these: Praise yourself. Speak up for yourself. Believe in yourself. Be proud of yourself. Express total, unconditional acceptance for where you are at this moment.

The news magazine said, "If you're like most Americans, chances are you are at risk for low self-esteem. Sure, you felt bad at your kids' school's Career Day when you were the only parent who didn't own his own company. But unless your family psychometrician had ministered a Coopersmith Self-Esteem Inventory or the Kaplan Self-Derogation Scale you probably never imagined that a negative self-image might be holding you back in life. You just thought you were no good.

"But now you know that there are no bad people, only people who think badly of themselves."

"Aha," said I.

Then followed a few pithy quotes. Mark Twain: "Deep down in his heart no man much respects himself." Leo Tolstoy: "I am always with myself and it is I who am my tormentor." Goethe: "I do not know myself and God forbid that I should." And H.L. Mencken: "Self-respect--the secure feeling that no one, as yet, is suspicious."

To all of which I said, "Hear, hear."

As I paused and pondered I thought of the boy king Uzziah who, taking the throne at sixteen, made such a good start at obeying God and was "greatly helped until he became powerful.... His pride led to his downfall. He was unfaithful to the Lord his God," (2 Chronicles 26:15-16, NIV) and died a leper, excluded from the temple of the Lord. It was at the time of that ignominious death that the prophet Isaiah received his commission from God, for which he was prepared first by a vision of the Lord Himself, high and exalted. The very doorposts shook at the sound of the voices of the seraphim, "Holy, holy, holy," and the prophet, in that awful revelation of the holiness of God, was given an instant and terrible self-revelation which wrenched from him the cry, "Woe is me!... I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips... and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty" (Isaiah 6:5, NIV).

That self of which the conscious image (of an honest man) is not merely "low" or "poor" but twisted, maimed, tortured, ruined--can it find wholeness and healing merely by sweet affirmation? It took fire from God's altar to cleanse Isaiah's lips. It took the total immolation of the Lamb to take away the sin of the world. Is the cross now obsolete?

"Beware of false prophets," Jesus warned (Matthew 7:15). "If anyone wants to follow in my footsteps he must give up all right to himself, take up his cross and follow me" (Matthew 16:24, PHILLIPS). Can we manage to juggle the building of a stronger self-image while we fulfill those three conditions of discipleship?

"Whoever cares for his own safety is lost; but if a man will let himself be lost for my sake, he will find his true self" (Matthew 16:25, NEB). Who can forget about his own safety and allow him-self to be lost while at one and the same time striving to build a stronger self-image? Sounds like a serious conflict of interest, doesn't it?

I know of nothing more agitating to the soul, nothing that so unsettles and disquiets, as the contemplation of the self. If I succeed in improving my self-image by minimizing my faults, I may find the peace that the world can give, but I will end up in spiritual turmoil. The peace of the penitent spirit is "very low in its own eyes, and therefore not unsettled" (Janet Erskine Stuart).

Those who follow the Lamb leave self behind, and "put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness" (Ephesians 4:24, NIV).

Title: I'm Dysfunctional, You're Dysfunctional
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

P. T. Barnum knew what he was talking about when he said there's a sucker born every minute. He made money on it and so have thousands before and since. It isn't difficult to convince insecure people (who isn't insecure?) that they've been shabbily treated and deserved better. In fact they've been horribly treated and mistreated, misunderstood, misused, abused. Their families were dysfunctional (whose wasn't? whose parents did a perfect job?). No wonder they can't feel good about themselves. But here, folks, I can make you see that you're wonderful, really WONDERFUL. It's bad to feel bad about yourself, and it's the fault of all those awful people who wounded you. You can just walk away from them.

As always, we must hold up whatever the world is saying to the straightedge of Scripture in order to see if it's crooked. The "gospel" according to the self-gurus, by which many will testify to having been helped, is very simple and, I believe, very crooked. The pathway to fulfillment is straight and narrow, and it begins at the cross where (as in Pilgrim's Progress) Christian drops his burden: the burden of sin, deep-rooted, infectious, malignant, death-dealing sin, the terrible root of all those "bad feelings." "Then was Christian glad and lightsome, and said, with a merry heart, 'He hath given me rest by His sorrow and life by His death.' Then he stood still a while to look and wonder; for it was very surprising to him, that the sight of the Cross should thus ease him of his burden."

Surprising it will always be to those who come to that Cross, and foolishness it will always be to those who don't. Rest comes by His sorrow, life by His death? Yes. "His purpose in dying for all was that men, while still in life, should cease to live for themselves and should live for him who for their sakes died and was raised to life. With us therefore worldly standards have ceased to count in our estimate of any man.... When anyone is united to Christ, there is a new world (or a new act of creation); the old order has gone, and a new order has already begun" (2 Corinthians 5:15-17, NEB).

That new order is a far cry from the notion of self-acceptance which has taken hold of the minds of many Christians. Any message which makes the Cross redundant is anti-Christian. The original sin, pride, is behind my "poor self-image," for I felt that I deserved better than I got, which is exactly what Eve felt! So it was pride, not poor self-image, that had to go. If I'm so beautiful and lovable, what was Jesus doing up there, nailed to the cross and crowned with thorns? Why all that hideous suffering for the pure Son of God? Here's why: There was no other way to deliver us from the hell of our own proud self-loving selves, no other way out of the bondage of self-pity and self-congratulation. How shall we take our stand beneath the cross of Jesus and continue to love the selves that put Him there? How can we survey the wondrous cross and at the same time feed our pride? No. It won't work. Jesus put it simply: If you want to be My disciple, you must leave self behind, take up the cross, and follow Me.

George MacDonald writes, "Right gladly would He free them from their misery, but He knows only one way: He will teach them to be like Himself, meek and lowly, bearing with gladness the yoke of His Father's will. This is the one, the only right, the only possible way of freeing them from their sin, the cause of their unrest."

Title: The Taking of Human Life
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

In the relentless effort to keep the world from squeezing me into fits own mold (see Romans 12:1-2, PHILLIPS) my mind is always making comparisons and connections and trying to test the world's reasoning by the straightedge of Scripture. When I read of the execution in Texas of Charles Brooks, Jr., by lethal injection, I made one of those connections. I remembered another news story a few months before about an unborn twin who was quietly dispatched, by means of a needle in its heart, while still in its mother's womb.

Medical science has advanced to the stage where it is possible to remove human beings from this world's scene cleanly and kindly (we tell ourselves) and without too much trauma to the executioners and the consenting public. Of the trauma to the victim we prefer not to let ourselves think too much.

One of the people I refer to, of course, was a full-grown man, convicted of murder. The other was far from full-grown. It was not even born. Nobody wanted it to be born because it happened to be not quite normal. A person, without question, but not quite a normal person. So, since the mother very much wanted the normal twin to be born, she was very glad to be able to get rid of the abnormal one in such a handy way.

In a Time (Dec. 20, 1982) essay about the Brooks execution, Roger Rosenblatt writes of the public's eagerness for a "gentle killing," yet its hunger also to know the details of the prisoner's last dinner and last words, his position on the stretcher, and how the tubes were hooked up which would carry the poison into his bloodstream. Strange that there should be this fascination at a time when there is strong protest, at least in the media, against the death penalty for criminals. There is no protest in major magazines against the death penalty for unborn children and no corresponding eagerness for pictures or descriptions of just how it is done. Few people are willing to scrutinize the details of what happens to the tiny bodies who are daily, at the request of their mothers, and with the consent of the Supreme Court, being disposed of by sophisticated chemical, pharmaceutical, and mechanical techniques.

The correction facility in Texas and the abortion facilities in hospitals are equally thorough in their efforts to make sure that the method works. Imagine the embarrassment if Charles Brooks had managed to slip out of the straps that bound him to the gurney, or if the silent fluid had somehow been obstructed in the tubes! Nobody wants that to happen. It is a major disaster, too, when an abortion produces a living child instead of a dead one. Some awful scenes have taken place in hospital nurseries when a baby has been taken there who had been intended for the garbage can. What is wanted in the cases of both the murderer and the undesirable fetus is death, pure death, the "spectacle of life removed."

Do not misunderstand me. I believe that capital punishment is both necessary and just. I believe that abortion is murder. Both are appalling to anyone human, it seems to me. Surely, no matter what our convictions and public declarations may be, we shrink inside at the hideousness of it all. But one is commanded by God--evil must be dealt with by public justice--and the other is forbidden. We cannot, without His express direction, take human life into our hands. Let us not imagine that we can somehow palliate the stark and shocking fact of death by making it private. Only a few people, including four reporters and Brook's girlfriend, were allowed to witness his death. An abortion is now called a private matter, to be decided solely by a woman and her physician. Let us not, by making it quick, easy, and clean, evade the truth that somebody is being killed.

Rosenblatt in his essay looks for the day when we may "drive out the barbarians." Is it barbaric, then, to mete out judgment in this form to a murderer, but somehow civilized to send a lethal poison into the heart of an as yet sinless child?

Paul wrote to the young minister Timothy to warn him of the sort of evil he must guard against. "Men will love nothing but money and self... men who put pleasure in the place of God, men who preserve the outward form of religion but are a standing denial of its reality. Keep clear of men like these.... These men defy the truth, they have lost the power to reason, and they cannot pass the tests of faith" (2 Timothy 3:2, 5-6, 8-9, NEB). God help us not only to stand for the truth, but to obey it scrupulously that we may not lose the power to think as Christians.

Title: Give Them Parking Space, But Let Them Starve to Death
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Another moral threshold was crossed when a tiny baby boy, at the specific request of his parents and with the sanction of the Supreme Court of Indiana, was starved to death in a hospital. "Infant Doe" (he was not allowed the usual recognition of being human by being named), born with Down's syndrome and a malfunctioning esophagus (the latter could have been corrected with surgery), died, as the Washington Post (April 18) stated, "not because he couldn't sustain life without a million dollars worth of medical machinery, but because no one fed him." For six days the nurses in that Bloomington hospital went about their usual routines of bathing and changing and feeding all the newborns except one. They bathed and changed Baby Doe but they never gave him a bottle. Over his crib was a notice, DO NOT FEED. Several couples came forward, begging to be allowed to adopt him. They were turned down.

What went on in that little box during those six terrible days and nights? We turn our imagination away. It's unthinkable. But if I were to think about it, and put down on paper what my mind saw, I would be accused of playing on people's feelings, and of making infanticide (yes, infanticide--call it what it is) an "emotional issue." Let me suppose at least that the baby cried--quite loudly (at first). One report says that he was placed in a room alone, lest his crying disturb others (others, perhaps, who were capable of helping him).

Joseph Sobran, in his column in the Los Angeles Times Syndicate, suggested that "opposition to infanticide will soon be deplored as the dogma of a few religious sects who want to impose their views on everyone else." The language sounds sickeningly familiar.

There has been a conspicuous silence from those who usually raise shrill protest when other human rights are violated--the rights of smokers, homosexuals, and criminals are often as loudly insisted upon as those of children, women, and the handicapped.

The handicapped? What on earth is happening when a society is so careful to provide premium parking spaces to make things easier for them, but sees no smallest inconsistency when one of them who happens to be too young to scream, "For God's sake, feed me!" is quietly murdered? It is in the name of humanity, humaneness, compassion, and freedom that these things occur, but never is it acknowledged that the real reasons are comfort and convenience, that is, simple selfishness. "Abortion not only prefers comfort, convenience, or advantage of the pregnant woman to the very life of her unborn child, a fundamentally good thing, but seeks to deny that the life ever existed. In this sense it is a radical denial not only of the worth of a specific life but of the essential goodness of life itself and the Providential ordering of its procreation" (R.V. Young, "Taking Choice Seriously," The Human Life Review, Vol. VIII, no. 3.)

But weren't we talking about infanticide and haven't we now switched to abortion? The premises on which abortion is justified are fundamentally the same on which infanticide is seen as civilized and acceptable. What Hitler used to call eugenics is now called "quality of life," never mind whether the life in question happens to be the mother's or the child's. Death, according to three doctors who put the issue out into the open in the New England Journal of Medicine in 1973, is now considered an option in the "treatment" of infants; in other words, a mortuary may now replace the nursery. One cannot help thinking of the antiseptic "shower rooms" of the Third Reich, where the unwanted were "treated" to death. Nor can one forget the words of Jesus, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me" (Matthew 25:40, KJV).

Can any Christian argue that the smallest and most defenseless are, by virtue merely of being too small and too defenseless, not His brethren?

Title: What is Happening?
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

What on earth is happening in our culture? The answer is plain, I'm afraid, in Romans 1 and 2. Men render truth dumb and inoperative by their wickedness. They refuse to acknowledge God or to thank Him for what He is or does. They become fatuous in their argumentations. Behind a facade of wisdom they become fools. They give up God. They forfeit the truth of God and accept a lie. They overflow with insolent pride; their minds teem with diabolical invention. They recognize no obligations to honor, lose all natural affection, and have no use for mercy. They do not hesitate to give their thorough approval to others who do the same (see Romans 1:18-2:5, PHILLIPS).

Can we condemn them without subjecting ourselves to the same standard of judgment by which we condemn? Of course we can't. Judgment must be righteous judgment (John 7:24), based on the Word of God.

"There is no doubt at all that he will 'render to every man according to his works,' and that means eternal life to those who, in patiently doing good, aim at the unseen.... "It also means anger and wrath for those who rebel against God's plan of life. "But there is glory and honor and peace for every worker on the side of good" (see Rom. 2:6-10, PHILLIPS).

Title: Can Birth Be Wrong?
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

The wildest science fiction cannot exceed in outrage some of the legal precedents that have been set in the past few decades. I read in a magazine about "wrongful birth" suits, in which parents sue a physician because their child was born as a result of practitioner negligence: for example, a failed vasectomy, failed abortion (a "failed" abortion, don't forget, means one in which the child destined for the scrap heap happens to be born alive and kicking, so to speak), or failure by the physician to provide parents with adequate contraceptive methods.

There are also "wrongful life" suits in which the child sues the physician because he would have been better off not to be born at all. His very life is "wrongful." The child, in other words, had a right not to be born. How, exactly, would the court measure damages in the case of a healthy child? There would have been awards if there were defects.

The only good news in this appalling article was that in a wrongful birth case in Illinois in 1979 the court held that the birth of a healthy child is an esteemed right and not a compensable wrong. In England, at least up until the spring of 1983, the decision had been that entry into life should not be the basis for legal action.

"O Lord my heart is not proud, nor are my eyes haughty," wrote the psalmist (131:1, NEB), "I do not busy myself with great matters or things too marvelous for me." I am afraid we tamper far too much with the mysteries of life and death, instead of leaving them to Him who holds the keys.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: Mark 9:36
The Path of Lonliness

An Unaborted Gift

An African Christian wrote a friend in the U.S.: "We have six children. We had agreed to stop having other children. We even started family planning after the last was born, but (and a big 'but') we found out that C. was pregnant. I don't know what really happened. My wife and I started crying because we did not know what to do. We have been asking God and telling Him that six children were enough for us. However we were later comforted by God Himself because He said that He will never leave us and will protect us with the young ones. I therefore ask you to pray for us. C. is expecting the child in about three months. Remember we were not ready for this baby. Pray that we will be able to joyfully receive the baby as a gift from the almighty God. It is my prayer that my wife will be able to bear all that burden and that the baby will be a blessing to us. You know we have two boys with sickle cells. Please pray with us that God will not give us another such child. Brethren, I have been suffering with these sick boys and we don't like another one of that type. It will just finish us. We have many sleepless nights every year because of these sons when they are in pains.... With all that I am happy to tell you that there is nothing which will separate me from the Love of God.... Pray, pray for us. God bless you all."

I don't know this man, but I have prayed for him, and for all others who, with what the world would call "good reasons for abortion," receive the child from Him who made it, and who said, "Whoever receives one of these children in My name, receives Me" (Mark 9:36, NEB).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: Romans 1:28-31
The Path of Lonliness

Disposable Children

A ruling of the Internal Revenue Service now allows parents a tax exemption if a child intended for abortion lives for any length of time. The breathtakingly fancy mental footwork necessary to justify such action goes something like this: what was meant to be discarded is not a child. It is called a "p.o.c." (product of conception, which of course is what children and all the rest of us are). The bad news is that this disposable tissue turned out to be a child and (alas) was born. The good news is that you can get a tax exemption for a dependent child. The best news is that its dependence is only temporary. Call it a child, then, till you get your money. You need not go to the trouble of keeping it. You can call it tissue again and toss it out. Thus the abortionist's mistake becomes the taxpayer's windfall, and the doctor who orders the child abandoned (i.e., killed by neglect and sometimes by active means) is not charged with murder but paid for what is now called a postnatal abortion.

Will you stand up against the outrage called "prochoice"? Do you understand its implications?

"Because they have not seen fit to acknowledge God, he has given them up to their own depraved reason. This leads them to break all the rules of conduct. They are filled with every kind of injustice, mischief, rapacity, and malice.... They are without natural affection and without pity" (Romans 1:28, 29, 31, NEB).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: Matthew 25:40
The Path of Lonliness

A New Medical Breakthrough

As I mentioned earlier, some time ago I read of a new medical triumph involving unborn twins. Amniocentesis had shown that one of them had Down's syndrome. The mother decided she did not want that child, so with the simple expedient of piercing the heart of the baby with a long needle, it was killed in the womb. She carried the twins to term and delivered one child alive--the one she wanted to keep--and one child dead--the one she didn't want to keep. This was hailed as a remarkable breakthrough. I would ask you to pause for a moment here and consider this question: what was it, exactly, that was killed? What was it that was not killed? The answer to both questions, of course, is--a child. They were both children. They were twins. I used plain, ordinary words to tell the story--the words the news report used. Nothing ambiguous. Nothing incendiary.

I read the following week in the same magazine about another medical breakthrough. This time doctors had used an instrument inserted into a womb not to kill a child but to save one. This child had a serious heart anomaly which they were able to correct with intrauterine surgery. Can any honest and reasonable person fail to make the comparison here? In the second case, the instrument in the surgeon's hand enabled the tiny heart to keep on working. In the first case, the needle in the surgeon's hand made the heart quit working. What, exactly, should we call that?

The intrauterine surgery was called lifesaving because they fixed a baby's defective heart. What language are we allowed to use when we speak of destroying a heart that's working perfectly! There is a simple and obvious word, but we are not allowed to use it. Well, what about life-destroying? Is that permissible for this neat and efficient technique? Well, not really. Because the word life is explosive. Life is not relevant here. It's the mother's life that we are supposed to consider, nobody else's. The other isn't a life--not one worth living anyway, not one worth the mother's suffering for. So we must not use the ordinary words. They're too emotional. They're loaded. The fact is they stopped the heart. That's all. Just made it quit beating.

I was glad that the writer of the article on the baby whose heart was corrected acknowledged the possibility that fetal surgery might raise an ethical question which the medical world thought it had laid to rest. Might it be necessary, in view of these advances, to ask all over again whether a fetus is a person?

This is the issue today. It is, in the final analysis, the only question that needs to be considered when we speak of the unborn. Is the thing disposable? Is it an object with no life of its own, a bit of tissue which belongs to a woman who has the right to do with it what she chooses? If she needs it and wants it, she keeps it. If she doesn't need it and doesn't want it, she throws it out. So what's all the shouting about?

Truthfulness is the willingness to accept facts. Truthtellers are always regarded as either ridiculous, or so dangerous as to deserve death. "No truth," wrote Hannah Arendt, "that crosses someone's profit, ambition, or lust, is permissible. Unwelcome facts possess an infuriating stubbornness that nothing can move except plain lies."

Here are the unwelcome facts. We were talking about children: the twin who was saved, the child with the defective heart who was also saved, and the twin whose heart was pierced with a needle. They were children. Choices were made regarding those children: deliberate, conscious choices. One, to allow a child to live. Another, to intervene surgically so that a child might live who would otherwise die. (Would the surgeon who performed that operation have dreamed of telling the mother that her baby was not a person? He saved its life, and the mother was grateful.) But in the other case, what was the choice? It was to kill a child. These are the unwelcome facts, but they are infuriatingly stubborn. They will not go away. It was a child. It was killed. Nothing will move those facts except lies.

I ask you earnestly to look at the little creature with eyes and hands and beating heart, held in that safest of places, the mother's womb. No woman who holds such a thing within her doubts that she holds a child. No doctor who extracts it by whatever swift and putatively safe means can deny that what he extracts is a human being, and that what he does is to kill it.

I ask you for God's sake to look at the truth. And I ask you, finally, to think about what Jesus said: "I tell you solemnly, in so far as you did this to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it to me" (Matthew 25:40, JB). Jesus will not forget.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: Ephesians 6:11-13
The Path of Lonliness

Contexts

A writer in the New Yorker some time ago analyzed television as "the context of no-context." Think about that one. The only context in which the words are coming at us from the tube is our living room or kitchen, which has nothing whatever to do with the speaker. The speaker's backdrop is usually a TV studio, which we know is a mock-up. So we are excused from evaluating what is said in terms of context. There is none.

In what context does a Christian live, move, act, think, decide? It must be the context of God's Kingdom. We either live in that Kingdom, or we live in the world; we either take our cues from the Bible or from the media; we set our goals according to what is going to matter forever or according to the quotation of the day.

Think, in the context of the kingdom of God, about this actual incident in a public school classroom: The teacher asked each child what his mother did. There was only one child whose mother did not work outside the home.

"Teacher: Oh, so what does your mother do?"

"Child: She--um, well, you know, she does, um, stuff around the house."

"Teacher: You mean she cooks and cleans? She irons clothes, makes beds?"

"Child: Yes."

"Teacher: So you could say, then, that you have a traditional mother, is that right?"

"Child: Yes."

"Teacher: (with a long, searching look) And do you like that?"

Consider the context from which that teacher's questions come. It is not one which recognizes any divine design for the home, any glory in service, any joyful willingness to do humble work without thought of gain or appreciation. Consider the pressure put on a little child to question the only context his life has had, the context which has until now meant security, normalcy, and happiness for him. He will be wondering if his mother is some sort of an oddity, his home not an ordinary one.

It is not for nothing that the classic passage on the warfare of the Christian immediately follows Paul's specific instructions about intimate human relationships: wives, submit; husbands, love; fathers, do not goad your children to resentment. These are the areas of most vicious and relentless attack. The Christian home is a stronghold, and the enemy will never let up his attempts to undermine it or breach its sanctity.

"Put on all the armor which God provides, so that you may be able to stand firm against the devices of the devil. For our fight is not against human foes (corrupt government officials, public school boards, for example, or even an impossible-to-live-with spouse or teenager) but against cosmic powers, against the authorities and potentates of this dark world, against the superhuman forces of evil in the heavens. Therefore take God's armor..." (Ephesians 6:11-13, NEB).

Prayer is a powerful weapon. It is an indispensable weapon. It takes practice to wield it. It takes courage and time and spiritual energy.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Family Prayers

When I was a child my father and mother gathered the six of us in the living room after breakfast every morning for family prayers. First we sang a hymn, omitting none of the stanzas, accompanied on the piano by one of our parents. It was in this way that we learned a good bit of solid theology without any conscious effort. I must emphasize that it was hymns and old gospel songs we sang at home. There was not much place then for choruses or gospel ditties.

There are some young families who still do this today. Judy Palpant of Spokane, who had heard me tell about our family prayers, writes, "Our children know that you were the inspiration for our three-year-old tradition of singing a hymn with our family devotions. We sing the same one each morning for a month. Tonight was the first time we tabulated the number of hymns we had learned. The children were impressed! Let me assure you that many new words and truths have been impressed upon their hearts and minds as we have discussed the themes and words of our chosen hymn. Our many guests at breakfast (especially when we were in Africa) were often blessed by the singing of a hymn. My husband's parents were visiting us when we were singing 'Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us.' That hymn was sung at their wedding. During the Easter season one year we were learning 'When I Survey the Wondrous Cross on Which the Prince of Glory Died.' A missionary from Kenya underlined the words 'Prince of Glory' for us by sharing some insights with us. Thank you for this idea which has enriched our family as well as our guests."

A reader asks, "At what age were the children when your parents started family prayers? How long a passage was read?" I think they must have begun as soon as the first child was born. I am Number Two, and I can't remember a time when we did not have family prayers. All of us were included, the smaller ones sitting on laps. My father read from Hurlbut's Story of the Bible (wearing out three hardback copies!), just a page or so each morning. In the evening after dinner he read the evening portion of Daily Light, which is pure Scripture (King James Version). The hymn came first, then reading, then (in the mornings, because we were not around the table then} we knelt to pray, my father leading, all joining in the Lord's Prayer to close.

This question from another reader. "How can I encourage my husband as the spiritual leader of the family to have regular family devotions?" This is one I am often asked. If he is a Christian I would hope that he is willing at least to listen to his wife's suggestion. Many men believe their wives are "more spiritual" than they, and feel justified in leaving spiritual training of the children up to them. This is a mistake. The father is the priest in the home. He is the head of his wife. It is his God-given assignment to take spiritual leadership. No matter how brief and simple the devotional time may be, there is no calculating the power of its long-term effect on the children. They learn very early the place God has in their parents' lives.

My father was a very simple man--humble, honest about his faith, but reticent in the extreme about speaking of it. We had no such thing as "sharing times" in our family. It was rare for us to converse about spiritual things, especially personal experience. But we knew our parents prayed in private, read their Bibles, and prayed and read aloud with us. It was routine. But it mattered. It matters to me now. I hope perhaps these words of testimony may nudge some of those reticent Christian fathers to take courage, take the bull by the horns, and say, "I've learned something. It's important. More important, maybe, than anything else we do in this house. We're going to start today."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: Matthew 11:29 1 Corinthians 10:13
The Path of Lonliness

Drudgery

"I must admit I feel a lot of pressure with two children under two years of age. I am committed to do it until they are in school, however, and feel it is God's will. At times like this--when I wonder if I will even be able to finish this letter with both of them screaming for something--or when I miss going to lunch or getting dressed up, everyday life seems a drudgery. I worked hard to get through college--to be a scrubwoman, ha!"

I understand this mother's cry. So does the Lord. He has given us this word: "No temptation has come your way that is too hard for flesh and blood to bear. But God can be trusted not to allow you to suffer any temptation beyond your powers of endurance. He will see to it that every temptation has a way out, so that it will never be impossible for you to bear it" (1 Corinthians 10:13, PHILLIPS).

"A way out," I can hear her say, "What mother has a way out?"

The New English Bible translation throws light on this: "a way out, by enabling you to sustain it." Think, too, of Jesus' words, "My yoke is easy and my burden is light" (Matthew 11:29 AV). He is willing to bear our burdens with us, if only we will come to Him and share the yoke, His yoke.

I saw this principle in operation when I visited the Dohnavur Fellowship in India. There, day after day, year in and year out, Indian women (most of them single) care for little children, handicapped children, infirm adults, old folks. They don't go anywhere. They have none of our usual forms of amusement and diversion. They work with extremely primitive equipment--there is no running water, for example, no stoves but wood-burning ones, no washing machines. In one of the buildings I saw this text: "There they dwelt with the King for His work." That's the secret. They do it for Him. They ask for and receive His grace to do it. I saw the joy in their lovely faces.

Sunday Morning
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Sunday mornings can be a real test of a mother's sanctification, especially if her husband happens to be a pastor who leaves the house much earlier than the rest of the family. Here's how it went recently in one house (you're free to speculate on whose):

"The fifteen-year-old couldn't tuck his shirt in because of `something to do with the pockets,' and his belt was too small.

"The thirteen-year-old was having trouble curling her hair.

"The ten-year-old couldn't find her Sunday School lesson.

"The eight-year-old hadn't done his Bible readings because he didn't know which they were.

"The six-year-old's room and closet were unacceptably messy, and the socks she had on were muddy.

"The three-year-old couldn't find her Bible. Although not yet a reader, she couldn't think of going to church without the Bible.

"The baby's carrying blanket had disappeared."

Somehow the mother was to be nicely groomed, calm, and able to get this whole package into a van, seated and belted as law requires, and drive them to church on time.

But everything in this scene is the King's Business, which He looks on in loving sympathy and understanding, for, as Baron Von Hugel said, "The chain of cause and effect which makes up human life, is bisected at every point by a vertical line relating us and all we do to God." This is what He has given us to do, this task here on this earth, not the task we aspired to do, but this one. The absurdities involved cut us down to size. The great discrepancy between what we envisioned and what we've got force us to be real. And God is our great Reality, more real than the realest of earthly conditions, an unchanging Reality. It is His providence that has put us where we are. It's where we belong. It is for us to receive it--all of it--humbly, quietly, thankfully.

Sunday morning, the Lord's Day, can be the very time when everything seems so utterly unrelated to the world of the spirit that it is simply ridiculous. Yet to the Lord's lovers it is only a seeming. Everything is an affair of the spirit. Everything, to one who loves God and longs with a sometimes desperate longing for a draught of Living Water, a single touch of His hand, a quiet word--everything, I say, can be seen in His perspective.

A Word for Fathers
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

While visiting Columbia Bible College in South Carolina, I found in the library a little book called Father and Son, written by my grandfather, Philip E. Howard. He writes:

"Do you remember that encouraging word of Thomas Fuller's, a chaplain of Oliver Cromwell's time? It's a good passage for a father in all humility and gratitude to tuck away in his memory treasures:

"`Lord, I find the genealogy of my Savior strangely checkered with four remarkable changes in four immediate generations. (1) Rehoboam begat Abijah; that is, a bad father begat a bad son. (2) Abijah begat Asa; that is, a bad father begat a good son. (3) Asa begat Jehoshaphat; that is, a good father a good son. (4) Jehoshaphat begat Joram; that is, a good father a bad son. I see, Lord, from hence that my father's piety cannot be entailed; that is bad news for me. But I see also that actual impiety is not always hereditary; that is good news for my son.'"

In another chapter Grandpa Howard tells this story.

"A sensitive, timid little boy, long years ago, was accustomed to lie down to sleep in a low 'trundle-bed,' which was rolled under his parents' bed by day and was brought out for his use by night. As he lay there by himself in the darkness, he could hear the voices of his parents, in their lighted sitting-room across the hallway, on the other side of the house. It seemed to him that his parents never slept; for he left them awake when he was put to bed at night, and he found them awake when he left his bed in the morning. So far this thought was a cause of cheer to him, as his mind was busy with imaginings in the weird darkness of his lonely room.

"After loving good-night words and kisses had been given him by both his parents, and he had nestled down to rest, this little boy was accustomed, night after night, to rouse up once more, and to call out from his trundle-bed to his strong-armed father, in the room from which the light gleamed out, beyond the shadowy hallway, 'Are you there, papa?' And the answer would come back cheerily, 'Yes, my child, I am here.' `You'll take care of me tonight, papa, won't you?' was then the question. 'Yes, I'll take care of you, my child,' was the comforting response. 'Go to sleep now. Good night.' And the little fellow would fall asleep restfully, in the thought of those assuring good-night words.

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A Word for Fathers
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

"A little matter that was to the loving father; but it was a great matter to the sensitive son. It helped to shape the son's life. It gave the father an added hold on him; and it opened up the way for his clearer understanding of his dependence on the loving watchfulness of the All-Father. And to this day when that son, himself a father and a grandfather, lies down to sleep at night, he is accustomed, out of the memories of that lesson of long ago, to look up through the shadows of his earthly sleeping place into the far-off light of his Father's presence, and to call out, in the same spirit of childlike trust and helplessness as so long ago, 'Father, you'll take care of me tonight, won't you?' And he hears the assuring answer come back, 'He that keepeth thee will not slumber. The Lord shall keep thee from all evil. He shall keep thy soul. Sleep, my child, in peace.' And so he realizes the twofold blessing of a father's goodnight words."

That story, says Grandpa, came from his own father-in-law, my great-grandfather, Henry Clay Trumbull. I have a hunch that Trumbull was that little boy, and the father my great-great-grandfather.

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What Is a Wife to Do?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Many women write to me about their husbands--some of them so thankful for the godly men they've been given, some of them deeply troubled by ungodly behavior. I hear stories of professing Christians, pastors, church leaders who abuse their wives, neglect their children, spend money foolishly, etc. Recently several have written about men who habitually indulge in sexual sin of one sort or another. Usually the wife tells me she has confronted him with God's Word, requested that he desist, begged him to submit to Christian counseling, discussed the deleterious effect it has on their marriage, and asked him to understand how deeply he is hurting those who love him. He turns a deaf ear.

What is a wife to do? That is the question I am asked. If I were asked what the husbands should do the answer would be simple: quit it. When I say simple, of course, I do not mean easy. First a man must repent and admit his helplessness, which may be harder for a man than for a woman. Then he may be willing to accept the help of others who have walked the same path. Accountability and encouragement can help him see his sin for what it is.

God has given us a will, and promises the strength to say no to temptation. He never allows us to be tempted beyond our ability to resist. He will give us all the help we are willing to receive. "I will obey your decrees. I call out to you; save me and I will keep your statutes. I rise before dawn and cry for help; I have put my hope in your word. My eyes stay open through the watches of the night, that I may meditate on your promises" (Psalm 119:145-148, NIV). The man whose temptation is pornography, for example, is not forced to go to the blue movie, open the pornographic mail or magazine, or visit the "adult" bookstore. But he, of course, is not asking me or anyone else for advice. He doesn't want it. No amount of counseling, professional or otherwise, will change his lust unless he is willing to be changed. There must be a readiness to do what God says. "It is God's will that you should be sanctified: that you should avoid sexual immorality; that each of you should learn to control his own body in a way that is holy and honorable, not in passionate lust like the heathen" (1 Thessalonians 4:3-5, NIV). That is what God has to say about it, and He has never given a command which He will not enable us to obey. It is always possible to do the will of God.

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What Is a Wife to Do?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

In some cases the wife has not felt that it was her duty to confront him. While my first impulse was to say she should, further thought and prayer convinced me that she may be right. Are we not to have a gentle and quiet spirit? Is it the wife's place to confront, in view of 1 Peter 3:1-2; 6? "[Your husbands] may be won over without words by the behavior of their wives, when they see the purity and reverence of your lives.... You are [Sarah's] daughters if you do what is right and do not give way to fear" (NIV). Things that are impossible with us are possible with God. He is in the business of changing men's hearts and transforming lives--often in answer to a wife's prayers.

It may not be amiss for the wife to seek human help, perhaps in a spiritual "mother," a woman who has walked with God for years and knows how to pray and how to keep a confidence. If professional counseling is sought, let it be truly Christian, i.e. Christ-centered, cross-centered. This week I received a letter from a woman who had had an apparently immovable obstacle in her relationship with her husband. She had struggled, prayed, searched desperately for answers, went with her husband to two Christian counselors who were, in the end, as baffled as she was. Then one day, while working around the house, she prayed "just about every minute of the day, asking God to get through to me on what I needed to do." Next day's sermon was an encouragement to step out in faith if one has a word from the Lord. She wrote,

"I remembered your saying on the radio that when people tell you their problems, you often ask them what they think the Lord wants them to do. I was very surprised at the time to find I had an answer to my problem! A simple thing, acting against my feelings. I had tried to do what I thought God wanted me to do then, but decided it was too hard and wouldn't work anyway. I determined to try again. Things did not change overnight, but I persevered. Things changed dramatically. My husband can hardly believe the change in his wife! I can hardly believe it either!"

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What Is a Wife to Do?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

In difficulties of all kinds I've been wonderfully helped by taking time to look at them in the light of Christ Himself. Do you know the hymn, "Beneath the Cross of Jesus"? (If not, you'd find it a great comfort to learn it by heart.) That is where we must take our stand. It was at the cross that Jesus dealt with all our sins, griefs, and sorrows. He calls us to give up all right to ourselves, take up the cross, and follow. This hard place in which you perhaps find yourself, so painful and bewildering, is the very place in which God is giving you opportunity to look only to Him, to travail in prayer, and to learn long-suffering, gentleness, meekness--in short, to learn the depths of love that Christ Himself has poured out on all of us. It is His love that must be manifest in you as you quietly submit to what hurts you (Jesus submitted, too); treat your husband as we are commanded to treat enemies--with love (so did Jesus); refrain from taking moral responsibility for your husband (it is not our assignment as wives to do an overhaul job!), except as you daily lift him up to God. This form of suffering is your opportunity to learn to leave with God what only God can do. It is His mercy that offers it to you, and don't forget that "Love is His meaning," as Mother Julian of Norwich wrote.

One of the most transfiguring truths I know is that of our being called to share the sufferings of Christ. Colossians 1:24 and 1 Peter 4:12-19 put a wholly different perspective on the matter than any of us could have come up with. It's up to God to change hearts. It's up to us to do the simple (not always easy), humble, sacrificial thing, and to faithfully leave the rest to God. "Continue to do good" (1 Peter 4:19, NIV), which means just do the next thing, whatever that may be (mend those trousers? starch a white shirt?).

"The fretting friction of our daily life, Heart-weariness with loving patience borne, The meek endurance of the inward strife, The painful crown of thorn, Prepare the heart for God's own dwelling place, Adorn with sacred loveliness His shrine, And brighten every inconspicuous grace, For God alone to shine."
Mary E. Atkinson

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A Child's Obedience
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Questions from a young mother: "How can I train my twenty-month-old to come to me? How many times do I say 'Come here' before I go and grab him?"

The very first time you tell the child to do or not to do something (come here, don't touch, sit still), (1) make sure you have the child's attention; (2) look him straight in the eye (let him know he has your attention); (3) speak in an even, normal tone, address him by name, give the command; (4) give him a few seconds to let the message sink in; (5) speak his name again, and ask, "What did I say?" Since training should begin long before he is talking, he will not be able to verbalize the answer, but he should obey. Children always are way ahead of their parents' idea of what they can understand. (6) Tell him once more: "Mama said come, Andrew." If he does not obey, spank him. After the first time or two of practice, spank after you've spoken once.

To make a habit of repeating commands is to train the child to believe you never mean what you say the first time. If the first lesson in obedience is carried out as above, the child learns quickly that you mean exactly what you say. I know it works--my parents taught us this way, and I watched them train my younger sister and brothers. I found that it worked with my daughter Valerie.

If you run after the child and physically force him to do what you say (e.g. grab him when he doesn't come, take something away when he touches it), you are training him not to pay attention to your words. He knows he can get away with anything until forcibly restrained.

Now about spanking. The book of Proverbs speaks of the "rod of discipline," (22:15) and says, "Rod and reprimand impart wisdom, but a boy who runs wild brings shame on his mother" (29:15, NEB). "He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him" (13:24, NIV). My mother used a very thin little switch from a bush in the backyard. We knew there was one in every room, readily available to administer a couple of stings to our legs if we disobeyed. Valerie keeps a thin wooden paint stirrer handy in the house, and also in her purse. One or two firm "paddles" on a small outstretched hand are language that an under-two child understands very clearly.

Don't imagine that following this advice will mean that your child will be punished twenty times a day. The wonderful thing about these simple rules is that punishment needs to be used very seldom, if you start soon enough. If you begin at the beginning to show the child you are serious about obedience, you will not need to undo the months or years of raising your voice, repeating commands again and again, rushing after him. You will have control. The child will be learning to trust the word of authority (which will make it much easier later for him to believe that God means what He says) and your life together will be much more peaceful and happy.

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A Child's Obedience
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Suppose your child is already twenty months or three years old and you have not taught him to obey? Then you must both pay a price, but I believe it can be done. Set aside a whole morning to start over. Talk to him, tell him how much you love him, tell him, "This morning we are going to learn the most important lesson you will ever have to learn." Let him see that you are in earnest. Start practicing the beginner's rules.

A word of caution: spanking, in my opinion, should be for deliberate disobedience only. When a child spills his milk or stuffs peanuts up his nose or pours your talcum powder all over the carpet, he is not being disobedient. He is only acting his age. You have not forbidden him to stuff peanuts up his nose. If you have, and he does it anyway, spank him. If, in defiance, he dumps his milk on the floor, spank him. But childish mistakes and messes must be pointed out, and by all means he should be made to rectify them or clean them up as best he can. Think of punishments that will fit the "crimes," but reserve the stick or the switch for deliberate disobedience. He will soon learn that when he defies you, a spanking follows as sure as the dawn follows the night--even if you are in church or the supermarket. Take him out to the car and spank him. Explain the whole system to him again (after the spanking), if necessary. Put your arms around him, assure him of your love, and change the subject.

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Teaching Children
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

How many times between the ages of three and ten do children have to answer the only two questions adults can think of to ask them: How old are you? and What are you going to be when you grow up?

The second question may seem innocuous, but is it? In the first place, many children may be distressed at being required to make a choice which is far beyond them. In the second place, it implies that the choice is theirs. This can lead to great confusion later on. The child will grow up physically, but spiritually he will not have begun until he learns that Jesus died not only to save him from sin but in order that he should live not for himself but for Him who died (see 2 Corinthians 5:15 and l John 3:16). If a young person has been taught from childhood that he ought to "be something" without at the same time being shown that nothing is better than being God's servant, he may be preoccupied with ambitions and ideals he has gotten solely from the world. If his conception of "where it's at" has nothing to do with the Kingdom of God, he is in for trouble when it comes time to discern the Will of God. He will be setting limits to his obedience, defining the terms of his service. "For My sake" is a concept children can grasp much earlier than we generally suppose. A little boy wrote to me that he was learning to lay down his life for others. To him this meant that sometimes when he would rather play he lay down beside his little sister to help her go to sleep.

Pray that God will show you how to teach your children that life is meant to be lived for God. "You are not the owner of your own body. You have been bought, and at what a price! Therefore bring glory to God in your body" (1 Corinthians 6:20, PHILLIPS). Help your child to understand that the Lord is his Shepherd, and he is a little lamb. The Shepherd will gladly show him the right pathway if he is willing to follow.

Working Mothers
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

The director of a center for women's concerns said, "Men have always been able to be involved in creative, self-actualizing work." She would like to see more women released from traditional women's work "to be involved in creative work." Creative work, in this lady's view, does not seem to include homemaking and mothering. Why not? I would like to ask. And who, for heaven's sake, is going to do the homemaking and mothering? The lady says she felt confused and frustrated when she was doing it, and "struggled with fulfillment." Many women feel as she does. I meet them often. What I long to help them to see is that if homemaking and mothering are the tasks God has assigned to them at present, it will be in the glad offering up to Him of those tasks that they will be truly "creative" and find real fulfillment.

There's an eternal spiritual principle here. It ought to be enough reason for anybody. Is there any other reason why I am always telling young mothers to stay home? Yes, two absolutely unarguable ones, and a third interesting one which you can argue about if you want to.

First, the Bible clearly tells me (an older woman) to teach younger women "how to work in their homes" (Titus 2:5, JB), or to be "busy at home" (NEB), or be "domestic" (RSV).

Second, children need their mothers. They need quantity time. None of this "quality time" nonsense. Any time which a Christian mother who loves her children gives them should be "quality."

Third, it's very possible that a working mother's income is not nearly so "extra" as may at first appear. Take a look at a study done by Wayne Coleman of Austin, Texas. I think his estimates are very modest. From weekly earnings of $175, subtract

$17.50...tithe
35.00.....withholding tax
11.00.....Social Security
20.00.....transportation (.20 mile, 10 miles to job)
7.50.......lunches (these will have to be dieter's specials!)
12.50.....clothes, shoes, dry cleaning
35.00.....child care for one
5.00.......hair and cosmetics
1.00.......office collections, gifts, entertainments
2.00.......coffee breaks, miscellaneous
10.00.....extra for bring-home meals

Net income weekly: $18.50. If you subtract from this the things a woman may buy which she would not have bought if she didn't have "her own income," or that she may feel she deserves because she's working, how much "extra" is there for the necessities that convinced her she needed the job?

Net income weekly: $18.50. If you subtract from this the things a woman may buy which she would not have bought if she didn't have "her own income," or that she may feel she deserves because she's working, how much "extra" is there for the necessities that convinced her she needed the job?

Here's a testimony from a young woman in Texas who has no children yet. "The struggle I'm having is even though I work only part-time, there doesn't seem to be time to keep house, be with other women, reach out to the needy and lost. I know the pressures of the world, pushing for 'upward mobility,' figure more into the picture than I realize, making my struggle quite a fight. A part of me wants to quit the job, another part of me isn't that free yet!"

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cont

Working Mothers
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Please--if you're a mother of young children, considering getting a job, will you consider these questions first?

* Will your income really be worth it?
* Will it increase your husband's tax burden?

Are you giving your best to your family and/or your employer? Former premier of Israel Golda Meir said that a working mother is torn apart--when in the office she's thinking of all she didn't get done at home, and when at home she's thinking of all she didn't get done at the office.

Would your husband be able to do a better job at work if you were doing a better job at home? What are your real motives for wanting to work? Could it be social pressure, boredom, acquisitiveness, pride, and unwillingness to do humble things? Are you trying to prove something?

I know some mothers of young children who in the face of genuine economic necessity have asked God to show them work they can do at home. Then they've gone to the library and read about businesses that can be engaged in at home, or they've been given an "original" idea. It's amazing to hear the answers God has given. "Your heavenly Father knows that you have need of all these things."

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Women in the Work World
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

Because I want to be faithful to what Scripture does say I often refer to that passage which tells me, as an older woman, what I am supposed to say to younger women: Titus 2:3-5. But, they want to know, is it wrong for a single mother to work? Is it wrong for a woman who has no children at home to work? Is it wrong for a woman to work because her husband insists on it? The last question is not quite so difficult, since a wife must submit and trust the results to God. I cannot answer the first two. So, for you who so far have found it necessary to work I want to offer some encouragement and comfort.

1. "My God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus" (Philippians 4:19, NIV). Just remember that God must be the judge of your needs. Being wise, powerful and loving, He can be fully trusted to do just what He says.
2. You only know what you have to do today. None of us knows the future. Be faithful today--do your work faithfully, thoroughly, honestly, and gratefully. "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as # working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving" (Colossians 3:23-24, NIV).
3. Be a lady. Betty Greene, pilot during World War II and later with Mission Aviation Fellowship, told me, "I made up my mind if I was to 'make it in a man's world,' I had to be a lady." A true lady is recognized and respected by men. Keep your honor, your distance, and your close touch with God He will protect you.

4. If you are truly abandoned to the Lord, He will show you if/when He has a different assignment for you. Stay in touch with Him.

Homeschooling
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

When my daughter Valerie Shepard was homeschooling three of her five children (the other two were preschool age), I asked her what she had discovered about the advantages of homeschooling. Here is her answer:

1. The children have more time: to read (aloud and silently); to learn responsibility by doing chores at home; to play (without adult direction) and use the imagination; to listen to and enjoy each other; to learn obedience.

2. Parents need not deprogram or reteach values the child hears for seven hours a day. They have the child's full attention at any time of the day and can give him full attention; he is not absorbing two different value systems daily.

3. Children learn to love each other more. They do not look down on one another in favor of their peers, or in wrong adulation of older children. This society teaches that among children "older is better." That's not right. Having them at home all day allows them to be children without having to "grow up" in the wrong ways.

4. They learn to be servants of one another. The family is a microcosm of the Body of Christ.

After I asked Val to write this I had the fun of trying it out myself. Val and Walt went to South Carolina (taking their nursing baby Colleen) and I had the other four for five (very busy!) days. There was a schedule of chores posted in the kitchen. Daily I reminded them (seldom more than once). The nine-, seven-, and five-year-olds took turns setting and clearing the table, emptying the dishwasher, folding laundry, sweeping the kitchen. Walter (the oldest) and Jim (not quite three} took out trash, the girls cleaned the bathroom. All but Jim made their beds.

School began at nine with Bible reading, singing, prayer, all four joining in. Jim sat on the floor and played while the others studied. Christiana finished her kindergarten work by ten or so, Walter and Elisabeth worked till nearly lunchtime.

Every afternoon there was Quiet Hour. This was a lifesaver for Granny. The three older children were expected to be in their rooms for an hour. They did not need to sleep, but they were to read or find something quiet to do alone. (Not once did we have any altercation about Quiet Hour. It had always been a part of their lives, and they liked it.) Jim and I lay down together, I read him a Beatrix Potter story, and he fell asleep.

Since we had no car, four of us walked to the grocery store every day, while Walter rode his bike. It was an interesting string of people, Elisabeth hugging (for example) five pounds of flour, Christiana batting things with a box of Saran Wrap, Jim lugging a bag of apples, Granny with a loaded brown bag.

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cont

Too Many Children?
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

When I learned that my daughter Valerie was expecting number five, my insides tied themselves in knots.

Val and Walt were both very peaceful about it, willing to receive this child as they had received the others--as a gift from the Lord, remembering His words, "Whoever welcomes this child in my name welcomes me" (Luke 9:48, NIV). But my imagination ran to the future and its seeming impossibilities--"Poor dear Val. She has her hands more than full. What will she do with five?" Before she was married Valerie had told me that she hoped the Lord would give her six. I had smiled to myself, thinking she would probably revise that number after the first three or four. Practical considerations rose like thunderclouds in my mind. Money. Another room to be built onto the house. Homeschooling (Valerie was teaching two already!) How would the new child receive the attention he needed? Etc., etc.

Then I began to look at the advantages. I was one of six children myself, and loved growing up in a big family. Children learn early what it means to help and to share, to take responsibility and to make sacrifices, to give place to others, to cooperate and deny themselves. Why all this turmoil in my soul? Well, because I loved my child! She was tired! Her hands were full! Maybe later, maybe when the others were old enough to help more, maybe... O Lord!

I tried to talk to God about it. Breakfast time came, we ate, washed dishes, school began in the children's schoolroom, and I went to my room, my heart churning. What does one do?

I write this because troubled young women have come to me not understanding their mothers' reactions to the news of another baby. Was it resentment? Did they not love the grandchildren they had? Why would they not want more? Was it nothing but a meddle-some yen to run their children's lives? Was it a revelation of a worse attitude--an unwillingness to let God be God?

It was this last question that I knew I must wrestle with as I knelt in the bedroom. Most things that trouble us deeply come down to that. I had to bring each of my wrong responses definitely and specifically to God, lay them honestly before Him (He already knew exactly what I was thinking), confess my pride and silliness, and then, just as definitely accept His sovereign and loving will for Valerie, for her family, and for me as the granny. Only God knew how many countless others, even in future generations, He had in mind in bringing this particular child into the Shepard family. He was granting this family the privilege of offering sacrifices for Him, participating in His grand designs. YES, LORD. Your will is my conscious choice. Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing else.

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A Child Learns Self-Denial
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

One of the countless blessings of my life is having a daughter who actually asks for my prayers and my advice (and heeds the latter). She phoned from California one morning, describing the difficulties of home-schooling three children in grades six, four, and one, when you also have a four-year-old who is doing nursery school and a two-year-old, Colleen, who wants to do everything. And since Evangeline Mary was born, a nursing baby now claims attention as well. How to give Colleen proper attention and teach her also to occupy herself quietly for what seemed to her long periods? Valerie was deeply concerned over whether she was doing all she should for that little one.

I reminded her of the women of Bible times--while probably not homeschooling her children, an ordinary village woman would have been working very hard most of the time, carrying heavy water jars, grinding grain, sweeping, planting and cooking while tending children. This was true also of the Indians with whom Val grew up. An Indian mother never interrupted her day's work to sit down with a small child and play or read a story, yet the children were more or less always with her, watching her work, imitating her, learning informally. They had a strong and secure home base, "and so have yours," I told her. "Don't worry! You are not doing Colleen an injustice. Quite the contrary. You are giving her wonderful things: a stable home, your presence in that home, a priceless education just in the things she observes."

The demands on Val, as on any mother of small children, are pretty relentless, of course. She does all the housework with the help of the children (a schedule of chores is posted on the refrigerator). People usually gasp when I tell them the number of my grandchildren. "Wow," said one, "it takes a special woman to have that many children." Special? Not really. Millions have done it. But it takes grace, it takes strength, it takes humility, and God stands ready to give all that is needed.

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A Child Learns Self-Denial
By Elisabeth Elliot
Taken From: Keep A Quiet Heart

I suggested to Valerie that perhaps she could define the space which Colleen was allowed to play in during school time, and make it very clear to her that school time was quiet time for her brothers and sisters. When Valerie was Colleen's age she had to learn to play quietly alone because I was occupied for a good portion of every day in Bible translation work, or in teaching literacy and Bible classes in our house. She knew she was not to interrupt except for things I defined as "important." At that time there were seldom children of her age to play with, and she had neither siblings nor father, yet she was happy and, I think, well-adjusted. (For a certain period we had the added difficulty of living with a missionary family of six children under nine whose mother felt obliged to be more or less available for her children every minute--they were thought too young to learn not to interrupt. It was not an ordered home, and the mother herself was exhausted most of the time.)

Does this training seem hard on the child, impossible for the mother? I don't think it is. The earlier the parents begin to make the laws of order and beauty and quietness comprehensible to their children, the sooner they will acquire good, strong notions of what is so basic to real godliness: self-denial. A Christian home should be a place of peace, and there can be no peace where there is no self-denial.

Christian parents are seeking to fit their children for their inheritance in Christ. A sense of the presence of God in the home is instilled by the simple way He is spoken of, by prayer not only at meals but in family devotions and perhaps as each child is tucked into bed. The Bible has a prominent place, and it is a greatly blessed child who grows up, as I did, in a hymn-singing family. Sam and Judy Palpant of Spokane have such a home. "Each of our children has his or her own lullaby which I sing before prayer time and the final tucking into bed," Judy wrote. "That lullaby is a special part of our bedtime ritual. Whenever other children spend the night we sing 'Jesus Loves Me' as their lullaby. What a joy it was on the most recent overnighter to have the three Edminster children announce, `We have our own lullabies now!' Matt, who is twelve and who can be so swayed by the world, said, `Mine is "Jesus Keep Me Near the Cross."'"

The task of parents is to show by love and by the way they live that they belong to another Kingdom and another Master, and thus to turn their children's thoughts toward that Kingdom and that Master. The "raw material" with which they begin is thoroughly selfish. They must gently lay the yoke of respect and consideration for others on those little children, for it is their earnest desire to make of them good and faithful servants and, as Janet Erskine Stuart expressed it, "to give saints to God."

Surely it was not coincidence that my friend Ann Kiemel Anderson called just as I was finishing the above piece. She had just received little William Brandt, her fourth adopted son. The others were four and three years old and ten months. She was thrilled, and not nearly as exhausted as she expected to be, thankful for the gift of the child and for the gift of the needed grace and strength for one day (and one night) at a time.

"But oh, Elisabeth!" she said in her huskily soft voice, "when I had only one, I thought I knew all the answers. There is nothing so humbling as having two or three or four children."

I needed that reminder. Jim and I had hoped for at least four children. God gave us one, and that one gave me hardly any reason for serious worry, let alone despair. She was malleable. What "worked" for her may not work for another child, but I offer my suggestions anyway--gleaned not only from experience as the child of my parents and the parent of my child, but from observation of others. My second husband Add Leitch, whose first wife had died, had three daughters. "If I'd only had two, I could've written a book on child training," he once told me. One of them proved to him that he couldn't.

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Title: Serious Play, Careless Work - Page 1
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

When I was a kid we rushed home every afternoon from school, burst into the house to make sure Mother was there where we wanted her to be (she was), and then collected the kids on the block to play Kick the Can or to build playhouses out of wooden greenhouse boxes. Equipment didn't cost us a cent. Adults didn't have to supervise us or drive us anywhere or coach us. We just played. We were kids, and we knew that after-school time was playtime--until it was time to work (practice the piano, set the table, clear the table, do homework!).

Something has changed. Educators have gotten terribly serious about play and terribly casual about real physical work. Billions of dollars are lavished on developing crafts which nobody really needs and forms of recreation which people have to be taught to like. We've got "toys to grow on," computer games, play groups, playgrounds. Tiny tots who would have been happy with a few Tupperware containers and some spoons are given fancy mechanical toys that do things, and taught that if they make huge messes with finger paints they're being creative, which they didn't know they wanted to be.

I've seen Indian children playing in the river, climbing trees, sliding down mudbanks. But at the same time they were often catching fish or finding wild honey, fruit, or edible snails. They had no toys to play with but they had a marvelous time (at the age of three or four, mind you) building fires, sharpening knives, whacking away at the ever-encroaching weeds. Nobody told them what to do. Child's play naturally turned into useful work. My little three-year-old Valerie was as adept at these activities as the Indians--learned just as they had, by daily observation of adult men and women at work, then by imitation. A girl of ten could weave a perfect hammock; a boy of ten could handle a blowgun and bring home the "bacon," i.e. a bird or monkey for supper. A lot of what they did mattered, and they had much more fun than children who spend a good part of their childhood doing things that don't matter very much to them or anybody else.

Aren't children nowadays often getting far too much of the wrong kind of attention and not nearly enough of the right kind? Does it really make sense for kids of six and seven to be so frantically serious about organized sports and to be geniuses at computer games, but to have no idea how to amuse themselves without a coach, a team, a uniform, an arsenal of weapons, or an expensive and complicated piece of electronic equipment--not to mention daily transportation to and from the athletic field, park, ice rink, anywhere but the back yard? Must they be rounded up, herded, instructed, shouted at, praised, coaxed, and hovered over by adults who are paid money to pay attention to the poor little hooligans in order to keep them out of the adults' hair during "working hours"?

Is anybody paying attention to how a child works? Is it assumed that if asked to rake a lawn he'll do it halfheartedly? Will he sweep the garage in silent fury or will he rejoice in doing a thorough job of it? Will she scrub a sink till it shines and know herself to be a useful member of a household? School teachers desperately try to teach children who have never really labored with their hands to do schoolwork--not a very good place to start, it seems to me. If a child is not given to understand that he has a responsibility to help make the wheels of home run smoothly--if he is not given work which matters, in other words--why should he imagine that it matters very much whether he cooperates with teachers and fellow students? His parents have failed to give attention to a vital matter. Their attention has been elsewhere--on their own interests, jobs, amusements, physical fitness, or only on the child's health and a misguided notion of happiness which leaves out work altogether. If the "quality time" his father spends with him is limited to amusements rather than work, small wonder the child assumes nobody really likes work. His choices in how to spend his time, like his preferences in food, are taught at home--by observation of parental attitudes.

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Serious Play, Careless Work - Page 2

The jungle Indian children I knew learned without formal lessons of any kind. They were with their parents more or less all the time--everybody sleeping around a single fire at night, boys hunting or fishing with their fathers by day, girls planting and gathering food with their mothers. It was hard work to survive. They took responsibility to collect firewood and keep the fire burning. Very rarely did a parent even have to tell a child, let alone nag him, to do his job. It was expected and the kids met the expectations. Nobody over two had much leisure, but they had a lot of fun. I've never seen people laugh so much. It was a peaceful life, a life without anything like the severe stresses and conflicts we have created for ourselves. Wouldn't it be lovely to go back to all that?

But how are we supposed to do it? We don't live in the jungle. Children have jungle gyms instead of real trees to climb; plastic swimming pools instead of a clear flowing river; sliding boards instead of mudbanks. The work necessary to keep everybody alive and fed and clothed is done where they can't see it. So far as children can see, it usually has nothing to do with being fed and clothed but only with money. Their parents (often, alas, both of them) tear off somewhere in the morning and come home at night exhausted, having spent their day at who knows what. The newspaper, dinner and TV take up a chunk of what's left of the day. Football, the child learns by observation, is vastly more important than anything else in the father's life. It takes precedence over everything, rivets his father's attention, something he himself has never managed to do. So he, like his father, seeks escape from home and the responsibilities of home.

Is the situation irremediable? I don't think so. Surely we could eliminate some of the frustration and discontent of "civilized" family life if we took our cues from the "uncivilized" people who work almost all the time (and enjoy it) and play very little of the time (without making a complicated chore out of it). Happiness, after all, is a choice. Let your child see that you put heart and soul into the work God has given you to do. Do it for Him--that changes the whole climate of the home. Draw the child into acceptance of responsibility by starting very early. Expect the best. If you expect them to oppose you, to "goof off," to be terrible at two, rude at ten, intractable as teenagers, they won't disappoint you.

It takes longer, of course, to teach a child to do a job than it takes to do it yourself--especially if you have not given him the chance to watch you do it fifty times. It takes sustained attention--the sort of attention a child desperately needs. He can't get too much of that. He needs to be convinced that he is a necessary and very much appreciated member of the family.

What about the sacrifices? We're going to have to make some if we mean to correct our mistakes. Instead of sacrificing everything for money and sports, which most people seem ready to do without a qualm, we may have to sacrifice money and sports for our children. We will certainly have to sacrifice ourselves.

But, of course, that is what being a father or a mother means.

Title: How Much Should Children Work?
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

"I have four boys, ages sixteen months through nine years. When I ask them to empty the dishwasher the oldest often says it's my job. I feel they need to learn to work and help around the house, but why? I'd like a specific reason why he should have to do it. I have nothing against big families, but isn't it possible that older kids have to do a lot of work because Mom keeps having babies and can't handle it all? I often feel guilty. Don't children deserve a childhood?"

Good questions. Let me begin with the last. The idea that a child deserves to play rather than work is a mistake. Play is a natural part of childhood but so is work! It better be. I think I read that we learn half of all we'll ever know in the first two years! Watch a child who is given a piece of real work that he can do. He is even happier than when at play. When I phoned Valerie one Saturday she was cooking up fifteen meals to put in the freezer. I heard her six-year-old putting carrots through the food processor and he was having a ball.

Now the first question. Why should they help? Try something like this: "Because you are a working member of this family, for a start. The only one who isn't is the baby. I'm your mother and one of my most important jobs is to teach you to work. I can cook, you can't, but you can empty the dishwasher, so that's your job. The Bible says if a person won't work he can't eat. I'll cook for you, you clean up for me. Doesn't that make sense?"

Teach children the joy of work by your own example. Let them see that you don't hate it. Give everybody a real responsibility, starting early. Two-year-olds can empty waste baskets, set the table, pick up toys and put them away, put silverware in the drawer (provide a step stool), hang up their own clothes, help fold diapers, sharpen pencils. Time in teaching is very well spent. I believe that words of encouragement should be the only rewards offered for routine work. Giving money or special treats delivers the message that working is beyond the call of duty.

Title: ...with All Your Mind
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

How can parents encourage intellectual pursuits with their children?

A friend who has four boys, the oldest of whom is eight, prints a different hymn and several Scripture verses each week and posts them on a large, stiff cardboard in the breakfast nook. The whole family learns the hymn and verses. She has a chart showing each child's chores. This may not sound very intellectual, but the orderly doing of household chores forms habits of an orderly life, and orderly lives and orderly minds go together. This same mother bought a microphone and small public address system. She has each child stand up at one end of the living room while the others sit in a row like an audience and listen to him recite a verse, a hymn, a poem, or make a short speech. This teaches poise, articulation, the art of speaking up, standing still, keeping the hands relaxed, etc. The same thing could probably be accomplished with a pretend microphone--an ice cream dipper, for example.

Teach your children to memorize! Their ability to quickly pick up anything you repeat often enough is nearly miraculous. One week when I was with my grandchildren for four days, the seven-year-old and the five-year-old learned to repeat the Greek alphabet almost perfectly in that time. I didn't make a federal case out of it, but merely repeated it now and then at odd moments. The five-year-old was quickest to learn it, probably because she thought it was fun while her brother thought it was kind of crazy.

Ask questions at the table which will make children think. For example, God answers prayer--does that mean that God always gives us exactly what we ask for? Help the child to find the answers in Bible stories.

Read aloud to children. My father did this for us as long as we lived at home. He would bring a book to the table and read a paragraph, or share something in the evening as we all sat in the living room reading our own books.

Buy a microscope or a magnifying glass. Study a housefly's leg or the dust from a moth's wing, etc.

Have a globe on which they can find any country they hear named in the news or in conversation.

Teach them to see illustrations of abstract truth in concrete objects. This is how Jesus taught--by the use of parables.

James Boswell, biographer, tells how when Samuel Johnson was still a child in petticoats, his mother put a prayer book into his hands, pointed out the collect for the day, and said, "Sam, you must get this by heart." She went upstairs, leaving him to study it. By the time she had reached the second floor, she heard him following her. "What's the matter?" she said. "I can say it," he replied, and repeated it distinctly, though he could not have read it more than twice.

Was he a genius at that age? Perhaps. But I think it more likely that his intellectual powers owed much to his parents' expectations and patient instruction. Expect little and you'll surely get it.

Title: Teach Your Child to Choose
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Lars and I had breakfast with our friend Barb Tompkins in Tucson. She brought along two-year-old Katy, who behaved very well throughout most of the meal. She interrupted at one point, and pestered her mother, who said quietly, "Katy, you are not in charge here. But would you like to be in charge of Baby Flo?" Baby Flo was a tiny doll she had with her.

I plied Barb with questions about how she rears her children (she has two older boys also). She said she had been helped by Paul Meier's book Happiness Is a Choice and had determined to teach her children how to make good choices.

When Katy was about eighteen months old, Barb decided to teach her to stay within the boundaries of their own property, although there was no fence. She set aside a day for this lesson and walked the boundary with the baby, pointing out where she could and could not go, explaining that to step over the line meant a spanking. Barb then sat down in a lawn chair with a book and told Katy she could play. It was not long, of course, before Katy tested the line, then stepped over. In a normal tone of voice Barb called, "Katy, would you come here, please?" That lesson had been learned long before, so Katy came. "Katy, honey, I see you have chosen a spanking," said the mother, and proceeded to give her one. Then she went over the lesson again, explaining why the spanking had been necessary. It was Katy's choice.

It's important, she says, not to label a child naughty or good, but to point out exactly what he did that was naughty, or what he did that was good. When correction is necessary, Barbara tries always to affirm the child in some way afterwards--"I like the way you picked up your toys this morning."

Barb does not always use spanking for punishment. Sometimes she gives the child "time out," which means she is put into a Port-a-Crib for a little while in order to meditate on her disobedience. If the child climbs out she has "chosen" a spanking. Barb thinks it is very important that the "time out" place not be the child's own bed or bedroom. She doesn't want her children to associate those places with punishment.

During our breakfast together Katy whined for something, and Barb turned to her and said "Katy, you need to make a request." Katy said, "May I please..."

When Katy pulled a pen out of her mother's purse, Barb said, "That is not a choice. But these things are--which would you like to play with?"

Lars and I enjoyed that peaceful breakfast. It was peaceful because Barb was calm, firm, cheerful, and matter-of-fact in her asides to Katy. And Katy was happy, too!

Title: Matthew Henry on Child Training
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

When I was the newly widowed mother of a fourteen-month-old daughter, my mother sent me this quotation from Matthew Henry, an eighteenth-century commentator whom my father had been reading aloud to her that morning in April, 1956:

"Proverbs 19:18, 'Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying.' Parents are here cautioned against a foolish indulgence of their children, that are untoward and viciously inclined, and that discover such an ill temper of mind as is not likely to be cured but by severity.

"1. Do not say that it is all in good time to correct them, no, as soon as ever there appears a corrupt disposition in them, check it immediately, before it takes root and is hardened into a habit. Chasten thy son while there is hope, for perhaps if he be let alone awhile, he will be past hope, and a much greater chastening will not do that which now a less would effect. It is easier plucking up weeds as soon as they spring up, and the bullock that is designed for the yoke should be betimes (before it is too late) accustomed to it....

"2. Do not say that it is a pity to correct them, and, because they cry and beg to be forgiven, you cannot find it in your heart to do it. If the point will be gained without correction, well and good; but it often proves that your forgiving them once, upon a dissembled (pretended) repentance and promise of amendment, does but embolden them to offend again, especially if it be a thing in itself sinful, as lying, swearing, ribaldry, stealing or the like. In such a case put on resolution, and let not thy soul spare for his crying. It is better that he should cry under thy rod than under the sword of the magistrate or, which is more fearful, than under divine vengeance."

The language of the eighteenth century sounds a bit stern. We rarely call our children "untoward and viciously inclined," but we see other people's children--in the supermarket, in church, in our own newly decorated living room--who fit that description exactly. Children need a rod, and they need it early. Not a big stick. My parents found that a thin eighteen-inch switch did the trick so long as it was applied at an early age and immediately following the offense. It is important to note Henry's specifying "a thing sinful in itself." Punishment for such things should be different from correction for childish mistakes--spilled milk (have him clean it up if he's old enough), a forgotten chore (have him do that one plus another he doesn't usually have to do).

One grandmother recently told my daughter a method of persuading children to eat what was put before them. When others had finished and a child was dawdling over his plate, she set a timer for five minutes. If the plate was not cleaned it went into the refrigerator to be presented at the beginning of the next meal. "Worked like a charm," she said.

Title: A Note to Fathers
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Are you depriving your son of his sonship? "Hey! Hold it. What?..." Hebrews 12:7 says, "Can anyone be a son who is not disciplined by his father? If you escape the discipline in which all sons share, you must be bastards and no true sons" (NEB). Do you love your son or daughter enough to say no and hold to it? Would you, by cowardliness that fears to make a rule (perhaps because "nobody else" believes in it) treat your child as though you cared no more about him than you would care about a bastard?

But there are some words of caution. "Fathers, don't over-correct your children, or make it difficult for them to obey the commandment. Bring them up with Christian teaching in Christian discipline" (Ephesians 6:4, PHILLIPS).

This reminds me of the way in which the Lord teaches us. He is so patient with us who are so "slow-of-heart." The Shepherd does not make it hard for the sheep to walk in the right paths. He is always trying to make it easier for them, but they balk, they wander off, they don't listen. Children as well as adults are like sheep. They go astray. Fathers are meant to be shepherds. Don't over correct. "You fathers must not goad your children to resentment, but give them the instruction, and the correction, which belong to a Christian upbringing" (same verse, NEB). It's balance that is needed. Correct them, teach them. Don't go to extremes. Ask God for wisdom. It's too big a job for any ordinary human being. Look at God as a Father. How does He deal with us? Try to follow His pattern.

Title: The Mother of the Lord - Page 1
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

We see her first, that little Mary (may I say little? I think she was a teenager), as a simple village girl in a poor home in an out-of-the-way place. She is bending over her work when suddenly the light changes. She raises her eyes. A dazzling stranger stands before her with a puzzling greeting. He calls her "most favored one" and tells her the Lord is with her. She is stunned. I don't believe her thought is of herself (Who am I? or Am I ever lucky!). Mary is troubled. She discerns at once that this has to do with things infinitely larger than herself, far beyond her understanding. What can it mean?

The angel does not weigh in immediately with the stupendous message he has been sent to deliver. He first comforts her. "Don't be afraid, Mary." Mary. She is not a stranger to him. He is assuring her that he has the right person. He explains what she has been chosen for--to be the mother of the Son of the Most High, a king whose reign will be forever. She has one question now--not about the Most High, not about an eternal king--those are things too high for her--but motherhood is another matter. She understands motherhood, has been looking forward to it with great happiness. Her question is about that: "How can this be? I am still a virgin." He does not really explain. He simply states a mystery: "The power of the Most High will overshadow you." He goes on to tell her of another miraculous pregnancy, that of her old cousin Elisabeth, well past child-bearing age. "God's promises can never fail," he says. They won't fail for you, Mary. Rest assured.

How will the girl respond? She is at once totally at the disposal of her Lord (she sees that the visitor is from Him). Whatever the mystery, whatever the divine reasons for choosing her, whatever the inconveniences, even disasters (broken engagement? stoning to death--the punishment of a fornicator?) which she may be required to face, her answer is unequivocal and instant: "Here I am. I am the Lord's servant; let it be as you have told me." Anything, Lord.

We see her next with Elisabeth, who, by the manner of Mary's greeting and by her own baby's sudden movement in her womb, knows immediately that God has chosen Mary to be the mother of the Lord. They don't sit down over coffee and chatter about the gynecology or the practical logistics or what people are going to say. Mary sings her song of gladness, of thoroughgoing acceptance of the gift, of trust in the Mighty One.

We see her sweating in the cold of the stable, putting her own life on the line, as every mother must do, in order to give life to somebody else. We see her with the tough shepherds, breathlessly telling their story of the glory of the Lord and the singing of the angel choir. Everyone else is astonished (a word which comes from "thunderstruck"), but Mary does not join the excited babble. She is quiet, treasuring all these things, pondering them deep in her heart. We see her with the mysterious travelers from the East bringing their lavish gifts. She says nothing as they kneel before the baby she holds in her arms. We see her on the donkey again, on the roundabout journey to Egypt because her husband has been given a secret message in a dream. She does not balk, she does not argue.

We see her in the temple handing over her baby to old Simeon, to whom the Holy Spirit has revealed the child's amazing destiny: a revelation to the heathen, glory to Israel. But to Mary he gives the far deeper message of suffering, for there is no glory that is not bought by suffering: her son will suffer--he will be a sign which men reject; she, his mother, will suffer, will be pierced to the heart. No question or answer from her is recorded. Again we know only her silence.

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The Mother of the Lord - Page 2

We see nothing of her for twelve years--days and nights, weeks and months, years and years of caring for the infant, the toddler, the little boy, the adolescent. There is no mention of any of that. Mary has no witness, no limelight, no special recognition of any kind. She is not Mother of the Year. Hers is a life lived in the ordinary necessity of their poverty and their humanity, no one paying attention to her attention to Him. Whatever the level of her comprehension as to the nature of this boy, she knows He was given to her. She remembers how. She treasures all this. She ponders things in the silence of her heart. Did she share any of them with Joseph? Could she? Could he receive them? We know next to nothing of the dynamics between them. She was content to be silent before God.

The apostle Paul tells us we are "hidden with Christ in God" (Colossians 3:3, NIV}. There is mystery there, but when I think of the life of Mary, I see some facets of that mystery that I missed when I read the apostle. Hers was a hidden life, a faithful one, a holy one--holy in the context of a humble home in a small village where there was not very much diversion. She knew that the ordinary duties were ordained for her as much as the extraordinary way in which they became her assignment. She struck no poses. She was the mother of a baby, willing to be known simply as his mother for the rest of her life. He was an extraordinary baby, the Eternal Word, but His needs were very ordinary, very daily, to his mother. Did she imagine that she deserved to be the chosen mother? Did she see herself as fully qualified? Surely not. Surely not more than any other woman who finds herself endowed with the awesome gift of a child. It is the most humbling experience of a woman's life, the most revealing of her own helplessness. Yet we know this mother, Mary, the humble virgin from Nazareth, as "Most Highly Exalted."

I am thanking God that unto us a Child was born. I am thanking Him also that there was a pure-hearted woman prepared to receive that Child with all that motherhood would mean of daily trust, daily dependence, daily obedience. I thank Him for her silence. That spirit is not in me at all, not naturally. I want to learn what she had learned so early: the deep guarding in her heart of each event, mulling over its meaning from God, waiting in silence for His word to her.

I want to learn, too, that it is not an extraordinary spirituality that makes one refuse to do ordinary work, but a wish to prove that one is not ordinary--which is a dead giveaway of spiritual conceit. I want to respond in unhesitating obedience as she did: Anything You say, Lord.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Title: Women: The Road Ahead
Book: Keep A Quiet Heart
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

A special issue of a leading news magazine had this title for its theme. There were pictures of women in prison with babies; an inconsolable "crack" baby with a tangle of tubes connected to machines, crying his little heart out; a mother charged with a felony: delivery of drugs to her newborn child; women in politics "sharing real rather than cosmetic power;" a veiled Muslim woman; ten tough-minded women who "create individual rules for success," e.g. a police chief, a bishop, a rock climber, a baseball club owner, a rap artist, a fashion tycoon, an Indian chief, and others. There were single mothers, lesbian mothers, divorced mothers, working (outside the home) mothers. There was a twelve-year-old who fixes supper for her sisters when Mom works late, and there was a man who is a househusband. But there was not one picture of a father and mother and their children. Not one.

"A jockstrap was a parting gift when Marion Howington retired last year from the once all-male post of senior v.p. at J. Walter Thompson.... For Howington, a striking 60, who began climbing the agency's ladder in Chicago in 1967, the key to success was to `be aggressive' and `think like a man.'...

`There's not a woman anywhere who made it in business who is not tough, self-centered, and enormously aggressive.'"

Readers occasionally ask me why I write about horrifying stuff. Well, to precipitate prayer and to remind us that we do not engage in a war against mere flesh and blood. As Ephesians 6 says, "We are up against the unseen power that controls this dark world, and spiritual agents from the headquarters of evil...Take your stand then with truth as your belt, righteousness your breastplate, the Gospel of peace firmly on your feet, salvation as your helmet and in your hand the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God" (PHILLIPS).

There was at least one bright note in that special issue. Sixty-six percent of women aged 18-24 answered yes to the question, "If you had the opportunity, would you be interested in staying at home and raising children?" They are beginning to see that the corporate world is no day at the beach. There was encouragement also in a letter to Ann Landers from a former executive: "It suddenly dawned on me that I had my priorities bollixed up and my children deserve better. I had to admit getting fulfillment from my career was a pipe dream. It may elude me in motherhood as well, but I now know what really matters. After nine years of paying someone to raise my children, I was forced to admit my family is more important to me than anything else. I wish I had known this when my first child was born. I am now thirty-six years old and happy to say we are expecting our third child... This means cutting down on vacations, and our entertaining will be reduced to popcorn and video parties with a few old friends.... `No success in life can compensate for failure at home.'"

I had a letter from one who made it her goal to be like the godly woman of Titus 2:3-5. As usual, when one determines to obey the Lord "the enemy was there causing me to feel like my whole world is on a roller-coaster, that my family was not important, that I am worthless, lazy, because I am a homemaker. I was so tired sometimes I could barely get meals on the table. I heard remarks like, `Oh, you aren't working at all? How do you manage to live on one income? It's hard on your husband! What do you do all day? You must be bored!'

"As my husband and I listened to your program we reaffirmed the goals we had set and committed them to the Lord once more...Pray for me to be strong and of good courage and to remain faithful, with an attitude of submission, a true handmaid of the Lord."

Women need to be prayed for. They need all the encouragement they can get. Sadly, it is not always forthcoming even from other Christians. I saw a lovely girl in the market the other day with the sweetest of sweet baby girls in her grocery cart. I asked about the baby--five months old, her only child so far. "Are you able to stay home to care for her?" "Oh yes! Oh, I can't even imagine putting her in day care." I gave her my blessing. Perhaps even a brief word from a stranger can make a difference to a young mother.

Prayer lays hold of God's plan and becomes the link between His will and its accomplishment on earth. Things happen which would not happen without prayer. Let's not forget that. Amazing things happen, and we are given the privilege of being the channels of the Holy Spirit's prayer. As we pray against abortion and pornography and homosexuality and divorce and drugs and for the strengthening of homes and families, we often feel helpless and hopeless until we remember, "We do not know how to pray worthily as sons of God, but his Spirit within us is actually praying for us in those agonizing longings which never find words" (Romans 8:26, PHILLIPS).

Title: Hope Is a Fixed Anchor - Page 1
Book: All That Was Ever Ours
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

My friend Miriam is herself a walking miracle, having recovered more than twenty years ago from cancer. Her case was so serious that the doctors told her husband not to expect her home from the hospital. The cure was so miraculous that one doctor described it this way: "If you parked your car on a hill and the brakes let go, would you expect it to roll to the top of the hill? That's how incredible this is. This cancer was supposed to travel in one direction and kill her. It went the opposite way and quit."

Miriam was the only one who could talk like a Dutch uncle to my husband when he had cancer. He would listen to her when he did not want to hear a word out of the rest of us. His hope, of course, was that he would be cured as she had been.

The more hopeless my husband's case appeared to be, the more faithfully Miriam called to remind me, "Our hope, Elisabeth, is not in radiation or surgery or chemotherapy. Our hope is not in the doctors. Our hope is in God."

One night when I went to bed I found a card on my pillow. My daughter Valerie, still a teenager, had made it, intertwining the letters with tiny colored flowers. It said HOPE IN THE LORD. With all my heart I did that. With all my heart I prayed. It has been eight years now since Add died, and the card is before me tonight as I write. I am still hoping--but for what?

Christian hope is a different sort of thing from other kinds. The Greek word used in the New Testament for hope was one which in classical literature could mean expectation of good or bad, but was used by Christians to mean that in which one confides, or to which one flees for refuge. The real essence of the word is trust.

When Lazarus died, the hopes of his two loving sisters, Mary and Martha, were dashed. Jesus, hearing the news, did not hurry to the house but stayed where he was for two more days. When he finally got to Bethany both sisters greeted him with the same words: "If only you had been here, Lord!" Martha remembered the fact of the resurrection. She knew Lazarus would rise again on the last day, but that wasn't really good enough. She wanted her brother now, and her brother was dead. The terrible thing was that he might have been alive if only Jesus had been there. Jesus said to her, "I myself am the resurrection."

This is our hope. It is a living thing. It is, in fact, Christ himself. It is also something to live by. When our hopes for healing or success or the solution to a problem or freedom from financial distress seem to come to nothing, we feel just as Martha did. Jesus might have done something about it but he didn't. We lie awake thinking about all the "if onlys.'' We wonder if it is somehow our fault that the thing didn't work. We doubt whether prayer is of any use after all. Is God up there? Is he listening? Does he care?

The Lord might very well have healed my husband's disease as wonderfully as he healed Miriam's. The simple fact is that he didn't.

HOPE IN THE LORD, says the little card. How am I to do that now? By placing my confidence in the God who promises faithfulness. He has far better things up his sleeve than we imagine. Mary and Martha had envisioned his coming and raising a sick man from his bed. He came too late. Unfortunately Lazarus was dead--so dead, Martha pointed out, that decomposition would have set in. It had not crossed their minds that they were about to see an even more astonishing thing than the one they had hoped for--a swaddled corpse answering the Master's call and walking, bound and muffled, out of the tomb.

The only difference I see in the Lazarus story and our twentieth-century stories of disappointed hopes is the matter of time. Jesus did arrive at Mary and Martha's in a matter of a couple of days, and in perhaps an hour or so after his arrival he raised Lazarus. It looks very quick and easy as we read the story, but of course the two sisters experienced all that those who love a sick person experience, and all the agony of bereavement. Sorrow ran its course. They suffered what humans always suffer, albeit for a very short time.

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Hope Is a Fixed Anchor - Page 2

The truth of the story is that God knew what was happening. Nothing was separating the grieving women from his love. He heard their prayers, counted their tears, held his peace. But he was faithful, and he was at work. He had a grand miracle in mind. The Jews who saw Jesus weep were baffled, and said just what we would have said: "Could he not have kept this man from dying if he could open that blind man's eyes?"

God's timing of the events of our world is engineered from the eternal silence. One time he heals a sick man, such as the paralytic who was lowered through a roof. Another time he lets a sick man die. Miriam's cancer receded. Add's cancer grew. Was God paying attention in the one case but not in the other? So it seemed to Mary and Martha at first. Their prayers for healing were not answered. Jesus did not come. Lazarus died. But what a glorious ending to their story! And ours? What about ours?

"Did I not tell you," Jesus asked, "that if you believed, you would see the wonder of what God can do?" Here is the clue to the lesson: It is faith he is looking for, a quiet confidence that whatever it is he is up to, it will be a wonderful thing, never mind whether it is what we have been asking for.

The usual notion of hope is a particular outcome: physical healing, for example. The Christian notion, on the other hand, is a manner of life. I rest the full weight of my hopes on Christ himself, who not only raised the dead but was himself raised, and says to me in the face of all deaths, "I myself am the resurrection." The duration of my suffering may be longer than that of Lazarus's sisters, but if I believe, trust, flee to God for refuge, I am safe even in my sorrow, I am held by the confidence of God's utter trustworthiness. He is at work, producing miracles I haven't imagined. I must wait for them. The Book of the Revelation describes some of them. The intricacies of his sovereign will and the pace at which he effects it ("deliberate speed, majestic instancy") are beyond me now, but I am sure his plan is in operation.

HOPE IN THE LORD. Doctors, chemotherapy, surgery, radiation might very well have been a part of God's plan, methods he might have used to answer our prayers for a complete cure for my husband. They evidently were not. But that was not where our hopes really lay. They lay then, as they lie now, on the faithfulness of the One who died for us and rose again.

What God promised to Abraham ("Surely blessing I will bless thee") he promises to us. We have two "utterly immutable things, the word of God and the oath of God, who cannot lie," according to the Book of Hebrews. Therefore we who are refugees from this dying world have a source of strength. We can grasp "the hope he holds out to us. This hope we hold as the utterly reliable anchor for our souls, fixed in the innermost shrine of Heaven, where Jesus has already entered on our behalf" (6:19, 20 PHILLIPS).

I don't know, when I'm asking for something here on earth, what is going on in the innermost shrine of Heaven (I like to think about it, though). I am sure of one thing: it is good. Because Jesus is there. Jesus loves me. Jesus has gone into that shrine on my behalf. The hope we have is a living hope, an unassailable one. We wait for it, in faith and patience. Christ is the resurrection and the life. No wonder Easter is the greatest of Christian feast days! No wonder Christians sing!

The powers of death have done their worst,
But Christ their legions hath dispersed:
Let shout of holy joy outburst.
Alleluia!

The three sad days are quickly sped,
He rises glorious from the dead;
All glory to our risen Head!
Alleluia!

Lord! By the stripes which wounded thee,
From death's dread sting thy servants free,
That we may live and sing to thee.
Alleluia!

Latin 1695--Episcopal Hymnal

Title: But I Don't Feel Called - Page 1
Book: All That Was Ever Ours
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

A seminary student stopped me a few days ago to ask the question that troubles many young people today. It is not new. I struggled with it when I was a student, as I suppose people have for many centuries. "How can I tell if God is calling me? I don't really feel called."

Usually the question refers to a life's work. Nobody seems to stew very much about whether God is calling them to run down to the grocery store or take in a movie. We need groceries. We like movies. If the refrigerator is empty or there's a good movie in town, we jump into the car and go. Even Christians do this. Spiritual "giants" do it, I guess. They don't even pray about it. But this matter of the mission field. Oh, God, do you want me there? Shall I risk everything and launch out to some third world backwater, some waterless desert, some dreadful place where there are starving children, refugees, Marxists, dictators? Are you asking me to drag my wife, my children, to a place like that?

The call of God to Saul of Tarsus was dramatic--he was blinded, knocked flat, and clearly spoken to. God got his attention. But later in Antioch the Holy Spirit spoke to certain prophets and teachers. "Set apart Barnabas and Saul for me, to do the work to which I have called them." That was good enough. Barnabas and Saul obeyed the divine call, even though it came through other men.

It was during the Mass of the Feast of St. Matthias, in a chapel in the midst of a great, silent forest, that Francis of Assisi heard the call of God. It was not through an angel or a disembodied voice from beyond, but through the reading of the Gospel for that day: "Go and preach the message, 'The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand!' ...Freely you have received, freely give." When the young man heard the words read by the priest, he felt that God had finally illumined his path. He did not, however, trust his feelings. He asked the priest to explain the passage. The priest said that Christ's disciples were to preach repentance everywhere, to take nothing with them, and to trust God alone to supply their needs.

Francis thrilled with happiness at this revelation and exclaimed enthusiastically: "That is what I want! That is what I seek! That is what I long to do with all my heart!" On the instant, he threw away his staff, took off his shoes, and laid aside his cloak, keeping only a tunic; replaced his leather belt with a cord, and made himself a rough garment, so poor and so badly cut that it could inspire envy in no man.

Omer Englebert
St. Francis of Assisi

There are at least six lessons in this short story:

1. The man wanted God's direction.
2. He went to church, where he could hear godly preaching.
3. He listened to the Word of God.
4. He asked for help from one who was his spiritual superior.
5. He accepted the help.
6. He acted at once.

It is significant that he found in the words of the Lord the answer to a deep longing in his heart.

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But I Don't Feel Called - Page 2

In C. S. Lewis's Preface to Paradise Lost, he describes Aeneas' unfaltering search for the "abiding city," his willingness to pay the terrible price to reach it at last, even though he casts a wistful side-glance at those not called as he is. "This is the very portrait of a vocation: a thing that calls or beckons, that calls inexorably, yet you must strain your ears to catch the voice, that insists on being sought, yet refuses to be found." Then there were the Trojan women who had heard the call, yet refused to follow all the way, and wept on the Sicilian shore. "To follow the vocation does not mean happiness," Lewis writes, "but once it has been heard, there is no happiness for those who do not follow."

Yes. My heart says yes to that. What agonies I suffered as a young woman, straining my ears to catch the voice, full of fear that I would miss it, yet longing to hear it, longing to be told what to do, in order that I might do it. That desire is a pure one. Most of our desires are tainted at least a little, but the desire to do the will of God surely is our highest. Is it reasonable to think that God would not finally reveal his will to us? Is it (we must also ask) reasonable not to use our powers of reason, given to us by him? Does it make more sense to go to the grocery store because groceries are needed than to go to foreign lands because workers are needed? If we deny the simple logic of going where the need is most desperate, we may, like the Trojan women, spend the rest of our lives suspended

Twixt miserable longing for present land
And the far realms that call by the fates' command.
Aeneid, V, 656

While Virgil wrote of mythical heroes, his lines echo the more ancient lines of the Psalms which are rich with assurances of God's faithful guidance of those who honestly desire it, and of the lasting rewards of obedience.

Happy the men whose refuge is in thee,
whose hearts are set on the pilgrim ways!
The Lord will hold back no good thing
from those whose life is blameless.
84:5, 11 NEB

Very near is the Lord to those who call to him, in singleness of heart.
He fulfills their desire if only they fear him."
145:18, 19 NEB

It is the sixth lesson from the St. Francis story that is most often overlooked. Obedience is action. Often we do not have any instant light on the particular question we've been asking God, but he has shown us something we ought to do. Whatever it is, however unrelated it may seem to the "big" decision, do it. Do it at once. We thus put ourselves in the path of God's will. A single step taken, if we have his Word as a lamp for our feet, throws sufficient light for the next step. Following the Shepherd we learn, like sheep, to know his voice. We will become acquainted with his call and will not follow a stranger's.

Title: The Comfort of Discipline - Page 1
Book: All That Was Ever Ours
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Too many parents today hate their children. We saw it a couple of weeks ago, and in church at that. Lars and I attended a very small church where there was a very large number of small children. The creaking of pews, rustling of books and papers, dropping of crayons and toys and offering-plate nickels, talking, crying, and traipsing up and down the aisles for trips to the rest room all made it quite impossible to listen to the sermon. One child who was sitting with his father in front of us was passed forward over the back of the pew to his mother. Immediately he wanted daddy. Back over the pew again, headfirst into his father's lap. In a few minutes, up to mommy. So it went.

A week later we went to a much larger church with over a hundred children present. They were quiet. We were amazed, and later questioned a couple who were members there. ''We believe Christian parents should control their children," they said simply. Where did they get that idea, we wanted to know. Well, from the Bible. The Book of Proverbs speaks repeatedly of the use of the rod. One reference is in chapter 13: "A father who spares the rod hates his son, but one who loves him keeps him in order." The implication is clear: The keeping of order, where children are concerned, sometimes requires the use of the rod.

In the small church, it seemed, they hated their children. In the big one they loved them. They were taught (from the pulpit, the couple told us) to love them according to the Bible's definition of love: Keep them in order.

My dear friend Mari, the wife of a Welsh shepherd, writes often about lessons she learns from watching sheep. In a letter to me she described a very hard winter:

All the sheep were brought down from the mountain early, about one thousand breeding ewes. Two hundred are wintering in a lowland farm while the others are hand-fed here with hay and maize. The grass is covered with snow...When John wants to move sheep or cows from one pasture to another it is a hopeless job when the lambs or calves take to running their own way. They will be followed invariably by their mothers, who will go headlong after their offspring, blindly, in their care for them. What chaos! If only the parents would stay where they were, holding their ground, defending their standpoint, the little ones would eventually return to them and would willingly be led together to the right place.

Although our men are fighting hard against nature's elements these days, even that's easier than fighting unchanged, selfish human nature. I wonder: are the sheep and cows a true picture of what's happening in the world? Road men refuse to grit and salt the snow-covered roads; dustmen, gravediggers, and others are pressing for more money. It is so true that money is the source of all evils. If it isn't the capitalists it's the workers. This has been true in every generation. But now parents are leaning backwards to please their children, afraid of displeasing them. Teachers live in fear of their pupils at school, bosses are afraid of the workers, the government of trade unions. It's anarchy.

Anarchy is the complete absence of order and authority. It's what lambs and calves like. It's what people like too--for themselves. (It's another matter when the neighbors scorn order and authority.) A Houston high school principal described the new educational system as a "cross-graded, multi-ethnic, individualized, open-ended learning program with the main objective being to learn respect for the uniqueness of a person." Maybe that's what the parents in the little church were aiming for. It was open-ended, all right, and each unique little individual was doing his or her not particularly unique thing. The result was chaos, if not downright anarchy. A short lesson, emphasized in the vestibule with a narrow "board of education," i.e., a rod, might have done wonders to teach small individuals respect for the persons around them, who were there not to provide an audience for their antics but to worship.

The trouble starts, of course, not when the kids tumble out of the station wagon and charge into church. It starts at home, before they can walk, with parents who believe that love means giving them what they want and letting them do what they choose. They don't like ordinary food. They blow it out when they're babies and throw it on the floor or down the garbage grinder later on. They scream for other foods, and their screams are rewarded. If screams don't do the trick, tantrums will, especially in public. (Watch them around the gumball machine in any supermarket. The initial "No" is quickly reversed.) A child who doesn't throw tantrums can use another weapon--he can go into a sulk. His parents pity him and this teaches him to pity himself. When things don't go his way he knows that he has a right to resentment. The spiritual implications in later life of this kind of early training are disastrous: ''If God loves me he will give me what I want. If he does not give me what I want he does not love me." That isn't what the Bible teaches, of course, but it's what a child may conclude if his parents operate this way.

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The Comfort of Discipline - Page 2

Training children, like corralling calves and lambs, is a great deal of trouble. It takes sacrifice. It's much easier to let them go. But you can't do that if you care about them. Only the one who cares about them will go to the trouble of bringing them under control. "The good shepherd gives his life for the sheep." The sheep don't take kindly to the crook he uses, to the dogs who herd them where they don't want to go, or to the disinfectant baths they are plunged into. It is the shepherd's sole purpose to take care of them, to see to their well-being according to his wisdom, not according to their whims.

My parents loved us enough to make us wear galoshes (those awful things with black metal clasps) when "nobody else had to wear them"; to see to it that we got five meals a day (three for the body and two for the soul, the latter including hymns, Bible reading, and prayer); to say no to things like candy or coming in when we felt like it, or skipping piano lessons and church; to give us chores to do around the house and to make it clear that if we didn't do them they wouldn't get done; to give us an allowance even during the Depression and teach us that some of it belonged to God; to stick by what they had said--line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little. They drew lines. We knew where they were drawn. They didn't move them. They knew more about life than we did, and had a fairly clear picture of what was good for us. Like other kids we complained that they didn't love us or they would do so-and-so. "When you have children of your own," Mother would often say, "you can let them do that if you want to." She knew we wouldn't want to--if we loved them.

We've got it backwards--love says don't restrain, hate says restrain. God puts it the other way: "The Lord disciplines him whom he loves, and chastises every son whom he receives. . . . If you are left without discipline . . . then you are illegitimate children and not sons" (Hebrews 12:6, 8 RSV). "When we fall under the Lord's judgment, he is disciplining us, to save us from being condemned with the rest of the world" (1 Corinthians 11:32 NEB).

It is not difficult for adults to see what's wrong with other parents and other people's children. But how blind we are in our childish reactions to the dealings of a kind Heavenly Father! The motive for discipline is love. Its purpose is salvation. The people of Israel muttered treason against him and said, the Lord hated us that he brought us out of Egypt" (Deuteronomy 1:27 NEB). Freed from slavery, they missed onions. Led by the Lord of Hosts himself with his angels and a pillar of cloud and fire, they were terrified of the Amorites. "You saw how the Lord your God carried you all the way to this place as a father carries his son. In spite of this you did not trust the Lord your God" (verse 32).

Discipline or "chastening" can be a painful thing for us poor mortals. We think only of the "rod" itself--the hard experience, the prayer that was answered with a No, the shattered hope, the misunderstanding, the blow to pride--forgetting the loving Hand that administers the lesson and the Savior who like a shepherd leads us. We forget how much we need his tender care.

As parents, let us faithfully remember that the keeping of order sometimes requires the use of the rod. As children of the Father and sheep of his pasture, let us remember humbly to accept his discipline, praying:

We are Thine, do Thou befriend us, be the Guardian of our way;
Keep Thy flock, from sin defend us, seek us when we go astray.

Title: Truth Telling - Page 1
Book: All That Was Ever Ours
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

I built a house in New Hampshire a few years ago. The bulldozing for the foundation had barely begun when a shiny car drove up and out stepped a man dressed in very clean work clothes. He took off his hard hat and introduced himself as "the best gosh-darn well-driller in the whole North Country." I needed a well, and he drilled it and did a good job. After that he would drop by whenever he had work in the neighborhood. The coffee I gave him was a small price to pay to hear him talk. He held opinions about everything and was afraid of nothing and nobody. And he certainly knew how to tell a story. I listened enthralled. He had his own way of running a business ("We need your business--our business is going in the hole" was his motto, painted on the side of his drilling rigs) and his own code of ethics, both of which worked fine for him.

"I've worked for people, and I'm not lying to you," he said one day. "You can call my wife right up and she'll go over the checkbook, and I'll bet you over the last five years there's been fifteen people I've gone and drilled a well for and give 'em two percent off if they pay in ten days. Well, like the money'd be coming from the bank or something and it might go thirty days and the people were honest, they wouldn't take their two percent and I'd send it back. Now how many guys will send back money once they get it? Like, it'd be a two-thousand-dollar job and that'd be, what, forty dollars? Yeah. You can ask my wife and she'll show you the checkbook. Because I just don't do things that way, I mean that, life's too short.

"Now let's say you're in business. You're doin' something so let's say I go and say, 'Well, heck, don't hire Betty Elliot, she don't know what she's doin'.' Well, all right, they may go and hire you anyway and you may do the best job in the world. Now isn't that gonna make me look stupid? Sometimes I go to look at a job and a guy'll say to me he can get somebody else to drill his well for six dollars a foot when I'm asking seven. I'll say to him, 'You know I didn't come up here to give you an education about my competition, I never give 'em a thought. All I know is I know what I'm doin' and I've got something to show for it. If you need this well drilled I can drill it. As far as I'm concerned half my competition stinks, but if you want to ask me to come here to see you about a well I'm not comin' here to run down my competition because the idea of it is you might hire one of my competitors and he might do a wonderful job and then you can say, "Well, I don't know what on earth he was shootin' off his mouth about." ' I can't see that kind of business, can you? Life's too short.

"But the way I look at life is that no matter who it is--so long as they're somewheres near square--everybody's gotta get a living. I mean I'm not planning to drill all the wells, but so what if I don't? I do what I can, and I do it good. The other guy's gotta eat, he's got a wife and kids, too, so what's the difference?

"I never charge anything for setting up the rig, either. A lot of guys, they want three hundred dollars for setting up and they want their money the day they're done drillin', but then if you got to put the pump in and there's something wrong, well, what're you gonna do? You've had it, and you've got to stop payment on a check, you gotta work fast. But I don't do things that way. I'm not interested in it. But you've gotta go out there and do something and life is short. If you gotta be crooked on everything you do and you can't look people in the face, you know full well they think you're a crook and it's a pretty short world to be doin' that all the time, I would say."

It is a short world, and it doesn't take more brains than most of us have to figure out that honesty is a good thing if it helps business and keeps us from looking too stupid. It's the best policy, obviously, but it isn't usually much more than that. It's one of those things, along with eating and dieting, taxation, religion, and loving your neighbor, that we all feel can be carried too far. Too far, that is, if the matter concerns ourselves.

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Truth Telling - Page 2

"The people in your organization are certainly the most honest bunch I've ever seen," a woman said to a friend of mine.

"Honest? How do you mean?"

"Well, honest about each other."

We can stand a lot of honesty that concerns other people, and we jump to the defense of protesters so long as they're protesting things for which we're not directly responsible. But we are marvelously uncritical and generous when it comes right down to the nitty-gritty of our private lives. You won't catch us carrying things to extremes there.

People do overeat, but it hasn't been my problem. Dieting, on the other hand, can be carried too far and that piece of pie does look delicious. As for religion, a good thing, of course--an excellent thing if you don't get too much of it at once. And I'm willing to pay my taxes. I understand that the country can't run without them, but this bill, now. . . . Loving my neighbor? I do. But how far do you think a person ought to be expected to go anyhow?

At a camp where my husband worked for several summers the counselors had to grade each camper on certain character traits. Was he, for example, exceptionally, moderately, or fairly honest?

A man in Elmhurst, Illinois, found two Brinks money bags containing $183,000. He threw them, unopened, into the trunk of his car and for four days wondered what to do with them. (He mentioned later that he did not even think to tell his wife. I think she would have known what to do.)

"I didn't know it was money," he told newsmen. "I thought it might be mail. I forgot about them until I began reading stories in the paper. Then I realized what I had. I had always daydreamed about finding a lot of money, but it became a reality and things changed. I had to call."

Asked why he didn't break the seals on the bags he said, "You don't break seals on people's parcels. That would muddle things considerably. I'm an honest man within reasonable limits."

The Brinks company awarded him $18,000 for his honesty, which raises the question of whether his was, in fact, a "reasonable" honesty, for if he had been dishonest he might possibly have succeeded in keeping the $183,000 for himself, along with, at the very least, some sleepless nights.

It is a short world, and if this is the only world, we can play it like a game--fair and somewhere near square. That ought to be good enough, and a man ought to be allowed to get what he's willing to pay for.

But what about gaining the whole world and losing your own soul? Those words apply to another world altogether, the long one, where the rules are not the same at all, where things like poverty and meekness and sorrow and hunger and purity of heart lead to happiness. Then, too, the Rule Book has things about living "honestly in all things," "providing for honest things, not only in the sight of the Lord, but also in the sight of men," and (who can stand up to this one?) about the Lord's desiring "truth in the inward parts." It is what I would have to call an unreasonable honesty, beyond any of us, and we have to call out, "Lord' save me!" And that is what he does.

* * *

Recently I met a friend for lunch whom I had not seen for twenty years. As I approached the restaurant I was thinking the usual thoughts: Will she have changed much? Will I recognize her? Will we be able to find things to talk about?

I saw her as soon as I got there, and I knew that if I said, "Why, Helen, you haven't changed a bit! " it would be a bald lie. The truth was that Helen was beautiful now. She had never been a beauty in college. The years and her experiences (some of them of a kind of suffering I knew nothing about) had given her a deep womanliness, a kind of tender strength. Her eyes glowed, there was passion about her mouth, and the lines of her face revealed a strength of character she could not have had when she was a college student. So, instead of the usual pleasantries, I simply started with the truth. I told her what I saw in her face. Of course she was taken aback, but I am sure that this unorthodox beginning did not render further conversation more difficult. We were able to get down to the real things in life, things that matter and that had changed us both, rather than spending an hour on the ages of our children, their mates and careers, and our latest diets and recipes.

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Truth Telling - Page 3

We all know that the truth often hurts. We use this cliche as a defense for having hurt someone, and sometimes it is indeed necessary to tell this kind of truth. But there is truth which does not hurt--truth which encourages and surprises with delight and gratitude. What if a teacher sees that a colleague of hers has succeeded in breaking down the resistance of a pupil who has been the despair of the other teachers, the talk of the faculty lunchroom? The change in the student is noticed, a sigh of relief is heaved, but who goes to the teacher herself and says, "Thanks! You've done what the rest of us couldn't do!" How many are free enough from themselves to recognize the worth of others and to speak of it honestly?

A lady who is a good many years older than I tells me often of the aunt who was a mother to her throughout her childhood. "Auntie'' impressed her with the need to tell the truth--the welcome kind--and she would add emphatically, "Tell them now." My friend calls me on the telephone--sometimes to thank me for a note or a little gift, sometimes to tell me what my friendship means to her.

"You remember what Auntie always said," she will say, ''so, I'm telling you now." There would be no way for me to exaggerate how she has cheered and helped me.

I was talking with a lady who had been a missionary for forty years, and I noticed that she had exceptionally lovely hands. "Has anyone ever told you your hands are beautiful?'' I asked. The dear soul was so flustered one might have thought I had committed an indecency. She looked at her hands in amazement.

"Why . . . why no. I don't think anyone ever has!'' But she saw that I meant it, and she had the grace to hear the truth. She said thank you.

"Tell it like it is," is the watchword today. But suppose it's lovely? Suppose it's actually beautiful? C. S. Lewis said that the most fatal of all nonconductors is embarrassment. It seems to me that life is all too short to let embarrassment deprive us and our friends of the pleasure of telling the happy truth. Suppose the boy who does your lawn does it fast, trims it perfectly, and takes care of the tools? Suppose the clerk who waits on you happens to be the most gracious one you've ever encountered? Suppose even that your husband--when you stop for once to look at him, to think about him as a person and as a man--seems to you to be the best man you know?

Tell them.

Tell them now.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture: Psalm 139:8
The Path of Lonliness

In A Hospital Waiting Room - Page 1

I have been a patient in a hospital only once, when I was six years old and had my tonsils out. But during my husband's last illness I saw what that life was like. If you are in terrible pain or have broken an arm or leg, the huge gray cluster of buildings can look like heaven, for inside are people who can do wonderful things to help. For a woman about to have a baby the hospital is full of anticipation and happiness. But for those who do not know what their disease may be, or who have been told that it is, finally, just what they most dreaded, the experience of going to the hospital can be an overpowering one of terror and horror and helplessness.

If one arrives in such a state, who can describe the effect of walking through the big glass doors into the bustling lobby of a city hospital where some rush around with many things to do and some wait? Nurses, doctors, visitors, and ambulance drivers come and go. Others sit silently, some in wheelchairs (the ever-patient patients), waiting for someone, waiting to be taken somewhere, waiting for some dreaded or hoped-for word.

As we came through the doors a young man came toward us, using a new pair of crutches with the one leg left to him. A middle-aged couple wheeled a grown-up retarded son toward a waiting taxi. A stretcher with a blanketed form on it was brought in from a police ambulance. A very tall black youth carried two potted plants done up in rustling green paper.

People stood at the reception desk waiting to ask where to find a patient or a department or a doctor. The harried receptionist hardly looked at the questioners, giving out her short, practiced replies as though she had been affronted. We joined the line, got directions for the radiation department, and took the elevator to the fifth floor, where we were told to follow the blue painted line on the hall floor. A boy who looked too young to be an orderly was pushing a wheelchair down the hall. A gray-haired lady sat in the chair weeping. Another boy raced around the corner, clipped the young orderly on the shoulder, and the two exchanged some unintelligible banter behind the weeping woman's back.

We found the waiting room for the radiation department. It was nearly full, but we hung up our coats and found places to sit. I was in that state of exquisite sensitivity described so well in the Psalms in words such as these: "I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax, it is melted within my breast; my strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue cleaves to my jaws; thou dost lay me in the dust of the earth." Water, wax, broken pots, dust. Not much to fortify us there. "Lord, have mercy on us," I said (not aloud), "Christ, have mercy on us."

It was a winter afternoon and grew dark early. The only window in the room looked out on a gray brick wall.

A man with a large swelling on his neck, outlined in red ink, came in and put on his coat and left, his treatment over for that day. Then a little boy arrived with his mother. He had a red square with an X in it painted on each temple. Christ, have mercy on us. How can we endure?

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In A Hospital Waiting Room - Page 2

The mother and son took off their coats, the mother sat down, but the boy was rambunctious and found things to do--messing up magazines, tipping over an ashtray, blowing out the match as his mother tried to light a cigarette.

Husbands and wives sat talking quietly and, I noticed, always kindly. One couple caught my attention particularly. They were shabbily dressed, and the man was badly crippled. It was the wife, however, who was there for radiation. I watched them talk to each other. They had courage, and they were quite evidently in love. Those who had been there before had become a fellowship. They waved, smiled, greeted each other. How could they? How did they manage to carry on in so normal a fashion?

Almost imperceptibly the picture began to take on a new color for me. An older lady in a pale green uniform came into the room, smiled at all of us, and asked if anyone would like coffee or ginger ale. I will always remember what that smile did for me, and the gracious, simple way in which she handed the beverages.

The nurse who came to call the patients for their treatments had a smile, too, and a cheerful voice (but not the forced cheerfulness of which nurses are so often accused). As she walked out of the waiting room with a patient, she put her arm around him. That touch (I wonder if she will ever know this?) was redemptive.

We had a long wait and I tried to read, but I kept looking up and watching what was going on in that crowded little room. The lady with the coffee I saw as our hostess, and I thought of the word graciousness, the highest compliment paid to a hostess. What she does comes out of what she is herself, but she forgets herself completely. Her only thought is the comfort and ease of her guests. This lady was, I suppose, a volunteer. She gave herself and her time and expected nothing in return, but she smiled and brought to that dark place an unexpected shining.

An old man waiting for his treatment called the rambunctious little boy over and began to do tricks with pennies for him. Soon the mother was smiling, others were watching as the boy's face lit up with surprise and delight.

It came to me then that what made that room shine was the action of grace. "If I make my bed in hell," wrote the psalmist, "behold, Thou art there." That hospital had seemed to me the vestibule of hell an hour earlier. But behold, God was there--in the lady in green, in the nurse who by her touch brought comfort and courage, in the couple whose love showed through, in the man doing tricks.

Grace is a marvelous but elusive word. "Unmerited favor" is the definition most of us know. It means self-giving, too, and springs from the person's own being without condition or consideration of whether the object is deserving. Grace may be unnoticed. But there are usually some who will notice. "Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound," wrote St. Paul. And those who are in a desperation of suffering will notice it, will notice even its lightest touch, and will hold it a precious, an incalculably valuable thing.

Title: Boredom - Page 1
Book: All That Was Ever Ours
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

In the book A Sort of Life Graham Greene tells how he has struggled, ever since he was very young, to fend off boredom. He once had a dentist extract ("but with ether") a perfectly good tooth for no better reason than that he was bored and this seemed like an interesting diversion. He tried several times to commit suicide and six times played Russian roulette, using a revolver with six chambers--a dangerous game, but not, heaven help us, boring.

Dorothy Parker was famous for her wit before she was thirty. She had great charm, a fine education, a fascinating kind of beauty, and many interesting friends. But she was utterly bored. She, too, thought of suicide, and was quoted in John Keats' book You Might As Well Live as saying:

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Her life story seemed to me the exact illustration of acedia, or accidie, which is an old word for boredom, but a word that includes depression, sloth, irritability, lazy languor, and bitterness. "This rotten sin," wrote Chaucer, "maketh a man heavy, wrathful and raw." Poor Miss Parker had been so irritable and raw with people--she had treated even her friends unspeakably badly--that she spent her last years alone in a hotel in New York, her pitiful, neglected dogs and her liquor bottles almost her only companions.

Gertrude Behanna says, on her record, "God Isn't Dead," that she has come to believe that it is a real sin to bore people. When we stop to think about it, most of us would readily agree. But how many of us have thought of boredom itself, so long as it affects only ourselves, as a sin? The Bible speaks of joy as a Christian virtue. It is one of the fruits of the Spirit, and often we find that it characterizes the people of God whose stories we read in the Bible. The worship of God in the Old Testament was accompanied by the most hilarious demonstrations of gladness--dancing, shouting, and music-making. (This was to me one of the most impressive features of life in modern Israel when I visited there.)

Joy is not a word we use much nowadays. We think of it poetically as the opposite of sorrow, another word that does not often come into conversation. Both words represent experiences one does not normally have every day.

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Title: Boredom - Page 2

But I think we are mistaken. I think joy is meant to be an everyday experience, and as such it is the exact opposite of boredom, which seems to be the everyday experience (am I being overly pessimistic?) of most Americans. I get the impression that everybody is always hoping for a chance to get away from it all, relax, unwind, get out of these four walls, find somewhere, somehow, some action or excitement. Advertising, of course, has done a splendid job of creating in us greed for things we would never have thought of wanting, and thereby convincing us that whatever we have is intolerably boring. Attributing human wants to animals, we easily swallow the TV commercials that tell us that Morris the cat doesn't want tuna fish every day, he wants eight different flavors.

"Godliness with contentment is great gain.'' Those words were written a long time ago to a young man by an older man who had experienced almost the gamut of human suffering, including being chained day and night to a prison guard. Contentment is another word which has fallen into disuse. We think of it, perhaps, in connection with cows--the best milk comes from contented ones, doesn't it?--but it doesn't take much to content a cow. Peace and fodder are probably all it asks. We are not cows. What does it take to content us? How could Paul, after what he had been through, write as he did to Timothy?

C. S. Lewis, one of the most godly and civilized men I have ever heard of, exemplified what Paul was getting at. Lewis wrote that he was never bored by routine. In fact, he said, he liked it. He had what his anthologist Clyde S. Kilby called "a mind awake." Why should routine spoil it? Pictures of him show a joyful man. But he was not a man unacquainted with poverty, hard work, and suffering any more than Paul was. He knew them, but he knew, too, what lay beyond. "All joy," he wrote to a friend, "(as distinct from mere pleasure, still more amusement) emphasizes our pilgrim status; always reminds, beckons, awakens desire. Our best havings are wantings."

Those wantings lie in the deepest places of our being, and they are for the kind of joy that, according to Lewis, is "the serious business of heaven." So we waste our time, our money, and our energies when we pursue so frantically the pleasures which we hope will bring us relief from boredom. We end up bored with everything and everybody. Work which can be joyful if accepted as a part of the eternal order and a means to serve, becomes only drudgery. Our pettiest difficulties, not to mention our big ones, are cause for nothing but complaint and self-pity. All circumstances not deliberately arranged by us look like obstacles to be rid of. We consume much and produce little; we get depressed, and depression is actually dangerous and destructive.

But there is another way. Paul made it perfectly clear that his contentment had nothing to do with how desirable his circumstances were. "I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions and calamities." It is no list of amusements. How, then, did it work? It worked by a mysterious transforming power, something that reversed things like weakness and hardship, making them into strength and joy. Is there any chance that it will work for us? Is there for us, too, an antidote for boredom? The promise of Christ was not for Paul alone. "My grace is sufficient for you." It's a gift to be accepted. If we refuse it, nothing will be enough and boredom will be the story of our lives.

Title: Some of My Best Friends Are Books - Page 1
Book: All That Was Ever Ours
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

I have almost always been surrounded by books. I wouldn't be surprised if my mother put some in the crib along with my toys, just to get me used to them early. The first house I remember living in was one of those double ones of which there are hundreds in the suburbs of Philadelphia. We lived in Germantown, in what was probably a cramped house (although to me as a child it seemed large) and there were books in the living room, books in the dining room, books in all of the bedrooms and tall bookcases lining the halls. My father came home at night with a briefcase full of papers and books.

Before I could read much myself I looked at picture books, like everybody else. I remember the lovely women and elegantly handsome men in Charles Dana Gibson's book of drawings. I went back again and again to an animal book which had a horrifyingly hideous photo of an angry gorilla with teeth bared. The beautiful little pictures in Beatrix Potter's books of neatly furred small animals gave me a delicious feeling of order and comfort. My mother read these aloud to me, and how eagerly I stooped with Lucie to enter Mrs. Tiggywinkle's laundry; or accompanied Simpkin the cat as he made his way through Gloucester's snowy lanes. Mr. MacGregor was a big, bad bogeyman to me. Mother read, too, the Christopher Robin stories, and I found myself identifying her with Kanga, my older brother Phil with Pooh, Dave with Piglet, and myself, alas but inescapably, with Eeyore.

Evenings at home were often spent with the whole family sitting together, each with his head in a book. Or at times my father would read aloud. He bored us to death reading passages from Jonathan Edwards, George Whitefield, or George Borrow. The Bible in Spain was ''good writing," he said, and he wanted us to hear it. He loved good writing, and as an editor had to read an awful lot of appallingly bad writing, but I am grateful now for his efforts to teach us the difference. He also read sometimes to us from Henry A. Shute's Real Diary of a Real Boy, which got the closest thing to a belly laugh I ever heard out of my sedate father.

A big dictionary was always within reach of the dining room table because it was there that arguments most frequently arose over words. He wanted them quickly settled, and made us look up the words in question.

A part of each summer was spent at ''The Cottage," a big old lodge-type house in the White Mountains built by my great-great uncle, who was, among other things, editor of the New York Journal of Commerce and a writer of books. His bedroom on the second floor, an enormous paneled one with a huge fireplace, had hardly been rearranged at all since he died, and one wall was still lined with crumbling leather-bound books. A rainy day in the mountains was a chance for me to pore over field manuals from the Civil War, great volumes on law, Mrs. Oliphant's novels, or a tiny set, tinily printed, of the unabridged Arabian Nights.

There were magazines on the bottom shelves, too--old ones, with advertisements of Pear's soap or Glen kitchen ranges, and I found in them serialized stories by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The first full-length book I recall reading was not a piece of great literature, but it had a great effect on my malleable mind. It was called Hell on Ice, the saga of sixty men who attempted to reach the North Pole by way of the Bering Strait. Only a few survived, and I agonized with them as they froze and starved on the icy wastes. I was carried out of myself and my pleasant porch hammock into danger, suffering, and death. I became aware of vulnerability, mortality, and human courage.

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Title: Some of My Best Friends Are Books - Page 2

To my detriment I managed to go through four years of high school without reading more than two or three classics. I had a good freshman English teacher who made me see vividly the world of chivalry and heraldry through Ivanhoe, so that I still love to visit the medieval halls of museums. In my junior or senior year I very hastily skimmed David Copperfield in order to write a book report. I may have read one or two others which I have entirely forgotten, but literature was merely a requirement. No other teacher made me understand what it was all about. (B. F. Westcott said, "It is the office of art to reveal the meaning of that which is the object of sense.")

But of course there was the Bible, in a class all by itself. This was The Book in our home, and we heard it read every day, usually twice a day. The King James English was as simple and familiar to me, with all its "beholds" and "it came to passes," as Philadelphia talk (pronounced twawk). The resonance of the Books of Moses, the cadences of the Psalms, the lucidity of the Gospel of John, the soaring rhapsodies of Paul on the love of God, the strange figures of the Book of the Revelation, all sank deeply into my heart and mind. Everything in life, I believed, had meaning as it related to what I knew of The Book.

There were many books in our home by and about people who lived by the Bible. It was in Amy Carmichael, a missionary to South India, that I found the kind of woman I wanted to be. She was at work for the Lord (an Anglican, she had founded a place for saving little girls from temple prostitution), and she took time in the midst of this to write of her experience as she walked by faith in a place where almost no one shared that faith.

A friend gave me The Imitation of Christ when I was in college, and I read it slowly, finishing it the following summer during evenings in a university stadium where I climbed up to watch the sunset.

One year when I was tutoring I came across, in the library of my pupils, a dull-looking novel called Salted With Fire. I had never heard of George MacDonald, but his writing gave me a whole new vista of the love of God. There was a shining quality to it, and a deep humanity. C. S. Lewis, I later learned, had found it, too, and did an anthology of MacDonald's work.

The biographies of missionaries--Hudson Taylor of China, James Fraser of Lisuland, David Brainerd of early New Jersey, Raymond Lull of North Africa--influenced the course of my life. Sometimes, if we can catch the sound of music that other people march to, we can fall into step.

It was when I lived in the jungle that books were hard to keep. Mold, mildew, crickets, and smoke did their worst, and I did not always have a way to transport more than one or two books at a time, or a place to keep them other than an Indian carrying net hung under the thatch. But they became even more precious, more indispensable in times when I had little contact with English-speaking people. I got around to reading some great books then--Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, Teilhard de Chardin's The Divine Milieu, Isak Dinesen's Out of Africa. Each spoke to me in some powerful, personal way.

Kafka said that books should serve as "the axe for the frozen sea within us." Tolstoy showed me my own vulnerability and need of redemption--as Flannery O'Connor does, too, in her "stories about original sin," as she describes them. De Chardin illuminated for me the immanence of God. Dinesen reveals majesty and dignity in human beings and animals as creatures of God, and the laughter at the heart of things. (In one book, Seven Gothic Tales, she touches the courage of the Creator, the power of women, a herd of unicorns, the reason for seasons, the dogs of God, angels and chamber pots, coffee and the word of the Lord, and Mary Magdalene on Good Friday Eve. Imagine the humor and courage it takes to put all that in seven stories!)

A reader understands what he reads in terms of what he is. As a Christian reader I bring to bear on the book I am reading the light of my faith. "All things are yours, for ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's," said Paul. Browning's Fra Lippo Lippi expresses it this way:

. . . This world's no blot for us, nor blank;
It means intensely, and means good:
To find its meaning is my meat and drink.

Title: Flesh Becomes Word - Page 1
Book: All That Was Ever Ours
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

Isak Dinesen in Out of Africa tells how she was sometimes asked to sit in on a Kyama, an assembly of the elders of the farm, authorized by the government to settle local differences among the squatters. After a certain shooting accident she had to write out a statement, dictated by a man named Jogona Kanyagga, regarding events leading up to the accident and proving his own right to claim the victim as his son. When the long tale was told (during which Jogona sometimes had to break off, hold his head in both hands, and gravely slap the crown of it "as if to shake out the facts") the baroness read it back to him. As she read out his own name, she writes, "he swiftly turned his face to me, and gave me a great fierce flaming glance, so exuberant with laughter that it changed the old man into a boy, into the very symbol of youth. Such a glance did Adam give the Lord when he formed him out of the dust, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living soul. I had created him and shown him himself, Jogona Kanyagga of life everlasting. When I handed him the paper, he took it reverently and greedily, folded it up in a corner of his cloak and kept his hand upon it. He could not afford to lose it, for his soul was in it, and it was the proof of his existence . . . the flesh was made word."

Words are inadequate, we say. So they often are. But they are nonetheless precious. "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver." In a time of crisis we learn how intensely we need both flesh and word. We cannot do well without either one. The bodily presence of people we love is greatly comforting, and their silent companionship blesses us. "I know I can't say anything that will help, but I wanted to come,'' someone says, and the word they would like to speak is spoken by their coming. Those who can't come send, instead of their presence, word. A letter comes, often beginning, ''I don't know what to say,'' but it is an expression, however inadequate, of the person himself and what he feels toward us.

Before Eve heard the voice of the serpent summoning her to the worst possibility of her being, before Adam heard the voice of God summoning him to his best, the Word was. The Word was at the beginning of things, the Word was with God, the Word was God. That Word became visible in the flesh when the man Christ came to earth. Man saw him, talked with him, learned from him, and when his flesh was glorified and he returned once more to his Father, men declared what they had seen. "That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands concerning the word of life . . . we proclaim also to you." That eternal Word had become flesh and through those who knew Christ that flesh had become once more Word. Those who hear that Word today and believe it begin to live it and again it becomes flesh.

If I had a choice, I would not want to do without either the word or the flesh. I want letters from my friends, but I want to see their faces. I see them, but then I want them to say something. I have a guest book in which I always ask people to write their names, explaining that they need not write anything more unless they want to, but I open it after they are gone in hopes that they will have written some word as well. "Say it with flowers," says the advertisement, but when the flowers come how eagerly we look to see what the card says.

When I come to God I want words. Even though "there is not a word in my tongue but lo, O Lord, thou knowest it altogether," I want to say something to him. He knows what I look like, he knows my frame, remembers that I am dust. Does this flesh need words to speak to him? It does. There is, of course, a silence that waits on God. There is a lifting up of hands that takes the place of words. But there are times when we want desperately to speak. "Each in his own words" is all very well if you can find them, but often I find them only in the words of others.

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Title: Flesh Becomes Word - Page 2

I am troubled by the tendency today to assume that one's own words are ''better" or more sincere than someone else's. The bizarre wording of wedding invitations I have received makes me want to go and hide rather than "share the joy.'' I did actually attend a wedding ceremony composed ("created" was what they called it) by the couple themselves, complete with prayers of their own making for the minister to read. This was somehow supposed to surpass the words of the Prayer Book. It didn't. Surely it is possible to repeat in all honesty expressions which others have found to be adequate which are at the same time both noble and beautiful? Doesn't it draw one out of himself, beyond his own horizons, to participate in an ancient ceremony? Does it really follow that the substitution of something ''original" makes the thing richer?

Take the Psalms. They are human cries. Whoever wrote them knew the bottom of the barrel. He had felt his bones rot. He had sunk in slime, been ridden over, torn in two, betrayed, outraged, and bludgeoned. He knew the sweeping barrenness of loneliness, the forsakenness of grief, the bewilderment of unanswered prayer, and put them all into words that speak to my condition. So I read them back to God--with the expressions of faith and praise that punctuate the howls. "My heart is in anguish within me . . . horror overwhelms me . . . he will deliver my soul in safety from the battle that I wage" (Psalms 55:4, 5, 18); "My wounds grow foul and fester because of my foolishness . . . but for thee, O Lord, do I wait. It is thou, O Lord, who wilt answer my prayer" (Psalms 38:5, 15); "The earth reeled and rocked . . . but the Lord was my stay" (Psalms 18:7, 18).

How poor my own words would be compared to those of the Collect for Evening Prayer: "Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son Our Saviour Jesus Christ." I would be hard put to improve on Paul's prayer for the Roman Christians when I am praying for my friends (as an old lady in Canada used to pray for me, and included this prayer in nearly every letter she wrote me): "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.''

Hymns are a powerful source of strength to me. Who of us can match words like William Williams' "Guide me, O thou great Jehovah, pilgrim through this barren land" or Henry Twell's "Thy touch hath still its ancient power; No word from thee can fruitless fall; Hear in this solemn evening hour, and in thy mercy heal us all"?

In the old words of George Herbert such as "Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back" or in the more modern poetry of Amy Carmichael: "And yet we come, Thy righteousness our cover, Thy precious blood our one, our only plea; And yet we come, O Savior, Master, Lover--To whom, Lord, could we come, save unto Thee?"--in such words my own flesh (empty, dumb, aching, needy as it may be) becomes, to God, word.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture: 1 Corinthians 13:4
The Path of Lonliness

Spontaneity - Page 1

A boy of two was standing in a bright square of sunlight in my kitchen one morning. He lifted his hands in the slanting ray that streamed through the open door. Then he lifted his face to me--a round, sweet face with a broad smile, lit with the sun and the light of discovery. "Look at these sunshine crumbs, Aunt Betty!" he said.

That was a spontaneous remark. Spontaneity may produce some delightful results, but for something to happen spontaneously it is necessary that certain conditions be present.

The little boy's observation does not arise, "out of the blue,'' but from a personality which, even at two years of age, has already been shaped by his parents, where he lives, what he hears, how he is trained and treated.

His mind is ready and eager to receive impressions and searches at once for words to capture those impressions. His vocabulary is limited, but he knows sunshine, and he knows crumbs--so in a flash he has given a name to the thing he sees.

His fingers reach out and touch nothing. Crumbs you can touch. Sunshine crumbs, he finds, you can't touch. He has absorbed all this in a second and has made it forever his own, making it at the same time his Aunt Betty's.

I was in a Laundromat one hot summer morning in Missouri. An old woman in a cotton dress, bobby socks, and thick-soled shoes was doing her wash and greeted me cheerfully. We talked about the weather, and I told her I was from Massachusetts. When her husband came in she told him the lady was from Massachusetts, and he said the weather back East had been bad, hadn't it, and that he had been back East once.

"During the War. We was in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and they made us march on that boardwalk that goes along there by the ocean, you know that boardwalk. Well, the guy in front of me--there was a little bitty patch o' ice on the boardwalk--and the guy in front of me when he come to that patch o' ice he fell right flat on his face. And we marched on down to the end of the boardwalk and turned around and marched back again and that guy fell flat on his face again when he come to that same little bitty patch o' ice."

That was the man's conversation, in its entirety. I thought about it for quite a while afterward. It always interests me to see just what it is that triggers people's remarks. Spontaneous action, the dictionary says, occurs, or is produced, within, of its own energy or force.

The old man's story, called to mind by the ideas of weather or of ''back East" was spontaneous enough--not profound, of course, but the story and the images came out of the rich soil of his vivid experience.

Something had happened to him; his telling of it was straightforward. He wasn't concerned with the kind of impression he might be making on me. He was brief, and so clear that I'll never forget that scene during the war, the man himself, his wife, or even the Laundromat in that hot little town.

Spontaneous action may also mean "without premeditation," and this was true of what both the little boy and the old man said. Too often we are overly self-conscious; we play roles. Recently I saw a young man on television whose performance did not delight me. It depressed me.

He said, "As opposed to for example in other words in terms of borrowing from a loan company, you'd do better at a bank." He hadn't meditated much on that one. He was thinking about the setting, not about the subject.

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Spontaneity - Page 2

The conditions which created his "spontaneity" were (1) the talk-show format, where you have to talk, and you have to put on a show; (2) a time allotment, which means the poor man had to keep on talking without pausing to think what he was saying; and (3) the man himself--trained to value such meaningless phrases as "for example," "as opposed to," "in other words," and "in terms of" because he thinks they sound learned.

The man was also quite conscious of his own image in the TV monitors and had little leisure for looking clearly at the matter at hand as my nephew had looked at the dust flecks.

If spontaneity implies the existence of an inner energy to begin with, one felt that his energy had petered out by the time the man delivered his remark.

I'm being hard on him, and he was, as I have said, young. Carlyle wrote of nineteen-to-twenty-five-year-old youths that they had reached "the maximum of detestability." We have been telling ourselves that youth is beautiful and spontaneity one of the most beautiful things about youth. I wonder if spontaneity is not sometimes a euphemism for laziness--an indulgence which Carlyle found in youth. Isn't it much easier not to prepare one's mind and heart, not to premeditate, simply to have things (O, vacuous word!) "unstructured"?

If you leave a thing altogether alone in hopes that it will happen all by itself, the chances are it never will. Who learns to play the piano, wins an election, or loses weight spontaneously?

I have just read Jean Nidetch's book on the Weight Watchers, and while it is obvious that her basic theme (that people get fat because they eat) is hardly a world-shaking discovery, her method is one that made her a millionaire: get people to work at their problems together. Reducing doesn't just happen. It isn't a thing the majority succeed in doing all by themselves.

She doesn't let them make up their own diet as they go along--that's what put the fat on them in the first place. She doesn't suggest that losing weight is best done when you feel like it. She doesn't even say that it works only if you are being "yourself."

In fact, I was reminded throughout the book of how many analogies there are between losing weight and practicing Christianity. There are rules to obey. You will to obey them. Some people insist that the devotional life is somehow purer or better if it is pursued only when we feel like it. Worship for some is thought to be an "experience" rather than an act. Losing weight is also an experience--there's no doubt about that--in fact, the expression "being born again" occurs in the testimonies of those who have done it. But losing weight most certainly has to begin with an act.

It is an act of the will. You decide to do this and not to do that. You must arrange, prepare, and carefully carry out your plan. The combustion of those daily calories will happen without fail, but only when the conditions are properly set up.

Love is another thing. ''But I want it to be spontaneous," people say. They think that if nothing is happening it is good enough reason for a divorce. "If it isn't spontaneous, it isn't love," they tell us. Where did that idea get started? Do we understand what spontaneity requires?

The kind of love the Bible talks about is action, and it comes from a force and an energy within. That energy is the love of Christ. His love creates the condition of heart (it does not come from nowhere) which enables us to do things: to give a cup of cold water, to go a second mile, to "look for a way of being constructive," as Phillips' translation puts 1 Corinthians 13:4. "It is, in fact, the one thing that still stands when everything else has fallen."

Christian love is a far cry from a misunderstood spontaneity which is merely unstructured. This love is a very firm and solid thing indeed, requiring will, obedience, action, and an abiding trust in the "Strong Son of God, Immortal Love."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Thinking - Page 1

Question-and-answer is a vanishing art. We are so drowned and smothered and deafened by panels, dialogues, rap sessions, discussions, talk shows, and other such exercises in the pooling of ignorance that, far from developing the art of asking questions and giving answers, we have very nearly lost it altogether. The time allotted for a program must, it seems, be filled--it doesn't much matter with what.

When is the last time you heard a clear, short question asked and a straight answer given? My heart sinks when it is announced that, following the lecture, there will be time for discussion. People put up their hands, but it turns out that it is not information they are after at all. They want the floor. They go on and on.

I was one of the panel of experts (i.e., married women) discussing the subject of marriage in a college women's dormitory a few years ago. Afterward there were lots of questions. But it was hard to figure out just what the questions were. Here is one of them (verbatim--I did not make this up. It was taped and then transcribed):

Um--like--um--I have a couple questions. Do you think--like--that--uh--do you think a woman could have a call just to be--like--a wife, but not--like--not just to be a wife--like, say, you know--if you're gonna be personal--like--my own engagement--like--I have a gift of--you know--a talent in music, you know--like--I mean, I know you're not saying--like--you know, especially in that case, I mean, you're saying more like--you have--like--I think our greatest thing in common probably is--um--is that--you know--is the dedication to serve God--you know--in the desire to, to follow--you know--to do his leading and--like--neither of us, you know, and especially in this kind of life you don't have a blueprint of what you--what he's gonna be doing necessarily, you know--and I'm just kinda concerned because like--you know--I've even thought about that cause I've kinda had a conflict--you know--growing up that way--you know--I'm talented musically--you know--so therefore I should probably look for somebody that's talented musically but he--he likes it--you know--I mean, he doesn't understand it totally but I'm sure we could live happily together with it, you know, but I don't expect him to have a--you know--yearning to go to all the Beethoven concerts or anything--you know--but I mean--I've heard of very happy marriages where--you know--there's quite different--you know--interests--you know--there.

(I apologize for not knowing the rules of punctuation for this kind of English.) Nobody on the panel knew what the girl was asking. She was confused--that came through loud and clear, but she might have seen through some of the fog simply by making the effort to clarify and shorten her question.

Sometimes I have been tempted to tell the audience that only questions of twenty-five words or less will be entertained. But I don't want to put people off any more than I can help.

William Strunk, Jr., in his wonderful little book, The Elements of Style, gives this advice:

To air one's views at an improper time may be in bad taste. If you have received a letter inviting you to speak at the dedication of a new cat hospital, and you hate cats, your reply, declining the invitation, does not necessarily have to cover the full range of your emotions. You must make it clear that you will not attend, but you do not have to let fly at cats... Bear in mind that your opinion of cats was not sought, only your services as a speaker. Try to keep things straight.

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Thinking - Page 2

Americans dearly love to be polled for opinion. They feel that they ought to have opinions, to "hold views," on everything, and polls give them a chance to let fly. It is interesting to note how small a percentage of those polled admit to having "No opinion."

If the answer is Yes, say Yes. If it's No, say No. (The Bible will back me up here.) If it's I don't know, say that--if you possibly can. My daughter had a classmate in the seventh grade who, when asked a question by the teacher, never raised his chin off his hand, but looking into space said glumly, "I don't know." To a second question he replied, in the same laconic tone, "I don't know that either." I couldn't help wanting to know which boy that was. I liked him. It was discouraging for the teacher, I'm sure, that he didn't know, but it was not nearly so discouraging to hear him say so in three words as it would have been to hear three hundred words which came to the same thing. Every day in the mass media we have to listen to palaver, twaddle, and balderdash which, when interpreted, means "I don't know."

Some people are constitutionally incapable of admitting they don't know. "Well, let's just say I don't know the answer to that one," a woman once said to me.

Great people, however, can often disarm us completely with a candid acknowledgment such as Samuel Johnson's when asked by an indignant woman whatever made him define pastern as he did in his lexicon. "Ignorance, madam, pure ignorance!"

The Quechua Indians of Ecuador have a way of dropping the corners of their mouths, thrusting out their chins, and gazing off across the treetops, saying "Hmm hmm?" which is supposed to convey the impression that the matter is a mysterious one which they are in on but which would really be beyond you. At other times they come up with ineluctable answers like the one a missionary got when he wanted to know the name of a tree with yellow flowers on it. The Indian studied the tree for a little while, shading his eyes with his hand, and then said earnestly, "Well, I'll tell you, Senor Eduardo. That tree over there, the one you point to, the tree with the yellow flowers on it--that tree, Senor Eduardo...we call The Yellow Flower Tree."

The late W. H. Auden once appeared on a television interview and it was delicious to see his interviewers thrown completely off balance by the clarity and the brevity of his answers. They had their questions carefully worked out and the timing approximated, but long before the show was over they were casting about for new questions. When they asked if he thought of poetry as a means of self-expression, he said, "No, not at all. You write a poem because you have seen something which seems worth sharing with others." The ideal reaction from the reader is, 'I knew that all along, but I never realized it.' He could, I am sure, have lectured for an hour on that one subject, but he didn't. He had a sense of occasion.

"You will be living in Oxford, England, Mr. Auden. Do you expect to be teaching there?"

"No."

"You won't be teaching. (Pause.) Well, Mr. Auden, as you move into the more--shall we say--mellow years, would you say that you have any unfulfilled ambitions?"

"No."

One of my unfulfilled ambitions was to hear a simple answer on a TV talk show. Thank you, Mr. Auden.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Observation and Silence - Page 1

On a beautiful cool morning last July, Lars and I left behind all our usual work and chugged out of Gloucester harbor in Massachusetts on a fifty-foot fishing boat. There were about twenty of us aboard, all of us in high spirits until the captain announced that the marina we had just left as well as the restaurant behind it and the lobster packing plant next to it had been bought the previous day by the Reverend Sun Myung Moon. This lowered our spirits momentarily, but they soon shot up in anticipation of what we were about to see. It was not the cormorants that flocked on the tiny island at the mouth of the harbor, or the reef of Norman's Woe where the Hesperus was wrecked, or the lighthouse on Eastern Point.

We noted all of these things with interest (the oldest paint factory in the country did not rouse us much), but none of them were what we had paid our fifteen dollars apiece to see. Lars had called the week before to inquire about the advertisement. Did they guarantee anything? No, that was impossible, but in the twenty trips made so far that summer they had seen them every time. We decided it was well worth risking the price of tickets if there was even an outside chance of seeing them: whales. Not captive in Marineland, not doing tricks in the zoo, but real live full-sized unbelievable wild whales out in the open Atlantic Ocean, free-swimming, God-glorifying giants of the deep.

Our on-board whale authority turned out to be a man of about twenty wearing a T-shirt and cutoffs, with a baseball cap clamped over his long hair. He stood up in front of us with a chart and proceeded to show us pictures of "the whales we'll be seeing."

Well, I thought, he sounds wonderfully confident. Will we be so fortunate as to see even one spout in the distance? Sometime after half-past nine, he assured us, we might begin to spot them. We would understand the lookout's directions if we imagined the boat as the face of a clock, its bow representing twelve o'clock, its stern six. He then explained that the whales most likely to be in the area were the humpback and the finback, each having a characteristic "blow." Whales, being mammals, breathe air. They surface every few minutes, exhale a great column of vapor (the finback's is twenty feet tall, straight up into the air), inhale in a split second, and then dive.

They do their mating in the area of the Dominican Republic in the wintertime but eat little then. In the summertime they come north and do most of their eating off the coast of Massachusetts, occasionally going as far north as Newfoundland, depending on where the food animals are swarming. Instead of teeth these two species of whale have what is called baleen, a double series of triangular horny plates on each side of the palate (as many as six hundred all together) which fray out into a sort of hairy fringe to form a sieve which filters out of the ocean's soup all the nourishing tidbits such as plankton, krills, copepods, herring, sardines, and copelin.

The most remarkable of the tidbits is a creature called a diatom. These microscopic machines behave in some ways like animals (they swim and dig) and in other ways like plants. Scientists cannot agree on how to classify them, but whales love them and they provide more food than any other living thing, nourishing not only whales but a variety of infinitely smaller creatures like krills (I confess I had never once wondered what krills ate). Diatoms come in several thousand species, in marvelous shapes (pinwheels, spirals, stars, triangles, chandeliers, discs, rods, ovals), and the largest of them measures a mere millimeter. A humpback whale consumes rather large helpings of diatoms, netting several hundred billion every few hours, taking in several tons of water with each gulp and straining these vast torrents through his baleen, as much as a million cubic meters of seawater a day.

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Observation and Silence - Page 2

Among our fellow passengers was a very large lady wearing a knit tank top and slacks which she filled to bursting. She had a shopping bag on what there was of a lap. We had not left our moorings before she had reached into the bag and switched on a radio, then began foraging for something to eat. Most of her crackers and bananas were gone, she had downed a Pepsi or two and inquired in vain if there was food to be bought, by the time the lookout cried, "Blow at eleven o'clock!'' We rushed to the bow in time to see a distant geyser. The captain made for the spot, and soon we saw the huge glistening back and dorsal fin of a humpback roll to the surface and heard the surprisingly powerful phooh from the blowhole before it vanished.

Within a short time we had sighted other spouts, other fins, and then, to our great excitement, the monstrous tail or fluke splendidly flashed clear of the water so that we could see its markings and the clinging barnacles.

"There's your fluke, now," the captain's assistant remarked laconically.

Our knowledgeable young man had described something he called a "bubble net" which he hoped we might see. A whale goes down about thirty feet, blows a twelve-foot circle of bubbles so that the surface of the sea turns effervescent turquoise. No one is quite sure why or how this works, but it seems to have the effect of confusing the small fish and other creatures so that they are "caught" in this net. About ten seconds elapse (the gulls have time to flock to the scene screaming, the eager watchers also scream and focus their eyes and cameras). Then, suddenly and awesomely, the whale's cavernous mouth explodes from below and swallows the "net" (and sometimes, the man said, an unwary seagull or two). We had seen perhaps three or four whales surface, blow, and disappear some dozens of times before the lookout shouted "Bubble at seven o'clock!" We raced to the stern, found a great green pool not many feet away, and held our breath as the enormous square warted snout of the humpback shot out of the water, the entire pool poured through the billowing mesh of baleen, and before we could blink in disbelief, the ocean was as faceless and empty as ever. I don't think anyone said a word unless it was "Wow. " There would have been complete silence if it hadn't been for the sound of the radio in the shopping bag.

The lookout called our attention some minutes later to what seemed to be a patch of dim, pale-green light moving smoothly alongside the boat, perhaps four or five feet beneath the surface. It was the gray sidepatch of the finwhale. If he had not pointed it out, our uneducated eyes would never have noticed it, for there was not the smallest ripple, there was not the least sign to indicate that a fifty-foot giant weighing some sixty tons was accompanying us.

The fat lady, I think, missed it. She was eating another banana. Not long after we had made this trip I received another of those letters from an aspiring writer. A young woman wrote, "I often yearn to be a writer but after reading books like yours, I feel that all the important things have already been said!''

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Observation and Silence - Page 3

They have indeed been said, and long before I said them. If a thing is true it is not new, but the truth needs to be said again and again, freshly for each generation. I have often been introduced to some seventeenth-or eighteenth-century writer by a nineteenth-century writer. If I quote what I learn from the ancients, a twentieth-century reader is sometimes helped when he would not by himself have found Crashaw's poem or St. Francis' prayer or St. Paul's Love chapter.

What of the twenty-first century? Which of the young people I know are now laying the groundwork for being the writers or artists or, as I like to think of any who show truth in any form, the prophets for my grandchildren's grandchildren?

I wrote to the young woman:

Don't give up that yearning. During these busy years while you take care of small children and give yourself to being a godly wife and mother, lay the firm footing on which good writing must be built. Read great books if you have time to read anything at all. Get rid of the junk that comes in the mail, eschew all magazines and newspapers if your reading time is limited, and by "hearing" the really great authors, learn the sound and cadence of good English.

There are two other things required of "prophets." Observation ("What do you see?" Ezekiel and John were asked) and silence. ("The word of the Lord came to me.") Obviously we (I, at least, and most others, I suppose) are not anything like the biblical prophets. Ours is a different assignment. But we are charged with the responsibility of telling the truth, and I don't see how this can possibly be done without opening our eyes to see and our ears to hear. There must, there simply must, be time and space allowed for silence and for solitude if what we see and hear is to be "processed."

Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author of Wind, Sand, and Stars, said in a conversation with Anne Morrow Lindbergh, "The great of the earth are those who leave silence and solitude around themselves, their work and their life, and let it ripen of its own accord."

If any of the crowd we saw fishing from a breakwater as our boat entered Gloucester harbor again are among the "great of the earth," it will be against terrible odds. They, like the lady on board, were also listening to a shrieking radio.

ln the cry of gulls, in the blow of a whale, in the very stillness of an early morning, it seems to me, we are more likely to hear the Lord's quiet word.

Speak, Lord, in the stillness,
While I wait on Thee.
Hushed my heart to listen
In expectancy.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

The Shock of Self-Recognition

Most of us are rather pleased when we catch sight of ourselves (provided the sight is sufficiently dim or distant) in the reflection of a store window. It is always amusing to watch people's expressions and postures change, perhaps ever so slightly, for the better as they look at their images. We all want the reflected image to match the image we hold in our minds (e.g., a rugged, casual slouch goes well with a Marlboro Country type; an erect distinguished carriage befits a man of command and responsibility). We glimpse ourselves in a moment of lapse, and quickly try to correct the discrepancies.

A close-up is something else altogether. Sometimes it's more than we can stand. The shock of recognition makes us recoil. "Don't tell me that's my voice!" (on the tape recorder); "Do I really look that old?" (as this photograph cruelly shows). For me it is a horrifyingly painful experience to have to stand before a three-way mirror, in strong light, in a department store fitting room. ("These lights--these mirrors--they distort, surely!" I tell myself.) I have seen Latin American Indians whoop with laughter upon first seeing themselves on a movie screen, but I have never seen them indignant, as "civilized" people often seem to be. Perhaps it is that an Indian has not occupied himself very much with trying to be what he is not.

What is it that makes us preen, recoil, laugh? It must be the degree of incongruity between what we thought we were and what we actually saw.

People's standards, of course, differ. Usually, in things that do not matter, we set them impossibly high and thus guarantee for ourselves a life of discontent. In things that matter we set them too low and are easily pleased with ourselves. (My daughter came home from the seventh grade one day elated. "Missed the honor roll by two C's!" she cried, waving her report card happily.) Frequently we judge by standards that are irrelevant to the thing in question. You have to know what a thing is for, first of all, before you can judge it. Take a can opener--how can I know whether it's any good unless I know that it was made for opening cans?

Or a church. What is it for? Recently the one I belong to held a series of neighborhood coffee meetings for the purpose of finding out what the parishioners thought about what the church was doing, was not doing, and ought to be doing. The results were mailed to us last week. Eighty people participated and came up with 105 "concerns and recommendations." These revealed considerable confusion as to what the church is meant to be about. "Should have hockey and basketball teams." "There is too much reference to the Bible in sermons.'' ''The ushers should stop hunching at the doors of the church and seek out unfamiliar faces.'' "The rear parking lot is messy." "A reexamination of spiritual goals should be carried out." I was glad there were a few like that last one. The range of our congregational sins was pretty well covered (we didn't get into the mire of our personal ones), and as I read them over I thought, "If we just managed to straighten out these one hundred and five things we'd have--what? Well, something, I suppose. But not a perfect church. Not by a long shot. If by our poor standards (some of them obviously applicable to things other than churches) we picked out over a hundred flaws, how many were visible to God, 'to whose all-searching sight the darkness shineth as the light'?''

There are times when it is with a kind of relief that we come upon the truth. A man passing a church one day paused to see if he could catch what it was the people were mumbling in unison. He moved inside and heard these words: "We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws."

Hmm, thought the man, they sound like my kind of people.

"We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done."

This is the church for me, he decided. (I don't suppose a basketball team or a blacktopped parking lot would have persuaded him.)

"Put up a complaint box and you'll get complaints," my husband used to say. There is something to be said for airing one's grievances, and there is a great deal to be said for not airing them, but one thing at least seems good to me--that we be overwhelmed, now and then, with our sins and failures.

We need to sit down and take stock. We need mirrors and neighborhood coffees and complaint boxes, but our first reaction may be despair. Our second, "Just who does so-and-so think he is, criticizing the church when he never even comes to church?" And we find ourselves back where we started, setting our own standards, judging irrelevantly and falsely, excusing ourselves, condemning an institution for not being what it was never meant to be, and so on.

The church, thank God, has provided for us. There is Lent. It is a time to stop and remember. All year we have had the chance in the regular communion service to remember the death and passion of the Lord Jesus, and this once during the year we are asked, for a period of six weeks, to recall ourselves, to repent, to submit to special disciplines in order that we may understand the meaning of the Resurrection.

We are indeed "miserable offenders.'' We have done and left undone. We are foolish and weak and blind and self-willed and men of little faith. We run here, we run there, we form committees and attend meetings and attack the Church and its organization and its isolation and its useless machinery and its irrelevance and ineffectiveness. But all the time it stands there, holding the cross, telling us that there is forgiveness, that we have not been left to ourselves, that no matter how shocking the image that we finally see of ourselves in the light of God's truth, God himself has done something about it all.

"He was wounded for our transgressions. He was bruised for our iniquities." For the very things we've been discussing. For the things that make us moan and groan and ask, "What's the use?"

And so Lent, simply because it is another reminder of him who calls us to forgiveness and refreshment, makes me glad.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture: 1 Corinthians 2:9 1 Corinthians 2:11
The Path of Lonliness

Inklings of Ignorance - Page 1

The sign that faces us as we arrive at the station says Spor 1. Let's see. I refrain from asking Lars this time--he must be weary of four weeks of my persistent questions about his language. In Norwegian o's are usually pronounced oo. Spoor. Related to the English word spoor? Of course: Track 1.

It's time to leave my husband's hometown of Kristiansand. The station is mobbed with kids with backpacks. The mobility of the student generation astonishes me. When I was their age I dreamed of a trip to Norway. Of all the countries of the world, it was Norway I most longed to see. Surely an impossibility. But here I am, and here they are, hundreds of them, chewing gum, none of them looking particularly wonderstruck. Their bright orange or red or blue packs crowd the platforms and waiting room. They wear colored striped jogging shoes, blue jeans, nylon hooded parkas.

A little boy with platinum-blond hair and apple cheeks eats popcorn while his mother buys the tickets. After a few fistfuls he carefully pours the rest on the floor. His mother turns, says something brief and mild, and walks out the door. He scoops a handful from the floor, stuffs it into his mouth, and follows her.

We board the train. Immaculately clean, windows sparkling, reclining seats with footrests and plenty of legroom.

Norway. The country that shaped my husband's childhood. He was like that little boy. His aunt, Tante Esther, showed me some snapshots of him at that age--the same round face, the same towhead. We have spent part of our time at Tante Esther's house, walking around the places of Lars' memories. We saw where the house and church once stood, saw the building where he, at the age of six or seven, plummeted over the bannister and down three floors on his head. We saw the park, the bakery, the bridge, the offices of Faedrelandsvennen, the newspaper he used to hawk on the streets. The rest of the time we were in a little cottage a few miles away on a beautiful inland waterway, Topdals Fjorden, where he fished many years ago with his uncle.

The train begins to move. We are in a tunnel in a minute or two and pass through many more as we travel westward toward Stavanger across a series of lovely valleys (Mandal, Audnedal, Lyngdal--dal, I conclude must mean valley). Rivers, rocky mountains, broad green meadows, forests of spruce, aspen, birch, fir. Alongside the tracks I see bracken, buttercups, bluebells, lupine, and daisies as well as many bright-colored flowers I cannot name. Now and then we pass a small lake with grasses and water lilies growing around the edge. Moose country. I see a highway sign warning of a moose crossing.

It is not long before the passengers begin opening up their lunches. A man and woman across the aisle hand buttered rolls to their two grandchildren. They squeeze mayonnaise, shrimp, and caviar pastes onto the rolls from tubes, and gulp down large-sized soft drinks, warm from the bottle.

We watch the children, we smile, but they try not to look at us. You do not speak to strangers in Norway. Even Lars, open and friendly as he learned to be in Mississippi and Georgia, becomes Norwegian again, cautious, silent.

The four hours pass quickly. The roadbed is well maintained, as everything in Norway seems to be. The ride is very smooth. Lars dozes.

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Inklings of Ignorance - Page 2

In the rocky pastures are sheep and cows. In the fields, curtains of hay drying on long poles supported at each end by X-poles. Stone walls separate the fields.

There are brooks tumbling through deep ravines and broad, smooth rivers meandering through the valleys. Two children skip in the shallows of a pebbly stream. Again I see Lars, and his cousin Bjørg, in the two children.

We arrive in Stavanger in time to see the Queen Elizabeth II just leaving her moorings and being towed slowly between the docks and oil tankers out to sea. We board a hydrofoil for the trip to Bergen. There is as much noise and vibration as there is in a bus, and the narrow seats, twelve abreast, allow as little legroom.

It is raining as we leave the docks. On all sides we see the monstrous dismembered anatomy of marine oil rigs. The man next to Lars points to the upturned feet of the one that capsized in the ocean some months ago, killing many men.

The vessel threads its way through miles and miles of nearly treeless, forbidding-looking islands, barely discernible through the cold fog that wraps us round. The islands are rocks, massive and smooth, rising abruptly out of the sea with a rim of black three or four feet high above the tide line, topped by a band of white--salt? guano, perhaps? A little greenery struggles for life in a few protected places in the rocks.

Is there ever any sun here? Who lives in these lonely places? There are very few houses. A man in yellow oilskins (only plastic, I suppose) passes us in a little outboard. His dog balances himself on the bow, ears flattened in the wind, muzzle lifted.

It is a scene from countless paintings, evoking a strong sense of melancholy, of "Northernness." Latitude works, I am sure, secretly and powerfully within the personality of the artist. Also, it occurs to me, of my husband. Is this a clue to the deep reserves in him?

At every port there are storage tanks: Norol, Esso, Shell. Tankers pass us, all sizes, coming and going to the North Sea platforms. People in tiny rowboats ride their wakes.

The two children who were on the train with their grandparents are in front of us. They have started on a fresh round of rolls and pastes.

A beautiful blonde teenage girl with heavily made-up eyes sits on the arm of the seat across the aisles, bouncing in time to whatever it is she is listening to on earphones connected to a black box held by her boyfriend. She is wearing a splotchy faded denim jacket covered with American obscenities printed in colored ink, Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, a T-shirt advertising Norwegian beer. She closes her eyes, rocks her head with the music, snaps her chewing gum. Then she speaks to her friend-- in Norwegian.

Four old ladies sit in a row with shopping bags at their feet, clutching large pocketbooks, wearing the ubiquitous brimless hats of their age group. (Somebody told me Queen Mother Elizabeth made these popular. They were designed so that her subjects could see her face from all angles.)

What are the old ladies talking about? I can hear them, but I cannot understand a syllable. It brings back the feeling of desperation in missionary days when a "sound barrier" stood between me and the Indians, a great chasm I could not bridge. Lars understands them. His ability to speak with perfect ease a language I am perfectly ignorant of fills me with awe. He laughs at this, of course. "An easy language." Here is a whole world where he is at home and I am a stranger.

In the three-hour voyage there is no change of light. Clouds, gloom, yet we can tell that the sun has not gone down. At nine o'clock it is as light as it was at six.

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Inklings of Ignorance - Page 3

We stay in the Bibelskolen Sommerhotel in Bergen. On each bed are a pillow, a bottom sheet, and an eiderdown encased as a pillow is encased, a wonderfully cozy arrangement we have found wherever we have slept in Norway. Breakfast is a feast--bread, cheese, goat cheese, salami, tomatoes, pickles, corn flakes, hot rolls, marmalade, jam, coffee and tea, all you can eat, included in the price of the room.

We wander around the open-air markets by the waterfront. They are filled with flowers, vegetables (one cauliflower costs five dollars), and oh, heavenly fish! Lars would rather smell fish than flowers. He cannot tear himself away from the beautiful clean rows of crab, shrimp, salmon, haddock, cod, and other varieties of seafood laid out on stainless steel. The men who sell them are no-nonsense types who wear rubber aprons and boots and wield wicked knives.

We board another train for Oslo. The station teems with thousands more backpackers. In fact, it is difficult to find anyone dressed as we are in street clothes or carrying suitcases. We both feel foreign now.

Again it is raining. We travel along a fjord where rock walls rise sheer above us. The spruces and firs drip with rain. The hay we see in an occasional small field is green and sodden on the racks.

Now a rushing river with weirs, now a green meadow where a lone fisherman casts his line at the edge. Bluebells, larkspur, cowslips, wild raspberry. I wish someone would open a window so we could smell them.

Dim, misty forests with open, moss-carpeted floors. No wonder Norsemen believed in trolls and hags! I expect to catch sight of them myself in this mysterious land.

Suddenly we see, through breaks in the clouds, patches of snow on the peaks above us. Then the view is blocked repeatedly by tunnels and snowsheds. The Bergensbanen (Bergen Line) has two hundred tunnels, three hundred bridges, and eighteen miles of snowsheds, the brochure tells us. The country between Mjølfjell and Myrdal is like the high bare country of the Andes or Scotland, a wild wasteland of snow, broken only where the wind has swept some of the black rocks clean. As we approach the lake at Taugevatn, where the altitude is over four thousand feet, a hiker moves slowly across the snow and two men in orange parkas huddle against the wind, mending a snowscreen. It is hard to realize it is July.

Then down toward Oslo. Miles of river, farms, valleys, fields of green things and bright yellow oilseed rape. The sun comes out intermittently, bringing campers out of their blue or orange tents along the riverbanks.

I will be glad when we board the plane tomorrow for London and Boston. I will soon be back at the desk in the corner of the bedroom, I hope a little humbler because, having seen a piece of Norway, I have received a little larger vision of God who made it and who loves and understands its people. New places of vision give me inklings of the magnitude of my ignorance--of the language, for instance, and of "things beyond our seeing, things beyond our hearing, things beyond our imagining, all prepared by God for those who love Him" (1 Corinthians 2:9 NEB).

I hope that I will have as well a little larger heart to love and respect the Norwegian I live with, who baffles and excites, nettles and amuses, annoys and cherishes me. A world I have barely glimpsed is home to him. What other worlds are in him that I have not begun to suspect? What revelations of glory do I have to look forward to in the man whose meals I cook and whose laundry I do, when finally the image of God is fully restored?

"Who knows what a man is but the man's own spirit within him? (1 Corinthians 2:11 NEB).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Early Lessons - Page 1

When I was five years old I started to attend Miss Dietz's kindergarten, which was in a Methodist church just around the corner from our house in Philadelphia. On the first day of school my mother walked with me to the church. When she said good-bye she explained that when it was time to come home for lunch I was not to cross the street, but must wait on the sidewalk opposite our house and call her to come out and ''watch me across."

Two things that I learned there (besides one song, "Here's the Baby's Ball") are clear in my memory now. I learned that life is unpredictable. The girl in front of me as we lined up for roll call suddenly threw up, covering Miss Dietz's desk and roll book. I learned also that people, myself included, are sinful.

I picked out a white china cat from the toy box and played with it every day, building a house for it with wooden blocks. One day another girl got the white cat first. I tried to snatch it away but she got up from her little wooden chair at the play table and raced around the room with the cat in her hand. I raced, shrieking, after her. My insistence that the cat was mine was of course not accepted by Miss Dietz, and I was, I think, punished--made to stand in the corner or something. Perhaps I was only reprimanded, but although I had been scolded and spanked many times at home, this was my first public humiliation and acknowledgment of guilt. No doubt that is why I remember it. I had expected to be known as, I had every intention of being, a good little girl, and I turned out to be a naughty one. Let no one laugh it off with "But you were only five!'' or "A silly little thing like a china cat?" I knew very well that I was in the wrong.

The next year I began the first grade in Henry School. It was more than a mile from home and I covered this distance four times a day because I walked home for lunch. It was a solid, dismal brick building with a high black iron fence with spikes on it and a solid concrete school yard. I became acquainted with loneliness and fear. I started out with the unshakable conviction that everybody knew everybody else, everybody knew what they were supposed to do and where they were supposed to go. I felt that somehow I ought to know, too, but I did not know. I was lonely. I was also afraid. I was sure that I would not be capable of doing first-grade work and often lay awake at night crying about arithmetic.

Our teacher was always called "Mith Thcott" by the girl who sat next to me. Miss Scott was a lovely woman with a soft voice, soft white hair, blue eyes, and a gentle manner. As I remember, she wore only blue dresses. Sometimes when the sun shone through the high sashed windows Miss Scott would tilt and turn a crystal prism that hung on one of the shade pulls, thus casting a thousand rainbows around the dismal room. Occasionally she would give us permission to try to "catch'' the rainbows and that forbidding schoolroom was transfigured into a place of color and laughter as we darted and lunged after the reflections.

Despite my fears I did learn where to go and what to do, and I managed to grasp first-grade arithmetic. But, I used to think, I could never do it without Miss Scott. Well, I was not required to do it without Miss Scott. Miss Scott was the teacher. Miss Scott was there precisely to teach me what I needed to know. It has taken me a good many years to realize that in the School of Faith, what I am required to do I am enabled to do. Provision has been made. I am not alone and there is nothing to fear, for "God can be trusted not to allow you to suffer any temptation beyond your powers of endurance. He will see to it that every temptation has a way out, so that it will never be impossible for you to bear it."

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Early Lessons - Page 2

* * *

Valerie's first schoolhouse was a thatched roof on six poles. It had neither walls nor floors. It had no desks, no chairs, no blackboards. It was an Indian house and her schoolbooks came by mail from the States, delivered to our jungle clearing in a small plane two or three times a month.

I, of course, was her teacher and it was a neat trick to hold her attention when Indian kids hung over her shoulder (What are you doing?), picked up her crayons (What are these?), scribbled in the textbooks (Let me try that), smelled the paper (This is made of wood), and pestered her continually to come and swim or fish or hunt for honey or fly wood bees on a length of thread. It was what Malcolm Muggeridge would call a "scandalously desultory" method of education, and when we had struggled through three years of this I decided it was time for some peer pressure and a little more order. We returned to the United States and Valerie started the fourth grade in a small-town public school in New Hampshire.

I had arranged to have the school bus pick her up, but as she stood at the bottom of the driveway on the first day of school in her new school dress holding her new lunch box (and I stood at the top of the driveway with tears in my eyes), the bus passed her by. Poor little girl, I thought, remembering my own terrors. But she was made of different stuff. I drove her to school and she ran in with a light wave of her hand. "Bye, Mama! I can find my room all right."

It did not dawn on her for a couple of weeks that the teacher was talking to her, and therefore expected her to listen. Because for three years she had had my undivided attention, she assumed that the teacher was addressing only the others. When she got this straightened out she did her work acceptably.

When she was in the fifth grade a classmate inquired as to "what kind of sex" she had had. I gave her a hug (and silently thanked God) when she told me her reply: "I won't answer a question like that."

In the seventh grade she copied an answer from someone else's test paper. In tears she confessed this to me, we talked about the sin of cheating, and I went with her to make it right with her teacher. I was unprepared for the teacher's response of self-vindication. Incredulous that a student would acknowledge such an offense, the teacher assumed at the outset that I had come to accuse her of negligence. It took several minutes before she understood that Valerie had come to say she was sorry and was willing to pay whatever penalty the teacher might set.

In the tenth grade she took a certain amount of ribbing because she wore skirts instead of blue jeans to school. "You mean your mother didn't make you? You really like skirts? Because what? You like being a girl?" She was some kind of nut. When there was only one dissenting vote (Valerie's) when the civics class agreed that the legal voting age should be reduced to sixteen she was asked for an explanation. "Well, I just don't think we know enough to vote." Incredulous stares. Some kind of nut again.

Valerie's little boy will not be starting school for three more years. I look at the children waiting for the school buses today and wonder what will be dished out to them. Will it be alternate cognitive modes, multithematic creativity programming, subjective time-distortion learning, disinhibiting emotional patterning, kinesthetic self-actualization? Or will they find a few people left in the schools who haven't discarded common sense along with wisdom and morality? Will they learn how to read, how to write a clear English sentence, how to add and subtract? Is there still the possibility that somebody, somewhere will teach them to distinguish right from wrong?

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Early Lessons - Page 3

But today's newspaper reminds us that this would be inimical to democratic principle. Morality, usually called "value judgments" nowadays, has no place, we are told, in public-school education, least of all in public-school sex education. Words such as normal, ideal, masculinity, and femininity must be expunged from teachers' vocabularies lest they inhibit the freedom of elementary-school children to choose a life-style, e.g., asexual, bisexual, homosexual, or even heterosexual. These choices are to be made, it is assumed, without any reference whatsoever to ethical responsibility, let alone to religious principles, let alone to any divine design.

Life can be unpredictable, lonely, and fearsome, as I learned in Miss Dietz's and Miss Scott's classrooms, because, as I also learned there, sin has entered into the world. Lest our hearts quail as we "turn our children loose," let us remind ourselves of the nature of the warfare in which we engage: "not against any physical enemy; it is against the unseen power that controls this dark world, and spiritual agents from the very headquarters of evil. Take your stand then with truth as your belt . . . faith as your shield . . . pray at all times." The weapons must be appropriate to the foe.

A prayer written by Amy Carmichael has been my prayer as long as I have been a mother, and I pray it now for my grandchildren:

Father, hear us, we are praying,
Hear the words our hearts are saying,
We are praying for our children.

Keep them from the powers of evil
>From the secret, hidden peril,
>From the whirlpool that would suck them,
>From the treacherous quicksand pluck them,
Holy Father, save our children.

From the worldling's hollow gladness,
>From the sting of faithless sadness,
Through life's troubled waters steer them,
Through life's bitter battle cheer them,
Father, Father, be Thou near them.

Read the language of our longing,
Read the wordless pleadings thronging,
Holy Father, for our children.

And wherever they may bide,
Lead them Home at eventide.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Keep A Quiet Heart
Scripture: Romans 8:26 Titus 2:3-5
The Path of Lonliness

Women: The Road Ahead

A special issue of a leading news magazine had this title for its theme. There were pictures of women in prison with babies; an inconsolable "crack" baby with a tangle of tubes connected to machines, crying his little heart out; a mother charged with a felony: delivery of drugs to her newborn child; women in politics "sharing real rather than cosmetic power;" a veiled Muslim woman; ten tough-minded women who "create individual rules for success," e.g. a police chief, a bishop, a rock climber, a baseball club owner, a rap artist, a fashion tycoon, an Indian chief, and others. There were single mothers, lesbian mothers, divorced mothers, working (outside the home) mothers. There was a twelve-year-old who fixes supper for her sisters when Mom works late, and there was a man who is a househusband. But there was not one picture of a father and mother and their children. Not one.

"A jockstrap was a parting gift when Marion Howington retired last year from the once all-male post of senior v.p. at J. Walter Thompson.... For Howington, a striking 60, who began climbing the agency's ladder in Chicago in 1967, the key to success was to `be aggressive' and `think like a man.'...

`There's not a woman anywhere who made it in business who is not tough, self-centered, and enormously aggressive.'"

Readers occasionally ask me why I write about horrifying stuff. Well, to precipitate prayer and to remind us that we do not engage in a war against mere flesh and blood. As Ephesians 6 says, "We are up against the unseen power that controls this dark world, and spiritual agents from the headquarters of evil...Take your stand then with truth as your belt, righteousness your breastplate, the Gospel of peace firmly on your feet, salvation as your helmet and in your hand the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God" (PHILLIPS).

There was at least one bright note in that special issue. Sixty-six percent of women aged 18-24 answered yes to the question, "If you had the opportunity, would you be interested in staying at home and raising children?" They are beginning to see that the corporate world is no day at the beach. There was encouragement also in a letter to Ann Landers from a former executive: "It suddenly dawned on me that I had my priorities bollixed up and my children deserve better. I had to admit getting fulfillment from my career was a pipe dream. It may elude me in motherhood as well, but I now know what really matters. After nine years of paying someone to raise my children, I was forced to admit my family is more important to me than anything else. I wish I had known this when my first child was born. I am now thirty-six years old and happy to say we are expecting our third child... This means cutting down on vacations, and our entertaining will be reduced to popcorn and video parties with a few old friends.... `No success in life can compensate for failure at home.'"

I had a letter from one who made it her goal to be like the godly woman of Titus 2:3-5. As usual, when one determines to obey the Lord "the enemy was there causing me to feel like my whole world is on a roller-coaster, that my family was not important, that I am worthless, lazy, because I am a homemaker. I was so tired sometimes I could barely get meals on the table. I heard remarks like, `Oh, you aren't working at all? How do you manage to live on one income? It's hard on your husband! What do you do all day? You must be bored!'

"As my husband and I listened to your program we reaffirmed the goals we had set and committed them to the Lord once more...Pray for me to be strong and of good courage and to remain faithful, with an attitude of submission, a true handmaid of the Lord."

Women need to be prayed for. They need all the encouragement they can get. Sadly, it is not always forthcoming even from other Christians. I saw a lovely girl in the market the other day with the sweetest of sweet baby girls in her grocery cart. I asked about the baby--five months old, her only child so far. "Are you able to stay home to care for her?" "Oh yes! Oh, I can't even imagine putting her in day care." I gave her my blessing. Perhaps even a brief word from a stranger can make a difference to a young mother.

Prayer lays hold of God's plan and becomes the link between His will and its accomplishment on earth. Things happen which would not happen without prayer. Let's not forget that. Amazing things happen, and we are given the privilege of being the channels of the Holy Spirit's prayer. As we pray against abortion and pornography and homosexuality and divorce and drugs and for the strengthening of homes and families, we often feel helpless and hopeless until we remember, "We do not know how to pray worthily as sons of God, but his Spirit within us is actually praying for us in those agonizing longings which never find words" (Romans 8:26, PHILLIPS).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Hope Is a Fixed Anchor - Page 1

My friend Miriam is herself a walking miracle, having recovered more than twenty years ago from cancer. Her case was so serious that the doctors told her husband not to expect her home from the hospital. The cure was so miraculous that one doctor described it this way: "If you parked your car on a hill and the brakes let go, would you expect it to roll to the top of the hill? That's how incredible this is. This cancer was supposed to travel in one direction and kill her. It went the opposite way and quit."

Miriam was the only one who could talk like a Dutch uncle to my husband when he had cancer. He would listen to her when he did not want to hear a word out of the rest of us. His hope, of course, was that he would be cured as she had been.

The more hopeless my husband's case appeared to be, the more faithfully Miriam called to remind me, "Our hope, Elisabeth, is not in radiation or surgery or chemotherapy. Our hope is not in the doctors. Our hope is in God."

One night when I went to bed I found a card on my pillow. My daughter Valerie, still a teenager, had made it, intertwining the letters with tiny colored flowers. It said HOPE IN THE LORD. With all my heart I did that. With all my heart I prayed. It has been eight years now since Add died, and the card is before me tonight as I write. I am still hoping--but for what?

Christian hope is a different sort of thing from other kinds. The Greek word used in the New Testament for hope was one which in classical literature could mean expectation of good or bad, but was used by Christians to mean that in which one confides, or to which one flees for refuge. The real essence of the word is trust.

When Lazarus died, the hopes of his two loving sisters, Mary and Martha, were dashed. Jesus, hearing the news, did not hurry to the house but stayed where he was for two more days. When he finally got to Bethany both sisters greeted him with the same words: "If only you had been here, Lord!" Martha remembered the fact of the resurrection. She knew Lazarus would rise again on the last day, but that wasn't really good enough. She wanted her brother now, and her brother was dead. The terrible thing was that he might have been alive if only Jesus had been there. Jesus said to her, "I myself am the resurrection."

This is our hope. It is a living thing. It is, in fact, Christ himself. It is also something to live by. When our hopes for healing or success or the solution to a problem or freedom from financial distress seem to come to nothing, we feel just as Martha did. Jesus might have done something about it but he didn't. We lie awake thinking about all the "if onlys.'' We wonder if it is somehow our fault that the thing didn't work. We doubt whether prayer is of any use after all. Is God up there? Is he listening? Does he care?

The Lord might very well have healed my husband's disease as wonderfully as he healed Miriam's. The simple fact is that he didn't.

HOPE IN THE LORD, says the little card. How am I to do that now? By placing my confidence in the God who promises faithfulness. He has far better things up his sleeve than we imagine. Mary and Martha had envisioned his coming and raising a sick man from his bed. He came too late. Unfortunately Lazarus was dead--so dead, Martha pointed out, that decomposition would have set in. It had not crossed their minds that they were about to see an even more astonishing thing than the one they had hoped for--a swaddled corpse answering the Master's call and walking, bound and muffled, out of the tomb.

The only difference I see in the Lazarus story and our twentieth-century stories of disappointed hopes is the matter of time. Jesus did arrive at Mary and Martha's in a matter of a couple of days, and in perhaps an hour or so after his arrival he raised Lazarus. It looks very quick and easy as we read the story, but of course the two sisters experienced all that those who love a sick person experience, and all the agony of bereavement. Sorrow ran its course. They suffered what humans always suffer, albeit for a very short time.

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Hope Is a Fixed Anchor - Page 2

The truth of the story is that God knew what was happening. Nothing was separating the grieving women from his love. He heard their prayers, counted their tears, held his peace. But he was faithful, and he was at work. He had a grand miracle in mind. The Jews who saw Jesus weep were baffled, and said just what we would have said: "Could he not have kept this man from dying if he could open that blind man's eyes?"

God's timing of the events of our world is engineered from the eternal silence. One time he heals a sick man, such as the paralytic who was lowered through a roof. Another time he lets a sick man die. Miriam's cancer receded. Add's cancer grew. Was God paying attention in the one case but not in the other? So it seemed to Mary and Martha at first. Their prayers for healing were not answered. Jesus did not come. Lazarus died. But what a glorious ending to their story! And ours? What about ours?

"Did I not tell you," Jesus asked, "that if you believed, you would see the wonder of what God can do?" Here is the clue to the lesson: It is faith he is looking for, a quiet confidence that whatever it is he is up to, it will be a wonderful thing, never mind whether it is what we have been asking for.

The usual notion of hope is a particular outcome: physical healing, for example. The Christian notion, on the other hand, is a manner of life. I rest the full weight of my hopes on Christ himself, who not only raised the dead but was himself raised, and says to me in the face of all deaths, "I myself am the resurrection." The duration of my suffering may be longer than that of Lazarus's sisters, but if I believe, trust, flee to God for refuge, I am safe even in my sorrow, I am held by the confidence of God's utter trustworthiness. He is at work, producing miracles I haven't imagined. I must wait for them. The Book of the Revelation describes some of them. The intricacies of his sovereign will and the pace at which he effects it ("deliberate speed, majestic instancy") are beyond me now, but I am sure his plan is in operation.

HOPE IN THE LORD. Doctors, chemotherapy, surgery, radiation might very well have been a part of God's plan, methods he might have used to answer our prayers for a complete cure for my husband. They evidently were not. But that was not where our hopes really lay. They lay then, as they lie now, on the faithfulness of the One who died for us and rose again.

What God promised to Abraham ("Surely blessing I will bless thee") he promises to us. We have two "utterly immutable things, the word of God and the oath of God, who cannot lie," according to the Book of Hebrews. Therefore we who are refugees from this dying world have a source of strength. We can grasp "the hope he holds out to us. This hope we hold as the utterly reliable anchor for our souls, fixed in the innermost shrine of Heaven, where Jesus has already entered on our behalf" (6:19, 20 PHILLIPS).

I don't know, when I'm asking for something here on earth, what is going on in the innermost shrine of Heaven (I like to think about it, though). I am sure of one thing: it is good. Because Jesus is there. Jesus loves me. Jesus has gone into that shrine on my behalf. The hope we have is a living hope, an unassailable one. We wait for it, in faith and patience. Christ is the resurrection and the life. No wonder Easter is the greatest of Christian feast days! No wonder Christians sing!

The powers of death have done their worst,
But Christ their legions hath dispersed:
Let shout of holy joy outburst.
Alleluia!

The three sad days are quickly sped,
He rises glorious from the dead;
All glory to our risen Head!
Alleluia!

Lord! By the stripes which wounded thee,
>From death's dread sting thy servants free,
That we may live and sing to thee.
Alleluia!

Latin 1695--Episcopal Hymnal

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture: Psalm 84:5 Psalm 145:18-19 Psalm 84:11
The Path of Lonliness

But I Don't Feel Called - Page 1

A seminary student stopped me a few days ago to ask the question that troubles many young people today. It is not new. I struggled with it when I was a student, as I suppose people have for many centuries. "How can I tell if God is calling me? I don't really feel called."

Usually the question refers to a life's work. Nobody seems to stew very much about whether God is calling them to run down to the grocery store or take in a movie. We need groceries. We like movies. If the refrigerator is empty or there's a good movie in town, we jump into the car and go. Even Christians do this. Spiritual "giants" do it, I guess. They don't even pray about it. But this matter of the mission field. Oh, God, do you want me there? Shall I risk everything and launch out to some third world backwater, some waterless desert, some dreadful place where there are starving children, refugees, Marxists, dictators? Are you asking me to drag my wife, my children, to a place like that?

The call of God to Saul of Tarsus was dramatic--he was blinded, knocked flat, and clearly spoken to. God got his attention. But later in Antioch the Holy Spirit spoke to certain prophets and teachers. "Set apart Barnabas and Saul for me, to do the work to which I have called them." That was good enough. Barnabas and Saul obeyed the divine call, even though it came through other men.

It was during the Mass of the Feast of St. Matthias, in a chapel in the midst of a great, silent forest, that Francis of Assisi heard the call of God. It was not through an angel or a disembodied voice from beyond, but through the reading of the Gospel for that day: "Go and preach the message, 'The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand!' ...Freely you have received, freely give." When the young man heard the words read by the priest, he felt that God had finally illumined his path. He did not, however, trust his feelings. He asked the priest to explain the passage. The priest said that Christ's disciples were to preach repentance everywhere, to take nothing with them, and to trust God alone to supply their needs.

Francis thrilled with happiness at this revelation and exclaimed enthusiastically: "That is what I want! That is what I seek! That is what I long to do with all my heart!" On the instant, he threw away his staff, took off his shoes, and laid aside his cloak, keeping only a tunic; replaced his leather belt with a cord, and made himself a rough garment, so poor and so badly cut that it could inspire envy in no man.

Omer Englebert
St. Francis of Assisi

There are at least six lessons in this short story:

1. The man wanted God's direction.
2. He went to church, where he could hear godly preaching.
3. He listened to the Word of God.
4. He asked for help from one who was his spiritual superior.
5. He accepted the help.
6. He acted at once.

It is significant that he found in the words of the Lord the answer to a deep longing in his heart.

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Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture: 1 Corinthians 11:32 Deuteronomy 1:27-32 Hebrews 12:6-8
The Path of Lonliness

The Comfort of Discipline - Page 1

Too many parents today hate their children. We saw it a couple of weeks ago, and in church at that. Lars and I attended a very small church where there was a very large number of small children. The creaking of pews, rustling of books and papers, dropping of crayons and toys and offering-plate nickels, talking, crying, and traipsing up and down the aisles for trips to the rest room all made it quite impossible to listen to the sermon. One child who was sitting with his father in front of us was passed forward over the back of the pew to his mother. Immediately he wanted daddy. Back over the pew again, headfirst into his father's lap. In a few minutes, up to mommy. So it went.

A week later we went to a much larger church with over a hundred children present. They were quiet. We were amazed, and later questioned a couple who were members there. ''We believe Christian parents should control their children," they said simply. Where did they get that idea, we wanted to know. Well, from the Bible. The Book of Proverbs speaks repeatedly of the use of the rod. One reference is in chapter 13: "A father who spares the rod hates his son, but one who loves him keeps him in order." The implication is clear: The keeping of order, where children are concerned, sometimes requires the use of the rod.

In the small church, it seemed, they hated their children. In the big one they loved them. They were taught (from the pulpit, the couple told us) to love them according to the Bible's definition of love: Keep them in order.

My dear friend Mari, the wife of a Welsh shepherd, writes often about lessons she learns from watching sheep. In a letter to me she described a very hard winter:

All the sheep were brought down from the mountain early, about one thousand breeding ewes. Two hundred are wintering in a lowland farm while the others are hand-fed here with hay and maize. The grass is covered with snow...When John wants to move sheep or cows from one pasture to another it is a hopeless job when the lambs or calves take to running their own way. They will be followed invariably by their mothers, who will go headlong after their offspring, blindly, in their care for them. What chaos! If only the parents would stay where they were, holding their ground, defending their standpoint, the little ones would eventually return to them and would willingly be led together to the right place.

Although our men are fighting hard against nature's elements these days, even that's easier than fighting unchanged, selfish human nature. I wonder: are the sheep and cows a true picture of what's happening in the world? Road men refuse to grit and salt the snow-covered roads; dustmen, gravediggers, and others are pressing for more money. It is so true that money is the source of all evils. If it isn't the capitalists it's the workers. This has been true in every generation. But now parents are leaning backwards to please their children, afraid of displeasing them. Teachers live in fear of their pupils at school, bosses are afraid of the workers, the government of trade unions. It's anarchy.

Anarchy is the complete absence of order and authority. It's what lambs and calves like. It's what people like too--for themselves. (It's another matter when the neighbors scorn order and authority.) A Houston high school principal described the new educational system as a "cross-graded, multi-ethnic, individualized, open-ended learning program with the main objective being to learn respect for the uniqueness of a person." Maybe that's what the parents in the little church were aiming for. It was open-ended, all right, and each unique little individual was doing his or her not particularly unique thing. The result was chaos, if not downright anarchy. A short lesson, emphasized in the vestibule with a narrow "board of education," i.e., a rod, might have done wonders to teach small individuals respect for the persons around them, who were there not to provide an audience for their antics but to worship.

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The Comfort of Discipline - Page 2

The trouble starts, of course, not when the kids tumble out of the station wagon and charge into church. It starts at home, before they can walk, with parents who believe that love means giving them what they want and letting them do what they choose. They don't like ordinary food. They blow it out when they're babies and throw it on the floor or down the garbage grinder later on. They scream for other foods, and their screams are rewarded. If screams don't do the trick, tantrums will, especially in public. (Watch them around the gumball machine in any supermarket. The initial "No" is quickly reversed.) A child who doesn't throw tantrums can use another weapon--he can go into a sulk. His parents pity him and this teaches him to pity himself. When things don't go his way he knows that he has a right to resentment. The spiritual implications in later life of this kind of early training are disastrous: ''If God loves me he will give me what I want. If he does not give me what I want he does not love me." That isn't what the Bible teaches, of course, but it's what a child may conclude if his parents operate this way.

Training children, like corralling calves and lambs, is a great deal of trouble. It takes sacrifice. It's much easier to let them go. But you can't do that if you care about them. Only the one who cares about them will go to the trouble of bringing them under control. "The good shepherd gives his life for the sheep." The sheep don't take kindly to the crook he uses, to the dogs who herd them where they don't want to go, or to the disinfectant baths they are plunged into. It is the shepherd's sole purpose to take care of them, to see to their well-being according to his wisdom, not according to their whims.

My parents loved us enough to make us wear galoshes (those awful things with black metal clasps) when "nobody else had to wear them"; to see to it that we got five meals a day (three for the body and two for the soul, the latter including hymns, Bible reading, and prayer); to say no to things like candy or coming in when we felt like it, or skipping piano lessons and church; to give us chores to do around the house and to make it clear that if we didn't do them they wouldn't get done; to give us an allowance even during the Depression and teach us that some of it belonged to God; to stick by what they had said--line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little. They drew lines. We knew where they were drawn. They didn't move them. They knew more about life than we did, and had a fairly clear picture of what was good for us. Like other kids we complained that they didn't love us or they would do so-and-so. "When you have children of your own," Mother would often say, "you can let them do that if you want to." She knew we wouldn't want to--if we loved them.

We've got it backwards--love says don't restrain, hate says restrain. God puts it the other way: "The Lord disciplines him whom he loves, and chastises every son whom he receives. . . . If you are left without discipline . . . then you are illegitimate children and not sons" (Hebrews 12:6, 8 RSV). "When we fall under the Lord's judgment, he is disciplining us, to save us from being condemned with the rest of the world" (1 Corinthians 11:32 NEB).

It is not difficult for adults to see what's wrong with other parents and other people's children. But how blind we are in our childish reactions to the dealings of a kind Heavenly Father! The motive for discipline is love. Its purpose is salvation. The people of Israel muttered treason against him and said, the Lord hated us that he brought us out of Egypt" (Deuteronomy 1:27 NEB). Freed from slavery, they missed onions. Led by the Lord of Hosts himself with his angels and a pillar of cloud and fire, they were terrified of the Amorites. "You saw how the Lord your God carried you all the way to this place as a father carries his son. In spite of this you did not trust the Lord your God" (verse 32).

Discipline or "chastening" can be a painful thing for us poor mortals. We think only of the "rod" itself--the hard experience, the prayer that was answered with a No, the shattered hope, the misunderstanding, the blow to pride--forgetting the loving Hand that administers the lesson and the Savior who like a shepherd leads us. We forget how much we need his tender care.

As parents, let us faithfully remember that the keeping of order sometimes requires the use of the rod. As children of the Father and sheep of his pasture, let us remember humbly to accept his discipline, praying:

We are Thine, do Thou befriend us, be the Guardian of our way;
Keep Thy flock, from sin defend us, seek us when we go astray.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Truth Telling - Page 1

I built a house in New Hampshire a few years ago. The bulldozing for the foundation had barely begun when a shiny car drove up and out stepped a man dressed in very clean work clothes. He took off his hard hat and introduced himself as "the best gosh-darn well-driller in the whole North Country." I needed a well, and he drilled it and did a good job. After that he would drop by whenever he had work in the neighborhood. The coffee I gave him was a small price to pay to hear him talk. He held opinions about everything and was afraid of nothing and nobody. And he certainly knew how to tell a story. I listened enthralled. He had his own way of running a business ("We need your business--our business is going in the hole" was his motto, painted on the side of his drilling rigs) and his own code of ethics, both of which worked fine for him.

"I've worked for people, and I'm not lying to you," he said one day. "You can call my wife right up and she'll go over the checkbook, and I'll bet you over the last five years there's been fifteen people I've gone and drilled a well for and give 'em two percent off if they pay in ten days. Well, like the money'd be coming from the bank or something and it might go thirty days and the people were honest, they wouldn't take their two percent and I'd send it back. Now how many guys will send back money once they get it? Like, it'd be a two-thousand-dollar job and that'd be, what, forty dollars? Yeah. You can ask my wife and she'll show you the checkbook. Because I just don't do things that way, I mean that, life's too short.

"Now let's say you're in business. You're doin' something so let's say I go and say, 'Well, heck, don't hire Betty Elliot, she don't know what she's doin'.' Well, all right, they may go and hire you anyway and you may do the best job in the world. Now isn't that gonna make me look stupid? Sometimes I go to look at a job and a guy'll say to me he can get somebody else to drill his well for six dollars a foot when I'm asking seven. I'll say to him, 'You know I didn't come up here to give you an education about my competition, I never give 'em a thought. All I know is I know what I'm doin' and I've got something to show for it. If you need this well drilled I can drill it. As far as I'm concerned half my competition stinks, but if you want to ask me to come here to see you about a well I'm not comin' here to run down my competition because the idea of it is you might hire one of my competitors and he might do a wonderful job and then you can say, "Well, I don't know what on earth he was shootin' off his mouth about." ' I can't see that kind of business, can you? Life's too short.

"But the way I look at life is that no matter who it is--so long as they're somewheres near square--everybody's gotta get a living. I mean I'm not planning to drill all the wells, but so what if I don't? I do what I can, and I do it good. The other guy's gotta eat, he's got a wife and kids, too, so what's the difference?

"I never charge anything for setting up the rig, either. A lot of guys, they want three hundred dollars for setting up and they want their money the day they're done drillin', but then if you got to put the pump in and there's something wrong, well, what're you gonna do? You've had it, and you've got to stop payment on a check, you gotta work fast. But I don't do things that way. I'm not interested in it. But you've gotta go out there and do something and life is short. If you gotta be crooked on everything you do and you can't look people in the face, you know full well they think you're a crook and it's a pretty short world to be doin' that all the time, I would say."

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Truth Telling - Page 2

It is a short world, and it doesn't take more brains than most of us have to figure out that honesty is a good thing if it helps business and keeps us from looking too stupid. It's the best policy, obviously, but it isn't usually much more than that. It's one of those things, along with eating and dieting, taxation, religion, and loving your neighbor, that we all feel can be carried too far. Too far, that is, if the matter concerns ourselves.

"The people in your organization are certainly the most honest bunch I've ever seen," a woman said to a friend of mine.

"Honest? How do you mean?"

"Well, honest about each other."

We can stand a lot of honesty that concerns other people, and we jump to the defense of protesters so long as they're protesting things for which we're not directly responsible. But we are marvelously uncritical and generous when it comes right down to the nitty-gritty of our private lives. You won't catch us carrying things to extremes there.

People do overeat, but it hasn't been my problem. Dieting, on the other hand, can be carried too far and that piece of pie does look delicious. As for religion, a good thing, of course--an excellent thing if you don't get too much of it at once. And I'm willing to pay my taxes. I understand that the country can't run without them, but this bill, now. . . . Loving my neighbor? I do. But how far do you think a person ought to be expected to go anyhow?

At a camp where my husband worked for several summers the counselors had to grade each camper on certain character traits. Was he, for example, exceptionally, moderately, or fairly honest?

A man in Elmhurst, Illinois, found two Brinks money bags containing $183,000. He threw them, unopened, into the trunk of his car and for four days wondered what to do with them. (He mentioned later that he did not even think to tell his wife. I think she would have known what to do.)

"I didn't know it was money," he told newsmen. "I thought it might be mail. I forgot about them until I began reading stories in the paper. Then I realized what I had. I had always daydreamed about finding a lot of money, but it became a reality and things changed. I had to call."

Asked why he didn't break the seals on the bags he said, "You don't break seals on people's parcels. That would muddle things considerably. I'm an honest man within reasonable limits."

The Brinks company awarded him $18,000 for his honesty, which raises the question of whether his was, in fact, a "reasonable" honesty, for if he had been dishonest he might possibly have succeeded in keeping the $183,000 for himself, along with, at the very least, some sleepless nights.

It is a short world, and if this is the only world, we can play it like a game--fair and somewhere near square. That ought to be good enough, and a man ought to be allowed to get what he's willing to pay for.

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Truth Telling - Page 3

But what about gaining the whole world and losing your own soul? Those words apply to another world altogether, the long one, where the rules are not the same at all, where things like poverty and meekness and sorrow and hunger and purity of heart lead to happiness. Then, too, the Rule Book has things about living "honestly in all things," "providing for honest things, not only in the sight of the Lord, but also in the sight of men," and (who can stand up to this one?) about the Lord's desiring "truth in the inward parts." It is what I would have to call an unreasonable honesty, beyond any of us, and we have to call out, "Lord' save me!" And that is what he does.

* * *

Recently I met a friend for lunch whom I had not seen for twenty years. As I approached the restaurant I was thinking the usual thoughts: Will she have changed much? Will I recognize her? Will we be able to find things to talk about?

I saw her as soon as I got there, and I knew that if I said, "Why, Helen, you haven't changed a bit! " it would be a bald lie. The truth was that Helen was beautiful now. She had never been a beauty in college. The years and her experiences (some of them of a kind of suffering I knew nothing about) had given her a deep womanliness, a kind of tender strength. Her eyes glowed, there was passion about her mouth, and the lines of her face revealed a strength of character she could not have had when she was a college student. So, instead of the usual pleasantries, I simply started with the truth. I told her what I saw in her face. Of course she was taken aback, but I am sure that this unorthodox beginning did not render further conversation more difficult. We were able to get down to the real things in life, things that matter and that had changed us both, rather than spending an hour on the ages of our children, their mates and careers, and our latest diets and recipes.

We all know that the truth often hurts. We use this cliche as a defense for having hurt someone, and sometimes it is indeed necessary to tell this kind of truth. But there is truth which does not hurt--truth which encourages and surprises with delight and gratitude. What if a teacher sees that a colleague of hers has succeeded in breaking down the resistance of a pupil who has been the despair of the other teachers, the talk of the faculty lunchroom? The change in the student is noticed, a sigh of relief is heaved, but who goes to the teacher herself and says, "Thanks! You've done what the rest of us couldn't do!" How many are free enough from themselves to recognize the worth of others and to speak of it honestly?

A lady who is a good many years older than I tells me often of the aunt who was a mother to her throughout her childhood. "Auntie'' impressed her with the need to tell the truth--the welcome kind--and she would add emphatically, "Tell them now." My friend calls me on the telephone--sometimes to thank me for a note or a little gift, sometimes to tell me what my friendship means to her.

"You remember what Auntie always said," she will say, ''so, I'm telling you now." There would be no way for me to exaggerate how she has cheered and helped me.

I was talking with a lady who had been a missionary for forty years, and I noticed that she had exceptionally lovely hands. "Has anyone ever told you your hands are beautiful?'' I asked. The dear soul was so flustered one might have thought I had committed an indecency. She looked at her hands in amazement.

"Why . . . why no. I don't think anyone ever has!'' But she saw that I meant it, and she had the grace to hear the truth. She said thank you.

"Tell it like it is," is the watchword today. But suppose it's lovely? Suppose it's actually beautiful? C. S. Lewis said that the most fatal of all nonconductors is embarrassment. It seems to me that life is all too short to let embarrassment deprive us and our friends of the pleasure of telling the happy truth. Suppose the boy who does your lawn does it fast, trims it perfectly, and takes care of the tools? Suppose the clerk who waits on you happens to be the most gracious one you've ever encountered? Suppose even that your husband--when you stop for once to look at him, to think about him as a person and as a man--seems to you to be the best man you know?

Tell them.

Tell them now.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture: Psalm 139:8
The Path of Lonliness

In A Hospital Waiting Room

I have been a patient in a hospital only once, when I was six years old and had my tonsils out. But during my husband's last illness I saw what that life was like. If you are in terrible pain or have broken an arm or leg, the huge gray cluster of buildings can look like heaven, for inside are people who can do wonderful things to help. For a woman about to have a baby the hospital is full of anticipation and happiness. But for those who do not know what their disease may be, or who have been told that it is, finally, just what they most dreaded, the experience of going to the hospital can be an overpowering one of terror and horror and helplessness.

If one arrives in such a state, who can describe the effect of walking through the big glass doors into the bustling lobby of a city hospital where some rush around with many things to do and some wait? Nurses, doctors, visitors, and ambulance drivers come and go. Others sit silently, some in wheelchairs (the ever-patient patients), waiting for someone, waiting to be taken somewhere, waiting for some dreaded or hoped-for word.

As we came through the doors a young man came toward us, using a new pair of crutches with the one leg left to him. A middle-aged couple wheeled a grown-up retarded son toward a waiting taxi. A stretcher with a blanketed form on it was brought in from a police ambulance. A very tall black youth carried two potted plants done up in rustling green paper.

People stood at the reception desk waiting to ask where to find a patient or a department or a doctor. The harried receptionist hardly looked at the questioners, giving out her short, practiced replies as though she had been affronted. We joined the line, got directions for the radiation department, and took the elevator to the fifth floor, where we were told to follow the blue painted line on the hall floor. A boy who looked too young to be an orderly was pushing a wheelchair down the hall. A gray-haired lady sat in the chair weeping. Another boy raced around the corner, clipped the young orderly on the shoulder, and the two exchanged some unintelligible banter behind the weeping woman's back.

We found the waiting room for the radiation department. It was nearly full, but we hung up our coats and found places to sit. I was in that state of exquisite sensitivity described so well in the Psalms in words such as these: "I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax, it is melted within my breast; my strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue cleaves to my jaws; thou dost lay me in the dust of the earth." Water, wax, broken pots, dust. Not much to fortify us there. "Lord, have mercy on us," I said (not aloud), "Christ, have mercy on us."

It was a winter afternoon and grew dark early. The only window in the room looked out on a gray brick wall.

A man with a large swelling on his neck, outlined in red ink, came in and put on his coat and left, his treatment over for that day. Then a little boy arrived with his mother. He had a red square with an X in it painted on each temple. Christ, have mercy on us. How can we endure?

The mother and son took off their coats, the mother sat down, but the boy was rambunctious and found things to do--messing up magazines, tipping over an ashtray, blowing out the match as his mother tried to light a cigarette.

Husbands and wives sat talking quietly and, I noticed, always kindly. One couple caught my attention particularly. They were shabbily dressed, and the man was badly crippled. It was the wife, however, who was there for radiation. I watched them talk to each other. They had courage, and they were quite evidently in love. Those who had been there before had become a fellowship. They waved, smiled, greeted each other. How could they? How did they manage to carry on in so normal a fashion?

Almost imperceptibly the picture began to take on a new color for me. An older lady in a pale green uniform came into the room, smiled at all of us, and asked if anyone would like coffee or ginger ale. I will always remember what that smile did for me, and the gracious, simple way in which she handed the beverages.

The nurse who came to call the patients for their treatments had a smile, too, and a cheerful voice (but not the forced cheerfulness of which nurses are so often accused). As she walked out of the waiting room with a patient, she put her arm around him. That touch (I wonder if she will ever know this?) was redemptive.

We had a long wait and I tried to read, but I kept looking up and watching what was going on in that crowded little room. The lady with the coffee I saw as our hostess, and I thought of the word graciousness, the highest compliment paid to a hostess. What she does comes out of what she is herself, but she forgets herself completely. Her only thought is the comfort and ease of her guests. This lady was, I suppose, a volunteer. She gave herself and her time and expected nothing in return, but she smiled and brought to that dark place an unexpected shining.

An old man waiting for his treatment called the rambunctious little boy over and began to do tricks with pennies for him. Soon the mother was smiling, others were watching as the boy's face lit up with surprise and delight.

It came to me then that what made that room shine was the action of grace. "If I make my bed in hell," wrote the psalmist, "behold, Thou art there." That hospital had seemed to me the vestibule of hell an hour earlier. But behold, God was there--in the lady in green, in the nurse who by her touch brought comfort and courage, in the couple whose love showed through, in the man doing tricks.

Grace is a marvelous but elusive word. "Unmerited favor" is the definition most of us know. It means self-giving, too, and springs from the person's own being without condition or consideration of whether the object is deserving. Grace may be unnoticed. But there are usually some who will notice. "Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound," wrote St. Paul. And those who are in a desperation of suffering will notice it, will notice even its lightest touch, and will hold it a precious, an incalculably valuable thing.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Boredom

In the book A Sort of Life Graham Greene tells how he has struggled, ever since he was very young, to fend off boredom. He once had a dentist extract ("but with ether") a perfectly good tooth for no better reason than that he was bored and this seemed like an interesting diversion. He tried several times to commit suicide and six times played Russian roulette, using a revolver with six chambers--a dangerous game, but not, heaven help us, boring.

Dorothy Parker was famous for her wit before she was thirty. She had great charm, a fine education, a fascinating kind of beauty, and many interesting friends. But she was utterly bored. She, too, thought of suicide, and was quoted in John Keats' book You Might As Well Live as saying:

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Her life story seemed to me the exact illustration of acedia, or accidie, which is an old word for boredom, but a word that includes depression, sloth, irritability, lazy languor, and bitterness. "This rotten sin," wrote Chaucer, "maketh a man heavy, wrathful and raw." Poor Miss Parker had been so irritable and raw with people--she had treated even her friends unspeakably badly--that she spent her last years alone in a hotel in New York, her pitiful, neglected dogs and her liquor bottles almost her only companions.

Gertrude Behanna says, on her record, "God Isn't Dead," that she has come to believe that it is a real sin to bore people. When we stop to think about it, most of us would readily agree. But how many of us have thought of boredom itself, so long as it affects only ourselves, as a sin? The Bible speaks of joy as a Christian virtue. It is one of the fruits of the Spirit, and often we find that it characterizes the people of God whose stories we read in the Bible. The worship of God in the Old Testament was accompanied by the most hilarious demonstrations of gladness--dancing, shouting, and music-making. (This was to me one of the most impressive features of life in modern Israel when I visited there.)

Joy is not a word we use much nowadays. We think of it poetically as the opposite of sorrow, another word that does not often come into conversation. Both words represent experiences one does not normally have every day.

But I think we are mistaken. I think joy is meant to be an everyday experience, and as such it is the exact opposite of boredom, which seems to be the everyday experience (am I being overly pessimistic?) of most Americans. I get the impression that everybody is always hoping for a chance to get away from it all, relax, unwind, get out of these four walls, find somewhere, somehow, some action or excitement. Advertising, of course, has done a splendid job of creating in us greed for things we would never have thought of wanting, and thereby convincing us that whatever we have is intolerably boring. Attributing human wants to animals, we easily swallow the TV commercials that tell us that Morris the cat doesn't want tuna fish every day, he wants eight different flavors.

"Godliness with contentment is great gain.'' Those words were written a long time ago to a young man by an older man who had experienced almost the gamut of human suffering, including being chained day and night to a prison guard. Contentment is another word which has fallen into disuse. We think of it, perhaps, in connection with cows--the best milk comes from contented ones, doesn't it?--but it doesn't take much to content a cow. Peace and fodder are probably all it asks. We are not cows. What does it take to content us? How could Paul, after what he had been through, write as he did to Timothy?

C. S. Lewis, one of the most godly and civilized men I have ever heard of, exemplified what Paul was getting at. Lewis wrote that he was never bored by routine. In fact, he said, he liked it. He had what his anthologist Clyde S. Kilby called "a mind awake." Why should routine spoil it? Pictures of him show a joyful man. But he was not a man unacquainted with poverty, hard work, and suffering any more than Paul was. He knew them, but he knew, too, what lay beyond. "All joy," he wrote to a friend, "(as distinct from mere pleasure, still more amusement) emphasizes our pilgrim status; always reminds, beckons, awakens desire. Our best havings are wantings."

Those wantings lie in the deepest places of our being, and they are for the kind of joy that, according to Lewis, is "the serious business of heaven." So we waste our time, our money, and our energies when we pursue so frantically the pleasures which we hope will bring us relief from boredom. We end up bored with everything and everybody. Work which can be joyful if accepted as a part of the eternal order and a means to serve, becomes only drudgery. Our pettiest difficulties, not to mention our big ones, are cause for nothing but complaint and self-pity. All circumstances not deliberately arranged by us look like obstacles to be rid of. We consume much and produce little; we get depressed, and depression is actually dangerous and destructive.

But there is another way. Paul made it perfectly clear that his contentment had nothing to do with how desirable his circumstances were. "I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions and calamities." It is no list of amusements. How, then, did it work? It worked by a mysterious transforming power, something that reversed things like weakness and hardship, making them into strength and joy. Is there any chance that it will work for us? Is there for us, too, an antidote for boredom? The promise of Christ was not for Paul alone. "My grace is sufficient for you." It's a gift to be accepted. If we refuse it, nothing will be enough and boredom will be the story of our lives.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Some of My Best Friends Are Books - Page 1

I have almost always been surrounded by books. I wouldn't be surprised if my mother put some in the crib along with my toys, just to get me used to them early. The first house I remember living in was one of those double ones of which there are hundreds in the suburbs of Philadelphia. We lived in Germantown, in what was probably a cramped house (although to me as a child it seemed large) and there were books in the living room, books in the dining room, books in all of the bedrooms and tall bookcases lining the halls. My father came home at night with a briefcase full of papers and books.

Before I could read much myself I looked at picture books, like everybody else. I remember the lovely women and elegantly handsome men in Charles Dana Gibson's book of drawings. I went back again and again to an animal book which had a horrifyingly hideous photo of an angry gorilla with teeth bared. The beautiful little pictures in Beatrix Potter's books of neatly furred small animals gave me a delicious feeling of order and comfort. My mother read these aloud to me, and how eagerly I stooped with Lucie to enter Mrs. Tiggywinkle's laundry; or accompanied Simpkin the cat as he made his way through Gloucester's snowy lanes. Mr. MacGregor was a big, bad bogeyman to me. Mother read, too, the Christopher Robin stories, and I found myself identifying her with Kanga, my older brother Phil with Pooh, Dave with Piglet, and myself, alas but inescapably, with Eeyore.

Evenings at home were often spent with the whole family sitting together, each with his head in a book. Or at times my father would read aloud. He bored us to death reading passages from Jonathan Edwards, George Whitefield, or George Borrow. The Bible in Spain was ''good writing," he said, and he wanted us to hear it. He loved good writing, and as an editor had to read an awful lot of appallingly bad writing, but I am grateful now for his efforts to teach us the difference. He also read sometimes to us from Henry A. Shute's Real Diary of a Real Boy, which got the closest thing to a belly laugh I ever heard out of my sedate father.

A big dictionary was always within reach of the dining room table because it was there that arguments most frequently arose over words. He wanted them quickly settled, and made us look up the words in question.

A part of each summer was spent at ''The Cottage," a big old lodge-type house in the White Mountains built by my great-great uncle, who was, among other things, editor of the New York Journal of Commerce and a writer of books. His bedroom on the second floor, an enormous paneled one with a huge fireplace, had hardly been rearranged at all since he died, and one wall was still lined with crumbling leather-bound books. A rainy day in the mountains was a chance for me to pore over field manuals from the Civil War, great volumes on law, Mrs. Oliphant's novels, or a tiny set, tinily printed, of the unabridged Arabian Nights.

There were magazines on the bottom shelves, too--old ones, with advertisements of Pear's soap or Glen kitchen ranges, and I found in them serialized stories by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The first full-length book I recall reading was not a piece of great literature, but it had a great effect on my malleable mind. It was called Hell on Ice, the saga of sixty men who attempted to reach the North Pole by way of the Bering Strait. Only a few survived, and I agonized with them as they froze and starved on the icy wastes. I was carried out of myself and my pleasant porch hammock into danger, suffering, and death. I became aware of vulnerability, mortality, and human courage.

To my detriment I managed to go through four years of high school without reading more than two or three classics. I had a good freshman English teacher who made me see vividly the world of chivalry and heraldry through Ivanhoe, so that I still love to visit the medieval halls of museums. In my junior or senior year I very hastily skimmed David Copperfield in order to write a book report. I may have read one or two others which I have entirely forgotten, but literature was merely a requirement. No other teacher made me understand what it was all about. (B. F. Westcott said, "It is the office of art to reveal the meaning of that which is the object of sense.")

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Some of My Best Friends Are Books - Page 2

But of course there was the Bible, in a class all by itself. This was The Book in our home, and we heard it read every day, usually twice a day. The King James English was as simple and familiar to me, with all its "beholds" and "it came to passes," as Philadelphia talk (pronounced twawk). The resonance of the Books of Moses, the cadences of the Psalms, the lucidity of the Gospel of John, the soaring rhapsodies of Paul on the love of God, the strange figures of the Book of the Revelation, all sank deeply into my heart and mind. Everything in life, I believed, had meaning as it related to what I knew of The Book.

There were many books in our home by and about people who lived by the Bible. It was in Amy Carmichael, a missionary to South India, that I found the kind of woman I wanted to be. She was at work for the Lord (an Anglican, she had founded a place for saving little girls from temple prostitution), and she took time in the midst of this to write of her experience as she walked by faith in a place where almost no one shared that faith.

A friend gave me The Imitation of Christ when I was in college, and I read it slowly, finishing it the following summer during evenings in a university stadium where I climbed up to watch the sunset.

One year when I was tutoring I came across, in the library of my pupils, a dull-looking novel called Salted With Fire. I had never heard of George MacDonald, but his writing gave me a whole new vista of the love of God. There was a shining quality to it, and a deep humanity. C. S. Lewis, I later learned, had found it, too, and did an anthology of MacDonald's work.

The biographies of missionaries--Hudson Taylor of China, James Fraser of Lisuland, David Brainerd of early New Jersey, Raymond Lull of North Africa--influenced the course of my life. Sometimes, if we can catch the sound of music that other people march to, we can fall into step.

It was when I lived in the jungle that books were hard to keep. Mold, mildew, crickets, and smoke did their worst, and I did not always have a way to transport more than one or two books at a time, or a place to keep them other than an Indian carrying net hung under the thatch. But they became even more precious, more indispensable in times when I had little contact with English-speaking people. I got around to reading some great books then--Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, Teilhard de Chardin's The Divine Milieu, Isak Dinesen's Out of Africa. Each spoke to me in some powerful, personal way.

Kafka said that books should serve as "the axe for the frozen sea within us." Tolstoy showed me my own vulnerability and need of redemption--as Flannery O'Connor does, too, in her "stories about original sin," as she describes them. De Chardin illuminated for me the immanence of God. Dinesen reveals majesty and dignity in human beings and animals as creatures of God, and the laughter at the heart of things. (In one book, Seven Gothic Tales, she touches the courage of the Creator, the power of women, a herd of unicorns, the reason for seasons, the dogs of God, angels and chamber pots, coffee and the word of the Lord, and Mary Magdalene on Good Friday Eve. Imagine the humor and courage it takes to put all that in seven stories!)

A reader understands what he reads in terms of what he is. As a Christian reader I bring to bear on the book I am reading the light of my faith. "All things are yours, for ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's," said Paul. Browning's Fra Lippo Lippi expresses it this way:

. . . This world's no blot for us, nor blank;
It means intensely, and means good:
To find its meaning is my meat and drink.

Flesh Becomes Word - Page 2

When I come to God I want words. Even though "there is not a word in my tongue but lo, O Lord, thou knowest it altogether," I want to say something to him. He knows what I look like, he knows my frame, remembers that I am dust. Does this flesh need words to speak to him? It does. There is, of course, a silence that waits on God. There is a lifting up of hands that takes the place of words. But there are times when we want desperately to speak. "Each in his own words" is all very well if you can find them, but often I find them only in the words of others.

I am troubled by the tendency today to assume that one's own words are ''better" or more sincere than someone else's. The bizarre wording of wedding invitations I have received makes me want to go and hide rather than "share the joy.'' I did actually attend a wedding ceremony composed ("created" was what they called it) by the couple themselves, complete with prayers of their own making for the minister to read. This was somehow supposed to surpass the words of the Prayer Book. It didn't. Surely it is possible to repeat in all honesty expressions which others have found to be adequate which are at the same time both noble and beautiful? Doesn't it draw one out of himself, beyond his own horizons, to participate in an ancient ceremony? Does it really follow that the substitution of something ''original" makes the thing richer?

Take the Psalms. They are human cries. Whoever wrote them knew the bottom of the barrel. He had felt his bones rot. He had sunk in slime, been ridden over, torn in two, betrayed, outraged, and bludgeoned. He knew the sweeping barrenness of loneliness, the forsakenness of grief, the bewilderment of unanswered prayer, and put them all into words that speak to my condition. So I read them back to God--with the expressions of faith and praise that punctuate the howls. "My heart is in anguish within me . . . horror overwhelms me . . . he will deliver my soul in safety from the battle that I wage" (Psalms 55:4, 5, 18); "My wounds grow foul and fester because of my foolishness . . . but for thee, O Lord, do I wait. It is thou, O Lord, who wilt answer my prayer" (Psalms 38:5, 15); "The earth reeled and rocked . . . but the Lord was my stay" (Psalms 18:7, 18).

How poor my own words would be compared to those of the Collect for Evening Prayer: "Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son Our Saviour Jesus Christ." I would be hard put to improve on Paul's prayer for the Roman Christians when I am praying for my friends (as an old lady in Canada used to pray for me, and included this prayer in nearly every letter she wrote me): "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.''

Hymns are a powerful source of strength to me. Who of us can match words like William Williams' "Guide me, O thou great Jehovah, pilgrim through this barren land" or Henry Twell's "Thy touch hath still its ancient power; No word from thee can fruitless fall; Hear in this solemn evening hour, and in thy mercy heal us all"?

In the old words of George Herbert such as "Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back" or in the more modern poetry of Amy Carmichael: "And yet we come, Thy righteousness our cover, Thy precious blood our one, our only plea; And yet we come, O Savior, Master, Lover--To whom, Lord, could we come, save unto Thee?"--in such words my own flesh (empty, dumb, aching, needy as it may be) becomes, to God, word.

Title: Spontaneity - Page 1
Book: All That Was Ever Ours
Author: Elisabeth Elliot

A boy of two was standing in a bright square of sunlight in my kitchen one morning. He lifted his hands in the slanting ray that streamed through the open door. Then he lifted his face to me--a round, sweet face with a broad smile, lit with the sun and the light of discovery. "Look at these sunshine crumbs, Aunt Betty!" he said.

That was a spontaneous remark. Spontaneity may produce some delightful results, but for something to happen spontaneously it is necessary that certain conditions be present.

The little boy's observation does not arise, "out of the blue,'' but from a personality which, even at two years of age, has already been shaped by his parents, where he lives, what he hears, how he is trained and treated.

His mind is ready and eager to receive impressions and searches at once for words to capture those impressions. His vocabulary is limited, but he knows sunshine, and he knows crumbs--so in a flash he has given a name to the thing he sees.

His fingers reach out and touch nothing. Crumbs you can touch. Sunshine crumbs, he finds, you can't touch. He has absorbed all this in a second and has made it forever his own, making it at the same time his Aunt Betty's.

I was in a Laundromat one hot summer morning in Missouri. An old woman in a cotton dress, bobby socks, and thick-soled shoes was doing her wash and greeted me cheerfully. We talked about the weather, and I told her I was from Massachusetts. When her husband came in she told him the lady was from Massachusetts, and he said the weather back East had been bad, hadn't it, and that he had been back East once.

"During the War. We was in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and they made us march on that boardwalk that goes along there by the ocean, you know that boardwalk. Well, the guy in front of me--there was a little bitty patch o' ice on the boardwalk--and the guy in front of me when he come to that patch o' ice he fell right flat on his face. And we marched on down to the end of the boardwalk and turned around and marched back again and that guy fell flat on his face again when he come to that same little bitty patch o' ice."

That was the man's conversation, in its entirety. I thought about it for quite a while afterward. It always interests me to see just what it is that triggers people's remarks. Spontaneous action, the dictionary says, occurs, or is produced, within, of its own energy or force.

The old man's story, called to mind by the ideas of weather or of ''back East" was spontaneous enough--not profound, of course, but the story and the images came out of the rich soil of his vivid experience.

Something had happened to him; his telling of it was straightforward. He wasn't concerned with the kind of impression he might be making on me. He was brief, and so clear that I'll never forget that scene during the war, the man himself, his wife, or even the Laundromat in that hot little town.

Spontaneous action may also mean "without premeditation," and this was true of what both the little boy and the old man said. Too often we are overly self-conscious; we play roles. Recently I saw a young man on television whose performance did not delight me. It depressed me.

He said, "As opposed to for example in other words in terms of borrowing from a loan company, you'd do better at a bank." He hadn't meditated much on that one. He was thinking about the setting, not about the subject.

The conditions which created his "spontaneity" were (1) the talk-show format, where you have to talk, and you have to put on a show; (2) a time allotment, which means the poor man had to keep on talking without pausing to think what he was saying; and (3) the man himself--trained to value such meaningless phrases as "for example," "as opposed to," "in other words," and "in terms of" because he thinks they sound learned.

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Spontaneity - Page 2

The man was also quite conscious of his own image in the TV monitors and had little leisure for looking clearly at the matter at hand as my nephew had looked at the dust flecks.

If spontaneity implies the existence of an inner energy to begin with, one felt that his energy had petered out by the time the man delivered his remark.

I'm being hard on him, and he was, as I have said, young. Carlyle wrote of nineteen-to-twenty-five-year-old youths that they had reached "the maximum of detestability." We have been telling ourselves that youth is beautiful and spontaneity one of the most beautiful things about youth. I wonder if spontaneity is not sometimes a euphemism for laziness--an indulgence which Carlyle found in youth. Isn't it much easier not to prepare one's mind and heart, not to premeditate, simply to have things (O, vacuous word!) "unstructured"?

If you leave a thing altogether alone in hopes that it will happen all by itself, the chances are it never will. Who learns to play the piano, wins an election, or loses weight spontaneously?

I have just read Jean Nidetch's book on the Weight Watchers, and while it is obvious that her basic theme (that people get fat because they eat) is hardly a world-shaking discovery, her method is one that made her a millionaire: get people to work at their problems together. Reducing doesn't just happen. It isn't a thing the majority succeed in doing all by themselves.

She doesn't let them make up their own diet as they go along--that's what put the fat on them in the first place. She doesn't suggest that losing weight is best done when you feel like it. She doesn't even say that it works only if you are being "yourself."

In fact, I was reminded throughout the book of how many analogies there are between losing weight and practicing Christianity. There are rules to obey. You will to obey them. Some people insist that the devotional life is somehow purer or better if it is pursued only when we feel like it. Worship for some is thought to be an "experience" rather than an act. Losing weight is also an experience--there's no doubt about that--in fact, the expression "being born again" occurs in the testimonies of those who have done it. But losing weight most certainly has to begin with an act.

It is an act of the will. You decide to do this and not to do that. You must arrange, prepare, and carefully carry out your plan. The combustion of those daily calories will happen without fail, but only when the conditions are properly set up.

Love is another thing. ''But I want it to be spontaneous," people say. They think that if nothing is happening it is good enough reason for a divorce. "If it isn't spontaneous, it isn't love," they tell us. Where did that idea get started? Do we understand what spontaneity requires?

The kind of love the Bible talks about is action, and it comes from a force and an energy within. That energy is the love of Christ. His love creates the condition of heart (it does not come from nowhere) which enables us to do things: to give a cup of cold water, to go a second mile, to "look for a way of being constructive," as Phillips' translation puts 1 Corinthians 13:4. "It is, in fact, the one thing that still stands when everything else has fallen."

Christian love is a far cry from a misunderstood spontaneity which is merely unstructured. This love is a very firm and solid thing indeed, requiring will, obedience, action, and an abiding trust in the "Strong Son of God, Immortal Love."

Observation and Silence - Page 3

What of the twenty-first century? Which of the young people I know are now laying the groundwork for being the writers or artists or, as I like to think of any who show truth in any form, the prophets for my grandchildren's grandchildren?

I wrote to the young woman:

Don't give up that yearning. During these busy years while you take care of small children and give yourself to being a godly wife and mother, lay the firm footing on which good writing must be built. Read great books if you have time to read anything at all. Get rid of the junk that comes in the mail, eschew all magazines and newspapers if your reading time is limited, and by "hearing" the really great authors, learn the sound and cadence of good English.

There are two other things required of "prophets." Observation ("What do you see?" Ezekiel and John were asked) and silence. ("The word of the Lord came to me.") Obviously we (I, at least, and most others, I suppose) are not anything like the biblical prophets. Ours is a different assignment. But we are charged with the responsibility of telling the truth, and I don't see how this can possibly be done without opening our eyes to see and our ears to hear. There must, there simply must, be time and space allowed for silence and for solitude if what we see and hear is to be "processed."

Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author of Wind, Sand, and Stars, said in a conversation with Anne Morrow Lindbergh, "The great of the earth are those who leave silence and solitude around themselves, their work and their life, and let it ripen of its own accord."

If any of the crowd we saw fishing from a breakwater as our boat entered Gloucester harbor again are among the "great of the earth," it will be against terrible odds. They, like the lady on board, were also listening to a shrieking radio.

ln the cry of gulls, in the blow of a whale, in the very stillness of an early morning, it seems to me, we are more likely to hear the Lord's quiet word.

Speak, Lord, in the stillness,
While I wait on Thee.
Hushed my heart to listen
In expectancy.

Inklings of Ignorance - Page 2

We arrive in Stavanger in time to see the Queen Elizabeth II just leaving her moorings and being towed slowly between the docks and oil tankers out to sea. We board a hydrofoil for the trip to Bergen. There is as much noise and vibration as there is in a bus, and the narrow seats, twelve abreast, allow as little legroom.

It is raining as we leave the docks. On all sides we see the monstrous dismembered anatomy of marine oil rigs. The man next to Lars points to the upturned feet of the one that capsized in the ocean some months ago, killing many men.

The vessel threads its way through miles and miles of nearly treeless, forbidding-looking islands, barely discernible through the cold fog that wraps us round. The islands are rocks, massive and smooth, rising abruptly out of the sea with a rim of black three or four feet high above the tide line, topped by a band of white--salt? guano, perhaps? A little greenery struggles for life in a few protected places in the rocks.

Is there ever any sun here? Who lives in these lonely places? There are very few houses. A man in yellow oilskins (only plastic, I suppose) passes us in a little outboard. His dog balances himself on the bow, ears flattened in the wind, muzzle lifted.

It is a scene from countless paintings, evoking a strong sense of melancholy, of "Northernness." Latitude works, I am sure, secretly and powerfully within the personality of the artist. Also, it occurs to me, of my husband. Is this a clue to the deep reserves in him?

At every port there are storage tanks: Norol, Esso, Shell. Tankers pass us, all sizes, coming and going to the North Sea platforms. People in tiny rowboats ride their wakes.

The two children who were on the train with their grandparents are in front of us. They have started on a fresh round of rolls and pastes.

A beautiful blonde teenage girl with heavily made-up eyes sits on the arm of the seat across the aisles, bouncing in time to whatever it is she is listening to on earphones connected to a black box held by her boyfriend. She is wearing a splotchy faded denim jacket covered with American obscenities printed in colored ink, Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, a T-shirt advertising Norwegian beer. She closes her eyes, rocks her head with the music, snaps her chewing gum. Then she speaks to her friend-- in Norwegian.

Four old ladies sit in a row with shopping bags at their feet, clutching large pocketbooks, wearing the ubiquitous brimless hats of their age group. (Somebody told me Queen Mother Elizabeth made these popular. They were designed so that her subjects could see her face from all angles.)

What are the old ladies talking about? I can hear them, but I cannot understand a syllable. It brings back the feeling of desperation in missionary days when a "sound barrier" stood between me and the Indians, a great chasm I could not bridge. Lars understands them. His ability to speak with perfect ease a language I am perfectly ignorant of fills me with awe. He laughs at this, of course. "An easy language." Here is a whole world where he is at home and I am a stranger.

In the three-hour voyage there is no change of light. Clouds, gloom, yet we can tell that the sun has not gone down. At nine o'clock it is as light as it was at six.

We stay in the Bibelskolen Sommerhotel in Bergen. On each bed are a pillow, a bottom sheet, and an eiderdown encased as a pillow is encased, a wonderfully cozy arrangement we have found wherever we have slept in Norway. Breakfast is a feast--bread, cheese, goat cheese, salami, tomatoes, pickles, corn flakes, hot rolls, marmalade, jam, coffee and tea, all you can eat, included in the price of the room.

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Inklings of Ignorance - Page 3

We wander around the open-air markets by the waterfront. They are filled with flowers, vegetables (one cauliflower costs five dollars), and oh, heavenly fish! Lars would rather smell fish than flowers. He cannot tear himself away from the beautiful clean rows of crab, shrimp, salmon, haddock, cod, and other varieties of seafood laid out on stainless steel. The men who sell them are no-nonsense types who wear rubber aprons and boots and wield wicked knives.

We board another train for Oslo. The station teems with thousands more backpackers. In fact, it is difficult to find anyone dressed as we are in street clothes or carrying suitcases. We both feel foreign now.

Again it is raining. We travel along a fjord where rock walls rise sheer above us. The spruces and firs drip with rain. The hay we see in an occasional small field is green and sodden on the racks.

Now a rushing river with weirs, now a green meadow where a lone fisherman casts his line at the edge. Bluebells, larkspur, cowslips, wild raspberry. I wish someone would open a window so we could smell them.

Dim, misty forests with open, moss-carpeted floors. No wonder Norsemen believed in trolls and hags! I expect to catch sight of them myself in this mysterious land.

Suddenly we see, through breaks in the clouds, patches of snow on the peaks above us. Then the view is blocked repeatedly by tunnels and snowsheds. The Bergensbanen (Bergen Line) has two hundred tunnels, three hundred bridges, and eighteen miles of snowsheds, the brochure tells us. The country between Mjølfjell and Myrdal is like the high bare country of the Andes or Scotland, a wild wasteland of snow, broken only where the wind has swept some of the black rocks clean. As we approach the lake at Taugevatn, where the altitude is over four thousand feet, a hiker moves slowly across the snow and two men in orange parkas huddle against the wind, mending a snowscreen. It is hard to realize it is July.

Then down toward Oslo. Miles of river, farms, valleys, fields of green things and bright yellow oilseed rape. The sun comes out intermittently, bringing campers out of their blue or orange tents along the riverbanks.

I will be glad when we board the plane tomorrow for London and Boston. I will soon be back at the desk in the corner of the bedroom, I hope a little humbler because, having seen a piece of Norway, I have received a little larger vision of God who made it and who loves and understands its people. New places of vision give me inklings of the magnitude of my ignorance--of the language, for instance, and of "things beyond our seeing, things beyond our hearing, things beyond our imagining, all prepared by God for those who love Him" (1 Corinthians 2:9 NEB).

I hope that I will have as well a little larger heart to love and respect the Norwegian I live with, who baffles and excites, nettles and amuses, annoys and cherishes me. A world I have barely glimpsed is home to him. What other worlds are in him that I have not begun to suspect? What revelations of glory do I have to look forward to in the man whose meals I cook and whose laundry I do, when finally the image of God is fully restored?

"Who knows what a man is but the man's own spirit within him? (1 Corinthians 2:11 NEB).

Early Lessons - Page 3

Valerie's little boy will not be starting school for three more years. I look at the children waiting for the school buses today and wonder what will be dished out to them. Will it be alternate cognitive modes, multithematic creativity programming, subjective time-distortion learning, disinhibiting emotional patterning, kinesthetic self-actualization? Or will they find a few people left in the schools who haven't discarded common sense along with wisdom and morality? Will they learn how to read, how to write a clear English sentence, how to add and subtract? Is there still the possibility that somebody, somewhere will teach them to distinguish right from wrong?

But today's newspaper reminds us that this would be inimical to democratic principle. Morality, usually called "value judgments" nowadays, has no place, we are told, in public-school education, least of all in public-school sex education. Words such as normal, ideal, masculinity, and femininity must be expunged from teachers' vocabularies lest they inhibit the freedom of elementary-school children to choose a life-style, e.g., asexual, bisexual, homosexual, or even heterosexual. These choices are to be made, it is assumed, without any reference whatsoever to ethical responsibility, let alone to religious principles, let alone to any divine design.

Life can be unpredictable, lonely, and fearsome, as I learned in Miss Dietz's and Miss Scott's classrooms, because, as I also learned there, sin has entered into the world. Lest our hearts quail as we "turn our children loose," let us remind ourselves of the nature of the warfare in which we engage: "not against any physical enemy; it is against the unseen power that controls this dark world, and spiritual agents from the very headquarters of evil. Take your stand then with truth as your belt . . . faith as your shield . . . pray at all times." The weapons must be appropriate to the foe.

A prayer written by Amy Carmichael has been my prayer as long as I have been a mother, and I pray it now for my grandchildren:

Father, hear us, we are praying,
Hear the words our hearts are saying,
We are praying for our children.

Keep them from the powers of evil
From the secret, hidden peril,
From the whirlpool that would suck them,
From the treacherous quicksand pluck them,
Holy Father, save our children.

From the worldling's hollow gladness,
From the sting of faithless sadness,
Through life's troubled waters steer them,
Through life's bitter battle cheer them,
Father, Father, be Thou near them.

Read the language of our longing,
Read the wordless pleadings thronging,
Holy Father, for our children.

And wherever they may bide,
Lead them Home at eventide.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture: Colossians 3:15
The Path of Lonliness

Christ's Parting Gift - Page 1

Odd things turn up when you are moving. Last month when we packed up the things in the old house and came to this one, I found a slip of paper with my mother's handwriting on one side and Mrs. Kershaw's on the other. One day back in the fifties my parents were going for the day to Hartford, Connecticut (from New Jersey), to visit my aunt in the hospital. Mother wrote a note to leave for Mrs. Kershaw, the dear old lady who would be coming that day as usual to help with housework.

"Please get anything you want from the refrigerator to eat. If you have time perhaps you could roll out some brown sugar cookies. The house is clean so there is nothing to do in that line.... Thanks so much. Have a good day. Lovingly, K. H."

Mrs. Kershaw wrote on the other side, "The Day's Doings," and left it for my mother. Mother is pretty good at throwing things away (lots of people are poor at that), but she also knows what is worth saving. When I read over the scrap of paper I thought of our beloved Mrs. Kershaw. I have written about her before--a widow, stone-deaf, a godsend to our home, utterly without guile or self-pity, unfailingly cheerful, who quite as a matter of course gave herself to all of us all of the time. Her list seemed exactly the paradigm I had been looking for. I wanted to write about peace. Peace is one of those abstracts we refer to rather often, but seldom with much real comprehension. "The Day's Doings" helped me to get hold of what peace is.

The Day's Doings:

1. put my soiled clothes to soak
2. had my breakfast
3. washed clothes
4. prayed for all and Alice's recovery & home safe
5. washed up dishes
6. made a fruit cup good for all
7. wrote to (her son)
8. just opened my mail, came 10:30 A.M.
9. making cookies, rolling in paper
10. getting nuts ready for top of cookies
11. resting and prayer for all
12. fixing pie filling and crust
13. resting and lunch 2 P.M. I feel lost without you to eat with.
14. washing up
15. resting and reading
16. prayer
17. making Jell-O
18. washing up. No more eats.
19. baking cookies and pie
20. washing up kitchen floor last. 6 o'clock, not a soul here. I didn't even see a stray dog. Yet happy.

Here was a life without conflict. That is what peace is. It could be argued, of course, that she had it easy: a few little undemanding household tasks to perform, a nice house in which to perform them, people who cared about her, her basic needs met. Plenty of people in this world have that and more, but would give it all for five minutes of peace--the peace that characterized the life of our little old lady.

If she had wanted to look for causes for self-pity or depression, she wouldn't have had to go far. She was old and frail, slightly crippled with arthritis; she could not hear a single sound; she had a son who almost never called or visited her; she had lost her husband; she had very few of this world's goods. But she went through her daily routines with gladness, punctuating them with prayer. She had the peace of God, which is just as Jesus described it--"nothing like the peace of this world." It was his parting gift to the disciples and to any who will simply take it. "I give you my own peace" is what he said.

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Christ's Parting Gift - Page 2

I was thinking of all this as I sat in the living room of the house we have just moved into. My books and notes were spread around me on the sofa, my clipboard was in my lap. In front of me was a vast expanse of Atlantic Ocean, framed to left and right by the fading colors of autumn woods and, at the foot of the slope between them, the raw and ragged edge of New England--a great jumble of giant rocks, bleached by the sun, clean-scoured by wind and tide. The sea itself, miles and miles of it, danced, glittered, and flashed. (''Coruscated is the word," my brother Tom Howard said on the phone when I tried to describe to him what I could see. He's been my thesaurus since he was about five.)

There was nearly perfect silence all day long. I could hear no traffic on the road. Occasionally I heard a plane, circling northeast to land at Boston's Logan Airport, or the soft thub-thub of a lobster boat's idling motor. I heard the lonely cry of seagulls and the thunder and sigh as waves broke and retreated, but it was a day full of peace. I reveled in it. I thanked God in every way I could think of.

But someone I love is in the hospital today, waiting for a diagnosis which, judging by the symptoms we know of so far, could be a grave illness. The kind of peace afforded by the quiet house set in such matchless beauty is not really enough. It is not enough for my heart.

In the same talk in which Jesus spoke of his peace, just before he left his disciples to return to the Father, he said, ''You must not be distressed and you must not be daunted. " How, Lord, can I possibly obey a command like that when trouble--serious trouble--stares me in the face? What does peace mean now? Is it merely a feeling of calm? Does it mean to be soothed or comfortable? Is it a vague sense of well-being?

I don't know anywhere to look for answers but in the same old Book. The Old Testament sense of the word peace is, among other things, perpetual prosperity, security of tenure, health, and freedom from annoyance. The list almost seemed a mockery. It would certainly be a mockery if we could see no further than natural things. The man who sees only those has a "carnal" attitude, Paul says, "and that means, bluntly, death.'' A spiritual attitude, on the other hand, means life and inward peace. The New Testament explains much more about this inward kind. It comes from God. It is a gift, the fruit of faith. It passes understanding. It is Christ himself. "He is our peace."

The peace of God means the absence of conflict with the will of God. It means harmony within, concord with his purpose for our lives.

Mrs. Kershaw was not merely adjusted to herself or her circumstances. She was, in the deepest place of her being, reconciled to God. She never took a sedative or a tonic in her life. Like the weaned child spoken of by the psalmist, no longer frantic for satisfaction, she was at rest. If you had asked her her secret, she would no doubt have given a little shrug and a little chuckle. The sweet old wrinkled face would have looked up quizzically. She would not have known what to say. She simply did what the Christians of Philippi were told to do: "Don't worry over anything whatever; tell God every detail of your needs in earnest and thankful prayer, and the peace of God, which transcends human understanding, will keep constant guard over your hearts and minds as they rest in Christ Jesus."

To make peace with a country or a person or God requires a transaction. To have peace, as people sometimes say, unless it is merely the sense of well-being that commonly goes with getting what you want, must mean that a transaction has taken place. One's will, along with everything else, has been offered up. Peace is the divine answer to our Yes, Lord.

Colossians 3:15 suggests that the peace of Christ is the "arbiter" of our hearts, ruling out all faithless response to trouble, all distress, anxiety, fretfulness, frustration, and resentment. It establishes order. Those who accept the grace of this gift know tranquillity which can withstand all assaults, a stillness unbroken by the world's noise, and a repose in the midst of intense activity--repose which a nerve-racked world cannot possibly give. For only Christ himself, who slept in the boat in the storm and then spoke calm to the wind and waves, can stand beside us when we are in a panic and say to us Peace. It will not be explainable. It transcends human understanding. And there is nothing else like it in the whole wide world.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture: Job 28:20-28
The Path of Lonliness

Fear, Suffering, Love - Page 1

I happened to arrive home alone from the airport one night in the middle of what newscasters like to call an "outage." I much prefer to call it a power failure. I could have unpacked my suitcase and found something to eat by candlelight--I lived for years with no other kind--but there was a show going on which I did not want to miss. I sat by the window and watched a storm over the ocean--driving rain and nearly continuous lightning, flashing in a hundred places along miles of horizon. Sometimes great billows of storm cloud were thrown into relief by a bright sheet of light from behind. Sometimes jagged bolts of lightning cracked the heavens, stabbing the skyline of Scituate and Cohasset to the southwest (our house faces south from Cape Ann over Massachusetts Bay). The rain swept the deck and blasted the windowpane while thunder, one of the many voices of God, rolled and crashed.

Where is the place of understanding? God understands the way to it, and he knows its place. For he looks to the ends of the earth. . . . When he made a decree for the rain and a way for the lightning of the thunder, then he saw it and declared it; he established it and searched it out. And he said to man, "Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding."

Job 28 20-28

It is well that men should fear God when they have not yet learned to love him. It is the beginning. People who have loved him, even for a lifetime, do not lose but rather gain reverence and awe, even godly dread.

Lightning is several times associated with the Lord's appearances in Scripture. The face of the man clothed in linen who came to Daniel during his three weeks' mourning and fasting was "like the appearance of lightning, his eyes like flaming torches." The same is said of the angel that rolled back the stone from Jesus' grave. John had a vision of a throne in heaven from which issued flashes of lightning and voices and peals of thunder. When the angel of the Seventh Seal took a golden censer and threw it on the earth, "there were peals of thunder, loud noises, flashing of lightning, and an earthquake."

When Mt. St. Helens exploded, it poured volcanic ash on the Northwest which floated as far as our coast. I woke one morning to find the sea shrouded in a strange pinkish brown fog.

There have been earthquakes in California and Nevada.

People call such things acts of God. They are awesome and often terrifying.

What of the acts of men? A seminary student who was in the navy for ten years told me of weapons now perfected by the Russians which would enable them to win a war without killing millions of people, but simply by knocking out our arsenals and disabling our equipment. I saw a documentary film which graphically contrasted U.S. military strength to Russia's. Our position appeared extremely precarious. A "missile eater" impressed me most--a defense weapon Russia now has which seems to annihilate missiles, snatching them out of the air before they can reach their targets.

I am not afraid for myself. But I confess I am tempted to be afraid for my grandchildren. They are with me now, a boy of three and a girl whose first birthday will be this week. What will they suffer?

The signs God gives us of his power and glory (thunder and lightning, for example), to say nothing of the unimaginable forces which he puts into men's hands and allows them to harness for their own often evil purposes, are in themselves fearsome.

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Fear, Suffering, Love - Page 2

As I watched God's storm that night I thought of his wonderful name, Father of Lights. Then as I saw the distant marine beacons sending their beams across the waves, they reminded me as they do every night of the Father's mercy. We live in a world created by his almighty power but corrupted by man's pride and selfishness. We need a place of safety--as Walter and Elisabeth need a place of safety as they grow up. There is one, but only one. It is the Father's arms. He will not--indeed, if he is to redeem and make us holy, he cannot--protect us from all suffering.

George MacDonald, in his novel What's Mine's Mine, wrote:

There are tenderhearted people who virtually object to the whole scheme of creation. They would neither have force used nor pain suffered; they talk as if kindness could do everything, even where it is not felt. Millions of human beings but for suffering would never develop an atom of affection. The man who would spare due suffering is not wise. Because a thing is unpleasant, it is folly to conclude it ought not to be. There are powers to be born, creations to be perfected, sinners to be redeemed, through the ministry of pain, to be born, perfected, redeemed, in no other way.

I am thankful that there are some earthly fathers who understand this. One of them wrote to me of a visit to the doctor with his three-year-old son who was limping as a result of a fall or a collision with a child in the church nursery.

"Walt was in the backseat as the two of us rode down to the doctor's. There, I told him to wait a minute while I checked to make sure the doctor was in his office. The receptionist told me I could catch him over at the hospital in the emergency room. I came out to the car and drove to the hospital.

"Walt III: 'Where we goin', Daddy?'

" 'We're going to see if the doctor will check your foot out at the hospital. Won't that be neat?'

"(A pause.) 'Uh . . . Daddy, I think it'll be okay if we go on home. Yeah . . . I think it'd be better after while. Whyn't we just go home, 'kay?'

" 'Son, we're going to go see if we can get the doctor to check and make sure everything is okay.'

"(A tiny hint of a whine.) 'Daddy, I'm sure it's gon' be better now, okay?'

"At the hospital: 'Walter, let's get out and go into the hospital. Everything is going to be all right. Just hold my hand.'

"In the emergency room he wanted to sit in my lap. The clerk asked the names and how we were going to pay, etc. Then the wait. We move to a row of chairs against the wall, and Walt III chooses to sit in my lap this time with more enthusiasm. His eyes are big and wide. He's very solemn, head moving around, taking it all in.

" 'Daddy, we've been here before.'

" 'Yes, Walt, we were here. Remember the time your leg was broken and Daddy put you in that green blanket and brought you here? The doctor looked at your leg and then they took you to take some pictures of your leg?'

" 'Hunh.' (That means yes.) 'I 'member dat.'

" 'Shall we pray together?' His head bows quickly.

" 'Kay.'

"A prayer in which I asked for courage for both of us. And thanking the Lord that we could trust him. Walt III much more relieved, even calmed completely.

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Fear, Suffering, Love - Page 3

"A nurse calls his name, and we go into a room to be seen by the doctor. It was hard to keep from carrying him, but I wanted the doctor to see Walt's limp, and too, I kept saying to myself, 'Let's not smother him. Let's help him grow up and learn to lean on the Lord himself.'

"In the room we both sit on the table. I take off his shoe and sock (I was fearful that the original break was damaged again) and we hear a lady crying in the next room. Walt's eyes get wide and he says,

" 'Daddy, what's the matter with that lady?'

" 'She is hurting and she is scared. Are you afraid, son?'

" 'No, Lord Jesus take care of me.'

" 'Well, let's pray for her, okay?'

" 'Kay.'

"A prayer. And sure enough, the lady seems to calm down. And the doctor's there now, asking Walt where it hurts. Then, off to x-ray. A nurse comes to talk to Walt.

" 'Now listen--if we hurt you then you can cry. But if we don't hurt you, you are not to cry, okay?'

" 'Kay.' She picks him up (he holds tightly to her, eyes very wide) and just before she takes him off he says to me, 'Daddy, we've been here before. Where you gon' be? In this room waiting for me?' (The x-ray process had terrified him when the nurse took him from us a year ago.)

" 'Yes, son, I'll be right here, waiting for you.' Fifteen minutes later the nurse brought him back to me, raving about what a neat kid he was. Apparently he had kept talking to them the entire time.

"No bones broken. We go back to the doctor. I tell Walt to be sure and thank the doctor as we leave. Walt goes about twenty feet out of his way from the exit to say, 'Thank you, doctor. We gon' to family night supper at the church.'

"Next night he happily sang to himself in the dark for about thirty minutes. I went to the bedroom to hug him and tell him,

" 'Walt, I'm proud of you for three reasons. One, you were very sweet in the tub when Mom washed your hair. Two, you make me happy singing so nicely to yourself in the dark. Three. . . .'

" 'But Daddy--you making too much racket!' Then he grabs me and hugs me, giggling.

"Thank you, Lord, for that boy!"

And thank you, Lord, for that father, strong in his faith in you, strong enough in his love for the little child to lead him also to trust you.

I am sobered by the response of a tiny boy. With reason enough to fear, he resolved not to. How often my own faith deteriorates into a mere condition, shaped by circumstances, rather than a calm resolve, founded on one whose word I have come to trust. Perfect love casts out fear.

And what of the weeping woman in the next room? Was she calmed? Would she have believed, if told, that the God of Peace had laid his hands on her--in answer to the prayers of a little boy with a hurt foot? The God who rides stormclouds is also the God of Peace. The one who makes darkness his covering is also the Father of Lights.

Daily devotions for 01-18-2007:

Title: One of Those Nineteenth-Century Missionaries
Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Devotion: Elisabeth Elliot
Book: All That Was Ever Ours
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One of Those Nineteenth-Century Missionaries - Page 1

"All generalizations are false, including this one," yet we keep making them. We create images--graven ones that can't be changed; we dismiss or accept people, products, programs, and propaganda according to the labels they come under; we know a little about something, and we treat it as though we know everything.

I couldn't count the times I've heard nineteenth-century missions and missionaries cited as examples of stupidity and failure. I heard a whole lecture predicated on this assumption. They were bigoted and imperialistic and naive and arrogant and hypocritical. Some of them probably were some of those things. Some twentieth-century missionaries might make the ones of the last century look like paragons by comparison. Missionaries are (and need we go over this again?) human like everybody else, but the world has seen some great ones, some men and women who saw something to which they witnessed with truthfulness and often with real sacrifice.

In a box of old family papers, I found a little frayed booklet put out in 1906 by the Yale Foreign Missionary Society entitled A Modern Knight, by Joseph Hopkins Twichell. It broke up some of my categories. It was the story of John Coleridge Patteson, Missionary Bishop of Melanesia. He was English ("of course," I said to myself--I think of nineteenth-century missionaries as English--my generalization).

He came from a refined English home. He was the nephew of the famous poet Coleridge and the son of an eminent jurist. He had his place "by birth," the booklet says, "in the upper circles of English society." Exactly. No categories shaken by those facts. He grew up in a "praying household, notably pervaded with the spirit of humble piety and with all sweet gospel savors. There is no mistaking the evangelical tone and quality of the religion there prevailing." He went to Eton, was confirmed in the Church of England, and graduated from Oxford, a "rarely accomplished scholar." He was elected fellow of one of the colleges of his university.

But instead of becoming a jurist like his father, John went as a missionary to the Melanesian Islands to work with people who were nearly all savages and naked and cannibalistic--a people marked by "features of repulsiveness and horrible ferocity," according to the chronicler. But it is interesting to note that Patteson himself spoke of them as men. To him they were "naturally gentlemanly and well-bred and courteous. I never saw a 'gent' (by which term I think Patteson meant one who vulgarly tries to imitate a gentleman) in Melanesia, though not a few savages. I vastly prefer the savages."

He saw that they spoke a language, not the "uncouth jargon of barbarians" as many assumed. ("They don't speak a language, do they?" people have asked me of Ecuadorian Indians. "They only make sounds.") Patteson considered some of the Melanesian languages better than English for translating the biblical Hebrew and Greek.

"He gave them his company," writes Twichell. "For years together he scarcely saw any human being save his handful of assistants and his dark-skinned Melanesians. He never married. He adopted that wild race as his family." It is Twichell who thinks of them as a wild race. Patteson "had none of the conventional talk about degraded heathen. They were brethren."

He was ecumenical in spirit, at one time having to assume charge of a mission of another denomination where he scrupulously conformed to the practices of that mission, though he admitted that he greatly missed the Prayer Book.

The nurture of the indigenous church has been thought to be a recent emphasis in missionary work. Patteson made this his primary object. He visited the islands for four to six months of each year, and spent the rest of the time instructing people of both sexes at a central location. He insisted that they return to their homes at the end of the instruction period as a test of their own progress.

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One of Those Nineteenth-Century Missionaries - Page 2

Patteson himself was up against gross misconceptions of the nature of his work, but he wrote truthfully about it. "In these introductory visits scarcely anything is done or said that resembles mission work in stories. The crowd is great, the noise greater. The heat, the dirt, the inquisitiveness, the begging, make something unlike the interesting pictures in a missionary magazine of an amiable individual very correctly got up in a white tie and black tailed coat, and a group of very attentive, decently clothed, nicely washed natives."

Patteson could not abide sentimentality, that lifeless, heartless, and ultimately cruel idol of many Christians. "One who takes a sentimental view of coral islands and coconuts is of course worse than useless," he wrote. "A man possessed with the idea that he is making a sacrifice will never do. A man who thinks any kind of work beneath him will simply be in the way." He was to be found milking cows and cutting out girls' dresses and doing things the people in England thought shocking.

"Integration" was not a word in his vocabulary as we use it today, and he deplored "that pride of race which prompts a white man to regard colored people as inferior to himself. They (the natives) have a strong sense of, and acquiescence in, their inferiority ('Does an ant know how to speak to a cow?' one of them once said) but if we treat them as inferiors they will always remain in that position."

Progress reports? "My objection to mission reports has always been that the readers want to hear of progress, and the writers are thus tempted to write of it; and may they not, without knowing it, be, at times, hasty that they may seem to be progressing? People expect too much. Because missionary work looks like failure, it does not follow that it is. Our Savior's work looked like a failure. He made no mistakes either in what He taught or in the way of teaching it, and He succeeded, though not to the eyes of men."

Patteson saw his own work as seed sowing. He was prepared to wait long and patiently and not to dig up in doubt what he had planted in faith. He gave to the handful of Melanesians whom he was training a care of instruction and discipline that was "deliberate and painstaking beyond measure."

We have heard missionaries of the last century accused of transferring European civilization to the native culture as though it were synonymous with Christianity. Patteson said, "I have long felt that there is almost harm done in trying to make these islanders like English people. They are to be Melanesian, not English, Christians. . . . Unless we can denationalize ourselves, and eliminate all that belongs to us as English and not as Christians, we cannot be to them what a well instructed countryman of theirs may be. . . . Christianity is the religion of humanity at large. It has room for all. It takes in all shades and diversities of character, race, etc."

When he was little over forty, Patteson visited an island he had never been to. He was received from his ship in a native canoe and taken to shore. The crew waited hours for his return, and at last saw two canoes leaving the beach, one towing the other which appeared to be empty. Soon the empty canoe was cast adrift while the other was paddled rapidly back to shore. Cautiously the boat's crew made toward the drifting canoe. As they drew alongside they saw the body of John Coleridge Patteson, wrapped in a mat, a palm frond laid on his chest. It was the year 1871.

The church, for the most part, has forgotten this name in the long list of its martyrs. It forgets most of what has been done and suffered, and thinks it is doing and suffering now as never before. We boast of our progress (from missions to "mission," for example) and criticize those bunglers of one hundred years ago. But criticism is an easy-chair exercise, especially when the critic does not trouble himself to look at the data but relies chiefly on what he himself feels or on "what everybody knows"--on generalizations.

Thank heaven the work of Patteson and all other missionaries, as well as the work you and I have to do today, is subject to the judgment of "a judge who is God of all," who never mistakes the counterfeit for the real, never needs to revise his categories, never lumps men together.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: All That Was Ever Ours
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Women in World Missions - Page 1

Years ago I had the great good fortune to meet an unforgettable character whose biography is entitled The Small Woman, and whose life story was told, after a fashion, in a movie called The Inn of the Sixth Happiness. She was Gladys Aylward. To hear this little creature of four feet eleven inches, dressed as a Chinese, tell her own story in a stentorian voice was a stunning experience. I remember how she took the microphone and with no preliminary nonsense whatever thundered forth, "I should like to read just one verse. 'And Jehovah God spoke to Abram and he said, "Get out!" ' " She told us the story of Abraham's faith and his move into an unknown land. Then she said, "And one day, in a little flat in London, Jehovah God spoke to a Cockney parlor maid and he said, 'Get out!' 'Where do you want me to go, Lord?' I said, and he said, 'To China.' " So Gladys Aylward went to China. And what a story that was--a train across Europe and Russia, a frying pan strapped to the outside of her suitcase, an angel's guidance in the dead of night onto a forbidden ship, a breathtaking saga of one woman's obedience to the call of God.

Some twenty-six centuries earlier, the word of the Lord came to a much more likely prospect than a parlor maid--he was the descendant of priests--and in a much more likely place than the city of London, Anathoth in the land of Benjamin. Isn't it easier to believe that the word of the Lord might come to somebody in Anathoth than in London? Or in Urbana? The man was Jeremiah, appointed a prophet of the nations, but he was reluctant to accept the appointment. "Ah, Lord God," he groaned. "Behold, I do not know how to speak for I am only a youth." But the Lord said to him, "Do not say 'I am only a youth,' for to all to whom I send you you shall go, and whatever I command you you shall speak. Be not afraid of them, for I am with you."

God's call frequently brings surprise and dismay, and a protest that one is not qualified. Jeremiah hoped he might get out of it by reminding Almighty God (in case Almighty God had not noticed) that he was too young. Gladys Aylward did not strike me as timid, but she might have called God's attention to her limitations: she too was young; she was poor; she had no education: she was no good at anything but dusting; and she was a woman. In the case of both prophet and parlor maid, however, the issue at stake was identical. The issue was obedience. Questions of intellect and experience, of age and sex, were quite beside the point. God said do this and they did it.

What is the place of women in world missions? Jesus said, ''You (and the word means all of you, male and female) are my witnesses. You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world." And there have been countless thousands who, without reference to where they came from or what they knew or who they were, have believed that Jesus meant what he said and have set themselves to follow.

Today strident female voices are raised to remind us, shrilly and ad nauseam, that women are equal with men. But such a question has never arisen in connection with the history of Christian missions. In fact, for many years, far from being excluded, women constituted the majority among foreign missionaries.

Missionary, of course, is a term which does not occur in the Bible. I like the word witness, and it is a good, biblical word meaning someone who has seen something. The virgin Mary saw an angel and heard his word and committed herself irretrievably when she said, ''Behold the handmaid of the Lord." This decision meant sacrifice--the giving up of her reputation and, for all she knew then, of her marriage and her own cherished plans. "Be it unto me according to thy word." She knew the word was from God, and she put her life on the line because of it. The thing God was asking her to do, let us not forget, was a thing that only a woman could do.

The early history of the Church mentions other women who witnessed--by ministering to Christ during his earthly work, cooking for him, probably, making a bed, providing clothes and washing them--women who were willing and glad to do whatever he needed to have done. (And some of you who despise that sort of work--would you do it if it was for him? "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren," Jesus said, "ye have done it unto me.") There was Priscilla, coadjutor of the Apostle Paul. There was a businesswoman named Lydia who opened her heart to what was said and then opened her home to those who said it. There must have been thousands of women like these who did what lay in their power to do because with all their hearts they wanted to do it. They had seen something; they had heard a word; they knew their responsibility.

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Women in World Missions - Page 2

In the conversion of the Teutonic peoples, women played an important role. Clovis, King of the Franks in the fifth century, made the mistake of marrying a Christian princess, Clotilda from Burgundy, and through her was eventually baptized. According to the Venerable Bede's account, King Ethelbert of Kent made the same mistake in the next century, and his queen, Bertha, persuaded him to allow a monk named Augustine to settle in Canterbury. Within a year ten thousand Saxons were converted.

One of the earliest of those who were actually called missionaries was Gertrude Ras Egede, a Danish woman. Although violently opposed to her husband's going to Greenland to try to find the remnants of the Church which had been lost for several centuries, she soon saw that her opposition to him was in reality opposition to God. She repented and went with her husband to what turned out to be a far cry from the ''Green Land" they had expected. It was a frigid godforsaken wasteland, where Gertrude Ras Egede died after fifteen years of hard work--generally called "labor" if a missionary does it. (We all know that missionaries don't go, they "go forth," they don't walk, they "tread the burning sands," they don't die, they "lay down their lives. " But the work gets done even if it is sentimentalized!)

Women in the United States began to swing into action for the cause of world missions in the beginning of the nineteenth century. There was a Boston Female Society for Missionary Purposes founded in 1800, and a Miss Mary Well founded what was called the Cent Society in 1802 "for females who are disposed to contribute their mite towards so noble a design as diffusion of the gospel light among the shades of darkness and superstition." There was a Fuel Society which paid for coal for young seminarians, a Boston Fragment Society which provided clothes for indigent mothers and their babies. Massachusetts and Connecticut swarmed with what were called "female missionary societies" by 1812, and by 1816 three Baptist wives, supported by these societies, were en route to Ceylon as missionaries. "If not deceived in our motives," one of them wrote, "we have been induced to leave our beloved friends and native shores to cross the tempestuous deep, from love to Christ and the souls which he died to purchase. And now we are ready, waiting with the humble hope of being employed, in his own time and way, in building up his kingdom."

I was surprised to learn that the Civil War strongly affected the progress of women in missions. It was an educative force in America, for through it women were driven to organize because of their pity for the fighting men and their patriotism. In the ten years following the war, scores of organizations, including many new missionary societies, were launched.

The nineteenth-century mind boggled at the thought of single women serving on a foreign field. A few widows were accepted, having supposedly profited by the guidance of husbands and therefore being more knowledgeable and dependable than single women could be expected to be. The first single woman on record who was sent to a foreign land was one Betsy Stockton and she was black.

Of Eleanor Macomber of Burma it was said, "No husband helped her decide the momentous question, and when she resolved, it was to go alone. With none to share her thousand cares and complexities, with no heart to keep time with the wild beatings of her own, she, a friendless woman, crossed the deep dark ocean, and on soil never trodden by the feet of Christian men, erected the banner of the Cross." This is typical of the sentimental view of missionaries which makes most of us cringe. This description was written by a man, but don't let his phrases "weak, defenseless woman" and "the wild beatings of her heart" blur the single fact of Eleanor Macomber's action. Don't stay home because you don't like the image. True faith is action. Faith cometh by hearing, and results in doing.

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Women in World Missions - Page 3

I could go on listing what women have done to prove that they have had an important role in world missions. There were Mary Slessor of Calabar, Lottie Moon of China, Amy Carmichael of India, Rosalind Goforth of China, Malla Moe of Africa--of whom it was said that although she could not preach like Peter or pray like Paul, told thousands of the love of Jesus. And besides these names there have surely been tens of thousands of nameless nuns and other anonymous women who have done what God sent them to do--and they've done it without the tub-thumping of modern egalitarian movements. They had a place and they knew they had it because Scripture says they have.

You read in your Bible from Romans 12, "All members do not have the same function." There is nothing interchangeable about the sexes, and there is nothing interchangeable about Christians. God has given gifts that differ. They differ according to the grace given to us. You and I, whether we are men or women, have nothing to do with the choice of the gift. We have everything to do with the use of the gift.

There are diversities of operations, but the same Spirit. There are varieties of personalities, but all are made in the image of God. As a woman I find clear guidance in Scripture about my position in church and home. I find no exemption from the obligations of commitment and obedience. My obligations have certainly varied from time to time and from place to place. I started my missionary work as a single woman with three other single women. There was no church, there were no believers, and there were no male missionaries. Later I was a wife and had to rearrange certain priorities in accordance with what I understood to be my job, as a wife, as a co-worker with my husband in the field, and later as a mother.

When my husband was killed by Indians, I found myself in some indefinable positions. There wasn't one missionary man left in Ecuador at that time who spoke the jungle Quechua language. There was no one to teach the young Quechua Christians, no one to lead the church, no one but women to carry on where five missionary men had left off. The door to the Auca tribe had slammed shut for those men and was, to our astonishment, opened to two women. It didn't look to me like a woman's job but God's categories are not always ours. I had to shuffle my categories many times during my last eight years of missionary work. Since coming back to the States I've had a career of sorts, I've remarried and been widowed again.

But it is the same faithful Lord who calls me by name and never loses track of my goings and reminds us all in a still, small voice, "Ye are my witnesses that ye might know and believe me and understand that I am he. " There's our primary responsibility; to know him. I can't be a witness unless I've seen something, unless I know what it is I am to testify to.

And it is the Lord of the universe who calls you--women and men--and offers you today a place in his program. Your education or lack of it, your tastes and prejudices and fears and ambitions, your age or sex or color or height or marital status or income bracket are all things which may be offered to God, after you've presented your bodies as a living sacrifice. And God knows exactly what to do with them. They're not obstacles if you hand them over. Be still and know that he is God. Sit in silence and wonder and expectancy, and never doubt that the Lord of your life has his own way of getting through to you to let you know the specifics of his will.

And if you know that you've seen something, you can add your voice to the host of witnesses like G. K. Chesterton who, in answer to the historical query of why Christianity was accepted, answers for millions of others: "Because it fits the lock; because it is like life. We are Christians not because we worship a key but because we have passed a door and felt the wind that is the trumpet of liberty blow over the land of the living."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture: Revelation 7:17
The Path of Lonliness

Animals, My Kinsman

While driving recently I was listening to one of those "call-in" shows on the radio, and was glad to hear a question that had nothing to do with politics or abortion or the drug problem. A lady wanted to know whether mongrels were ever trained to be seeing-eye dogs. She felt sorry for all those mongrels she saw on the streets, and she thought it would be so nice if they could be trained to help blind people because (and here the host had to ask her to repeat what she had said to make sure he had heard it right) it would give them something to look forward to.

Just exactly what view did the lady take of the minds of dogs? Did they suffer identity crises? Were they bored with life on the streets, finding that there wasn't much future in it?

Then I heard a recording of the songs of whales. I wouldn't have believed it if I had not just read the fascinating article in the New Yorker by Faith McNulty, "Lord of the Fish," in which she says that whales do indeed "sing." A man named Frank Watlington, an engineer with the Columbia University Geophysical Field Station at Bermuda, recorded the songs with a hydrophone. In contrast to birdsongs, which are light and quick, the song of the whale is heavy and slow, a sort of muted trumpeting interspersed with ratcheting and at times with a surprisingly high, thin whining. It is jubilant and boisterous, eerie and sorrowful, often reminding one of an echo. I had the feeling the whale sometimes experimented with different kinds of sound and when pleased with one drew it out, then abruptly reverted to the ones he'd practiced before, even including a loud, rude Bronx cheer.

The question naturally arises as to why whales make these noises. "It must be the mating call," is the first suggestion most people come up with. But that theory doesn't stand up to scientific investigation. The truth is that nobody has figured out why whales make the noises they make. But then, as my husband pointed out, nobody has figured out why human beings make the noises they make either. Miss McNulty believes whales sing so they won't be alone.

I know a Vermont policeman who was on duty as a game warden one day during hunting season. He sat quietly in the woods and heard a stirring in the leaves over a little rise and soon a young bear appeared about thirty yards away. The bear lay down on his side and squirmed around in a circle in the dead leaves, pushing them into a pile in the center of the circle. Then he climbed a tree and jumped into the pile. He did this not once but again and again. Obviously he was having fun.

I have always found animals irresistible. The whole idea of a kingdom of beings utterly separate and distinct from ourselves who nevertheless gaze upon us and think thoughts about us ravishes me. What do they mean? Why are they there? What did God mean by making them? When he made man, he made him in his own image. When he made animals, his imagination ranged wide and free. But we confront them, we breathe the same air and walk the same earth and live and move and have our being in the same Creator. So we seek to understand them, and quite naturally we ascribe to them our own passions and needs--the ambition of the forsaken mongrel who roams the streets, hoping for some useful niche in the scheme of things; the loneliness of the tremendous beast that moves through dark oceans, singing his wistful song on the off chance that there will be ears to hear; the gaiety of the little yearling bear who, all alone, makes his arrangement for joy and then joyfully climbs, plunges, plays and climbs again.

These creatures are, I suppose, unaware (but perhaps I am wrong--perhaps they are profoundly aware) that a human heart goes out, a human ear is tuned, a human eye watches. And perhaps animals are aware of the divine heart and ear and eye. Perhaps they are not so oblivious as we. Even young lions, according to the Psalmist, "seek their food from God." Look at the face of a good dog. There is simplicity and gentleness and reverence in those liquid eyes. Does he behold the face of the Father? It is easy for me to believe that he does.

God meant the animals to instruct us. I am sure that is one of the things he meant. When he had listened to all the arguments and complaints of his servant Job, and all the bombast of his friends, he answered by the revelation of himself. And this revelation, beginning with the dimensions of the universe, the mighty harmony of the morning stars, the phenomena of sea, clouds, snow, hail, rain, dew, hoarfrost, ice and the constellations, wound up with animals.

What Job didn't know then was that God had already identified himself with one of his own creatures, the gentlest, most harmless little animal of all. He was a Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world.

I have often thought that that terrible ash heap on which poor Job scratched and shrieked would have been made so much more endurable if he had had the least inkling of that. He was overpowered, but had he any idea at all of how he was loved? I have been comforted, in the midst of what seemed to me like ashes, by the thought of the Lamb, and even (does it seem absurd?) by the unflagging attention and affection of a little black dog. For I remember that when Jesus was tempted in the wilderness he had two comforters--angels and animals. The record says he was "with the wild beasts," which I once took to mean he was endangered by them as well as tempted by Satan. I now think otherwise. The animals were surely no threat to him. They kept him company in his sore struggle.

When the impact of life seems about to break us, we can put our minds for a few minutes on fellow creatures--the whale, the bear, or things that "take life blithely, like birds and babies," as Martin Luther said--and remember that there is a sacrifice at the heart of it all. The Lamb became the Shepherd, bearing and caring for the sheep, laying down his life for them both as shepherd and as Lamb, and, in the end, the Book of the Revelation promises, "the Lamb in the midst of the throne shall be their Shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water, and God shall wipe away every tear from their eyes."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Those Personality Tests - Page 1

Aristotle said that the purpose of education is to make the pupil like or dislike what he ought. To be educated is to be able to make distinctions. But we are being educated nowadays to believe that distinctions are to be deplored. What you like or dislike has nothing whatever to do with the object. It's merely a matter of taste.

Edwin Newman is one of the few public figures who clings to the quaint idea that distinctions in language are important. It still matters to him whether hopefully means "with hope" or "I hope that," and whether momentarily means "for a moment" or "in a moment."

Distinctions in dress have become fewer and fewer, for the carefully studied "unstudied" look is adopted by most Americans most of the time, whether they're headed for a hike or a party.

Distinctions of race, color, sex and creed are being obliterated as fast as possible, so that we may become a people without identity colorless, sexless and faithless.

I went to a conference a couple of weeks ago sponsored by a mission organization. The psychiatrist who screens candidates for that mission administered to the entire audience, purely for their own interest (he said), five of the simpler personality tests which he uses. I, like everybody else, dutifully filled in the blanks. It was my first experience of this sort of thing. Nobody had thought of it as a prerequisite for missionaries back in my day, and my missionary friends at the conference agreed with me that no one of the five of us would have made it to Ecuador if they had.

Each question on the "temperament" test began with words like: "Do you feel," "Are you easily tempted to," "Do you tend to," "Is it difficult for you to," "Do you prefer," "Are you regarded as," "Do you like," "Are you comfortable with," "Do you appear"--every one of them questions for which there could be no absolute answers. The doctor assured us that there were no "right" or "wrong" answers." It's just a matter of what's right for you."

Very soothing. No moral distinctions have any bearing on this test. That was what the psychiatrist was saying. The difference between right and wrong really has nothing at all to do with a person's temperament. A simple matter of "pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold." We're not concerned here with what ought to be but simply with what is. Not with what I ought to like but with what I do like, for whatever reasons. Learning "who I am" requires merely the listing of traits--true enough, I suppose, but is there any place for judgment of them as faults or virtues?

But as it turned out, I was categorized at once by my answers. Distinctions were made, all right, whether the tester chose to call them moral ones or "value judgments" or not. If I admire what, in a less analytical age, were called virtues and am "upset" by what were once called faults, I am classified as "R"--regimented, regular, reserved, rigid. To like punctuality, neatness, thrift and self--discipline is to be regimented. To dislike tardiness, slovenliness, profligacy and self-indulgence is to be hostile. (My "hostility scale" was dangerously high.) To be upset by punctuality, neatness, thrift and self-discipline is not regarded, I found, as any index of hostility but rather of geniality, and to "feel comfortable with" tardiness, slovenliness, profligacy and self-indulgence is to be classified as "Z" which, we were informed, means you've got "zip, zing, zest, and zowie"! The conclusion is that discipline and joy are mutually exclusive. (Not certain that I had understood, I inquired whether a person who is rated "pure R" therefore has no zip, zing, zest and zowie. The solemn reply: "That is correct.")

There are a number of questions to be raised about this kind of "testing."

What are the presuppositions which underlie the test questions themselves?

First, that people's behavior is governed by their feelings. For the Christian, at least, this is not necessarily true. If my answer to the question Are you irritated when someone is late for an appointment? is yes, this does not always mean that I shout at him when he finally arrives. Paul said, "Be angry and sin not." He said, "Never act from motives of rivalry or jealousy." Jesus said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto," not, "Inasmuch as ye have felt it toward one of the least of these..." If I say yes when asked if I find it difficult to discipline myself, this does not mean that I therefore do not discipline myself.

Second, that traits of character are--with two notable exceptions--morally indifferent. We are all conditioned or constituted as we are and therefore O.K. We are told to express ourselves, tell the world how we "really feel," and "hang loose." We need not encourage any course of action on any ground other than our own (even "gut-level") feelings.

But there is one unarguable virtue toward which some effort (I gather) needs to be directed. That is tolerance. And there is one thoroughly damnable fault which must be eradicated. That is intolerance. We are encouraged to be tolerant of just about everything and intolerant of almost nothing. (We are permitted to be intolerant of just one thing--intolerance.)

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Those Personality Tests - Page 2

Do certain kinds of behavior merely receive, or do they also merit, certain kinds of response? Are certain reactions more just or appropriate than others? Are there things which are actually in themselves pleasurable, admirable, likable or tolerable, and other things which are painful, detestable, unlikable and intolerable? The Bible makes clear distinctions. Behavior is not merely a question of taste. It speaks of "the activities of the lower nature," which include sexual immorality, impurity of mind, sensuality, hatred, jealousy, bad temper, rivalry and envy. Nowhere does it admonish us to tolerate such activity. (Loving all others certainly does not imply an inability to distinguish between the lovable and the unlovable. How then could we tell an enemy when we saw one?)

Over against that list is the fruit produced in human life by the Spirit of God: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, fidelity, tolerance and self-control. "And no law," the Bible says, "exists against any of them." No law, perhaps, except the norms of the personality testers. They like most of the things in the second list, though they won't stand for too much fidelity or self-control. Qualities such as those reveal a tendency to rigidity and are, by the testers' standards, unlikely to occur in the same list with tolerance. But in the world where one quality of personality is as good as another, what need do we have for peace, patience, kindness and generosity? If I am to repay evil with good I must first discern evil.

The total effect of the tests was to diminish responsibility. I found that I was a "type." Everybody's a type. So there we are. Accept it. Like it. Like all the other types. We're all O.K. No need to condemn anything. No need to feel guilty. Don't distinguish between personality traits; that's a "value judgment" and value judgments are always bad. So what if you're a fidgeter, an underachiever, a social boor, a spendthrift? Don't let it upset you. Nothing matters, finally--a messy house or a clean one, work done or work undone, appointments kept or missed, bills paid or unpaid, health guarded or ruined, feelings soothed or ruffled--just be yourself. Here I am, everybody, good old lovable me. Take me the way I am. Love me. If my habits annoy you, there's something wrong with you, not me. You're the one who needs help. You're "uptight."

But no. As I was driving home, mulling over the whole thing, I saw that it wouldn't do. Of course we're meant to love people. Love bears anything, believes anything, endures anything. But we're not meant to ignore distinctions. I saw that if I need not condemn anything neither need I praise. There is nothing to strive for, nothing to emulate, nothing to prize. "Can you be righteous," Traherne wrote, "unless you be just in rendering to things their due esteem?"

It seemed a frightening thing to me to know that the servants of God might be screened by tests which would place the highest value on being easy on oneself and others. Candidates who were easy to live with simply because nothing really made much difference to them would prove, by these methods, to be most desirable. But when Jesus called disciples he asked them to deny--to "give up their right to"--themselves.

Would the apostle Paul have passed those tests? It was he who said, "Endure hardness," "Submit yourselves one to another," "In humility think more of each other than you do of yourselves," "Be strong," "Take your stand," "Live lives worthy of your high calling." He even had the courage to say "Let my example be the standard by which you can tell who are the genuine Christians"!

"Here is a last piece of advice," he wrote to the Philippians. "If you believe in goodness and if you value the approval of God, fix your minds on whatever is true and honorable and just and pure and lovely and praiseworthy. Model your conduct on what you have learned from me, on what I have told you and shown you, and you will find that the God of peace will be with you."

Our faculties must be trained by practice and taught by the Spirit of God to make the strong and sharp distinctions so essential to Christian character.

It is not our experiences which in the final analysis change us, it is always and only our responses to those experiences. In any of the holy places I could have responded with cynicism, rejection, even outrage. Their mysterious power then would have been lost on me. I found it possible instead to enter in by faith, giving myself in each place to the One who was there before me and who, despite all that worldly-minded humanity had done to those places, was still there if I sought him.

Near one of the olive trees in Gethsemane one of the Darmstadt Sisters of Mary has put up a small plaque: "O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me, nevertheless not as I will but as thou wilt. Thou, O Jesus, in the darkness of night and grief didst utter these words of surrender and trust to God the Father. In gratitude and love I will, in my hours of fear and desolation, say after thee, My Father, I cannot understand what thou art about but in thee do I put my trust."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness
Shop for Elisabeth Elliot Resources

Femininity - Page 1

My late philosopher-theologian husband used to tell his students that the importance of a thing was in direct ratio to the difficulty of defining it. Last year I asked my students in seminary to write a paper defining masculinity and femininity. They were allowed a maximum of two pages in which to do it, but I told them it would be fine with me if they could manage it in two sentences. (None did.) All of them testified that it was the most difficult assignment of the course.

The difficulty has been exacerbated, I am convinced, by the so-called liberation movement, which starts from the premise that there are no distinctions between the sexes other than the purely biological. It seems a strangely naive and cramped view of the fundamental differentiation of our human existence, especially in this day when most physicians acknowledge that illnesses involve more than the body, when psychiatrists acknowledge that mental illness may have physical causes, and when any spiritual counselor knows that spiritual problems often affect both mind and body. Why, in this most obvious area of sexual distinction, should we blandly (and preposterously) assert that it has no implications deeper than the physiological?

One Thanksgiving weekend I attended the Evangelical Women's Caucus in Washington, D.C. A few women who had read some of my writings greeted me with an astonished "What are you doing here?"

"I'm an evangelical woman, am I not?" I said, but of course I knew why they were surprised. The conference was to deal with the question of a "biblical" approach to feminism. Those who attended were expected to be feminists, and I don't belong in that crowd.

I cannot be a "feminist" because, for one thing, I believe in femininity--a category which I see as infinitely deeper than the merely physical, a quality radically distinct from masculinity.

I listened in vain for the word femininity in any of the major addresses, and I looked in vain for any workshop which might touch on the subject. What women feel, what women want, what women do and what they want to do and don't want to do were all discussed with enthusiasm and even with passion, but what women are simply escaped everybody's notice. One workshop leader, Letha Scanzoni, co-author of an evangelical feminist book, All We're Meant to Be, used Ephesians 5 to support her idea of egalitarian marriage, claiming mutual submission to be Paul's point there, thus divesting the analogy of its sense.

One of the planks of the feminist platform is that sexual distinctions beyond the biological ones are all culturally defined. Our ideas of femininity, they say, are purely conditioned. If we try giving dump trucks to little girls and tea sets to little boys, things would be quickly reversed, we are told. The only reason no woman has ever been a Grand Master in chess is that women are not socially conditioned to be great chess players. Sounds believable until you think of Russia, the country from which most Grand Masters have come, and a country in which as many women as men play chess (but we would not dare to suggest that the feminine intellect is in any way different from--not to say inferior to--the masculine). Women are not encouraged to seek positions which require aggression, it is said, and therefore aggression is considered a masculine trait. Society can change all this. Just start interchanging roles, encouraging girls to be plant foremen, boys to be nurses. Insist on husbands doing housework and wives taking equal financial responsibility. Make women pay alimony, conscript them for active military service, let men knit and cry in public if they want to, and we'll see what happens.

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Femininity - Page 2

But all this sort of thing is quite beside the point. The idea of male and female was God's idea. None of us would have thought of it, and God has never defined it for anybody. He's told us what he did--he created them in his own image, male and female and he's shown us how he did it. He made the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into him the breath of life; then, because he saw in his creation the first thing that was "not good," namely a man alone, he made for the man a woman. He made her for the man. To me this is the first constituent of femininity. Then he made her from the man--derived, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, like and yet wondrously unlike. This is the second constituent. Finally, he brought her to the man, designed exactly to suit his peculiar need, prepared to meet that need for a helper, and then, in divine wisdom and love, given. This is the third constituent.

But what is this man, what is this woman? What are these elusive and indefinable but universally acknowledged qualities on which every culture and society has shaped its existence? The question which feminists resolutely refuse to confront at all is one vastly prior to the question of social conditioning. It is this: Why has every society since the beginning of time conditioned its males and females so distinctively? Granted, the ideas of masculinity and femininity have been expressed differently from time to time and from place to place, but the distinctions have without exception been, until the late twentieth century, preserved.

Michael Marshall in his profound little book Gospel Healing and Salvation says, "Modern man is hung up on his identity with others in lengthy counselings. The Christian realizes that his true identity is a mystery known only to God, and that any attempt at this stage on the road of discipleship to define himself is bound to be blasphemous and destructive of that mysterious work of God forming Christ in him by the power of the Holy Spirit. Certainly the Christian does not define his identity by his actions: that is the very ultimate in anti-Christ, for it is in effect saying that I am my own creator.

Feminists, regrettably, ask us to define ourselves not as men and women but as "human beings" (whatever that means), identified only by our function in society. We must rid ourselves, Virginia Mollenkott declared at the Washington caucus, of "all gender-based categories.

Through the centuries the church has seen the soul as "female before God"--that is, the receptor, the one who responds, who is created for the other, the one acted upon, the one who gives herself. The structure of the female body, designed to carry, to bear and to nurture--surely it is but the material evidence of the mystery of femininity, a physical sign of metaphysical realities with which we tamper only to our own peril. Femininity is indisputably bound up with the concept of motherhood. This is not social conditioning. It is not a lamentable prejudice of which we ought to try to purify ourselves. It is most certainly not, as some feminists cry, "barbaric." The physical signs, far from being extraneous frills we would do well to ignore or overcome, point to the invisible truth of womanhood, exemplified for all women forever in that simple peasant girl, the virgin Mary, utterly feminine, utterly ready to give herself up to the over-shadowing Holy Ghost in the will of God, ready to receive, to bear, to nurture "that holy thing," the Lord Christ, ready to go down into death to give him life, ready to have even her own soul pierced by a sword.

This is an example, I say, for all women forever--not only for those who are the actual mothers of children, but for all who seriously contemplate the Creation Story and accept their place as it is described there, not a competitive one, not even (heaven forbid) an "equal" one, but a different one, mysterious, defined at last only by God the Creator himself, with its own divinely designed kingdom, its own power, its own glory, and all in perfect complement to that other mystery which every real woman recognizes when she sees it--recognizes but cannot define: masculinity.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture: Matthew 5:5-24
The Path of Lonliness

As We Forgive Those... - Page 1

A young minister leading a Bible study recently cited a reference in the Psalms to sin.

"I don't care what you say!" a middle-aged woman blurted out. "I'm not going to forgive my mother-in-law! What she did to me I could never forgive."

The minister had not mentioned forgiveness, or any specific sin, but the Word of God, sharper than any two-edged sword, had pierced the woman's heart. Her outburst was a dead giveaway of the resentment that smoldered beneath the surface.

A girl I'll call Sandra phoned several months ago to tell me that she had just been asked to be godmother to her friend Vicky's child. It was impossible, Sandra said, to consider such a thing since Vicky, once a close friend, had hurt her very deeply. The two couples had vacationed together and their friendship disintegrated over a series of trivial but unforgivable hurts. They had hardly seen each other since, and now here was Vicky expecting Sandra to be her child's godmother. What was Sandra to do?

"Forgive her," I said.

"Forgive her! But she isn't even sorry. I don't think she even remembers how she hurt me!"

Nevertheless, I told her, if it was her Christian duty she was asking me about, there was no question as to what it was.

"You mean I'm the one who has to make the move?"

"Do you expect God to forgive you for your sins?"

"Well, certainly."

"Then you must forgive Vicky."

"Is there someplace in the Bible that actually says that?"

"Remember the Lord's Prayer? 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.' That's followed by a pretty plain statement: 'If you do not forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive you your trespasses."'

I could almost hear Sandra catch her breath on the telephone. There was a pause.

"I never thought of that. And I said that prayer just this morning. So . . . I can't expect to be forgiven unless I forgive?"

She didn't see how she could do that. I agreed most emphatically that she could not--not without God's grace. Everything in human nature goes against that idea. But the gospel is the message of reconciliation. Reconciliation not only to God, but to his purposes in the world, and to all our fellow human beings. We talked for a little while about the absolute necessity of forgiveness. It is a command. It is the road to restoration of ruptured friendships. It releases us from ourselves. I promised Sandra I would pray for the grace of God to work in her and in Vicky, and that she would be enabled freely and completely to forgive.

"But what if she still isn't sorry?"

"We don't pray, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who ask us to.' We say 'as we forgive those who trespass against us.' It's not a matter of ignoring what's been done. When God forgives he doesn't merely overlook our trespasses. He doesn't ask us to overlook others' trespasses either--he asks us to forgive them. So that means our Christian obligation is to forgive anybody who has invaded our rights, our territory, our comfort, our self-image, whether they acknowledge the invasion or not."

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As We Forgive Those... - Page 2

A week later I learned that Sandra's and my prayers had been answered far beyond what either of us had had faith to expect. Not only did Sandra forgive, but Vicky even apologized, and the two were reconciled.

To forgive is to die. It is to give up one's right to self, which is precisely what Jesus requires of anyone who wants to be his disciple.

"If anyone wants to follow in my footsteps, he must give up all right to himself, carry his cross every day and keep close behind me. For the man who wants to save his life will lose it, but the man who loses his life for my sake will save it."

Following Christ means walking the road he walked, and in order to forgive us he had to die. His follower may not refuse to relinquish his own right, his own territory, his own comfort, or anything that he regards as his. Forgiveness is relinquishment. It is a laying down. No one can take it from us, any more than anyone could take the life of Jesus if he had not laid it down of his own will. But we can do as he did. We can offer it up, writing off whatever loss it may entail, in the sure knowledge that the man who loses his life or his reputation or his "face" or anything else for the sake of Christ will save it.

The woman who hates her mother-in-law is wallowing in offenses. Her resentment has grown and festered over twenty-seven years, and it is "fierce in proportion as it is futile," as John Oman wrote. Her bitterness, the minister tells me, has poisoned her own life and that of the church of which she is a member.

The Bible tells a story about a man who, being forgiven by the king a debt of millions of pounds, went immediately to one who owed him a few shillings, grabbed him by the throat and demanded payment. We react to a story like that. "Nobody acts like that!" we say, and then, grabbed, as it were, by the truth of the story ourselves, we realize, "Nobody but us!"

When Jesus, nailed to a Roman cross, prayed, "Father, forgive them," he wielded a weapon against which Caesar himself had no power. The helpless, dying Son of God, a picture of defeat, proclaimed the victory of Inexorable Love. Who can stand up to the force of forgiveness?

Several times people have come to me to confess bitterness which they have felt toward me about which I had known nothing at all. They knew I had known nothing. Were they then taking occasion to air a grievance which ought to have been a matter between them and God? Was this a pious method of expressing sinful feelings which they should have asked God to cleanse? The Bible does not tell us to go to one against whom we have a grievance. It tells us to go to one who has a grievance against us: "If you are offering your gift at the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift" (Matthew 5:2-24). We are commanded to forgive anyone who has trespassed. We are not told to call his attention to the offense. We are to ask the forgiveness of anyone against whom we have trespassed. This may be a long journey for us, geographically or emotionally and spiritually. But if we mean to be disciples of the Crucified we must make that journey and slay the dragon of self-interest. We thereby align ourselves with God, acting no longer independently of him or for our own "rights."

Those who bear the Cross must also bear others' burdens. This includes the burden of responsibility for sin as well as the sharing of suffering. What room can there possibly be for touchiness or a self-regarding fastidiousness in the true burden-bearer? Forgiveness is a clear-eyed and cool-headed acceptance of the burden of responsibility.

The life of St. Francis of Assisi exemplified his own profound understanding that "it is in pardoning that we are pardoned."

If we too intend to take up the Cross we commit ourselves to the same quality of life. Then we can with truthfulness sing

I take, O Cross, thy shadow for my abiding place.
I ask no other sunshine than the sunshine of thy face,
Content to let the world go by, to know no gain or loss,
My sinful self, my only shame; my glory all the Cross.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

One Difference Between Me and Sparrows - Page 1

I have, for this month, a very quiet room in the top of a very quiet old house on a quiet hillside in New Hampshire. No sound disturbs my thoughts except that of white-throated sparrows, black-capped chickadees, crickets and some horses who tear quietly at the long grass around the house and occasionally puff or mutter under their breath. My mother is the only other resident, and she is quieter than the sparrows and the rest. She fixes my breakfast and afterward, when I start to carry dishes to the kitchen, she says, "Run along. I'll do these. You get to your writing."

There is only one thing wrong with a situation like this. If what you write turns out to be bilge, you haven't a rag of excuse. You can't tell anybody that it was because you couldn't concentrate. It wasn't because you had so many other responsibilities and unavoidable interruptions. It wasn't because of "the pace of modern life." It was because . . . well, admit it, it was because a lot of what's inside is bilge, God help us all.

The Bible says the just shall live by faith. The "just" is not a special category of specially gifted or inspired saints. It is the people whose hearts are turned toward God. The people who know that their own righteousness doesn't count for much and who therefore have accepted God's. I belong in that category. Therefore the rule for me is the rule for all the rest: live by faith. So I have been pondering, up here in this quiet room, what it means for a writer to live by faith. It was easy enough to come up with some things it doesn't mean. It does not mean that my intellect need not be hard at work. It does not mean that I trust God to do my work for me, any more than for a housewife to live by faith means she expects God to do her dishes or make her beds. It does not mean that I have a corner on inspiration that Norman Mailer, say, or Truman Capote don't claim. (I don't know whether Mr. Mailer or Mr. Capote live by faith--I haven't come across any comments by either on the subject.)

The great prophets of the Old Testament lived by faith, but they were certainly divinely inspired. Does this mean that God alone and not they, too--was responsible for the work they did? Even though they were acted upon in a special sense by the Spirit of God as I don't ever expect to be acted upon, they had to pay a price. Each of them had to make the individual commitment when he was called, and to offer up then and there his own plans and hopes (and surely his reputation) in order that his personality, his temperament, his intellect, his peculiar gifts and experience might be the instruments through which the Spirit did his work, or the console upon which he played. All this, even though I am no prophet, I must take seriously.

But there is one other thing that living by faith does not mean. This is the thing that makes me furrow my brow and sigh, because I can't help wishing that it did mean this. If in fact I have sided with the "just," if I am willing to work as hard as I can, if I arrange things physically to contribute to the highest concentration and if I discipline myself to sit down at the typewriter for X number of hours per day (even when the fresh perfume of the balsams comes through the windows, calling me to the woods; even when the lake glitters in the sunshine and says, "Come on!"), may I then expect that what I turn out will stop the world, bring the public panting to the bookstores, shine as the brightness of the firmament?

I may not. There are no promises to cover anything of the kind.

In an Isak Dinesen story a lady asked a cardinal, "Are you sure that it is God whom you serve?" The cardinal sighed deeply. "That, madam," he replied, "is a risk that the artists and priests of the world must take."

And if they take the risk, they stake their lives on the task and it may turn out to be no more effective than Moses' efforts with Pharaoh, or the words of the prophets to the people to whom they cried. I get this far in my argument with myself and am brought up short with the realization that I cannot take comfort from that, for in the case of Moses and the prophets there was nothing wrong with either the messenger or the message. In my case, there is a lot wrong with both.

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One Difference Between Me and Sparrows - Page 2

Then I think of Abel. And here's comfort. Abel's name is listed in the Hall of Fame of Hebrews 11. Like the others in that list (and a motley assortment it is), he is there for one thing, and only one thing: the exercise of faith. The demonstration of his faith was his offering. The thing that made his offering acceptable while Cain's was unacceptable was faith. Faith did not guarantee the "success" of the sacrifice. In human terms it was no help at all. Abel ended up dead as a result of it. But the manner in which he offered his gift--"by faith"--made it, the Bible says, "a more excellent sacrifice" than Cain's, and qualified him for the roster of Hebrews.

For me, then, for whom writing happens to be the task, living by faith means several things.

It means accepting the task from God (taking the "risk" here that the cardinal spoke of). Here is a thing to be done. It appears to be a thing to be done by me, so I'll do it, and I'll do it for God.

It means coming at the task trustingly. That's the way Abel brought his sacrifice, I'm sure. Not with fear, not with a false humility that it wasn't "good enough." What would ever be good enough, when it comes right down to it? "All things come of Thee, O Lord, and of Thine own have we given Thee." All that distinguishes one thing from another is the manner of its offering. I must remember that the God to whom I bring it has promised to receive. That's all I need to know.

It means doing the job with courage to face the consequences. I might, of course, write a bestseller. Most of us feel we could handle that kind of consequence. (God knows we couldn't, and doesn't suffer us to be tempted above that we are able.) On the other hand, I might fail. Abel was murdered. Jeremiah was dropped into a pit of slime. John the Baptist got his head chopped off. These were much worse fates than being delivered into the hands of one's literary critics ("Much worse?" one of my selves says, and "Oh, come now--much worse," answers another. "Come off it. You're not putting yourself in a class with those towering figures, are you?" "I guess I was for a minute there.") Is the faith that gives me the courage I need based on former literary success? Not for a moment. For each time I sit down to begin a new book I'm aware that I may have used up my allotment of creativity. It's another kind of faith I need, faith in God.

It means giving it everything I've got. Now I have to acknowledge that I've never done this. I've never finished any job in my life and been able to survey it proudly and say, "Look at that! I certainly did my best that time!" I look at the job and say, "Why didn't I do such and such? This really ought to be done over." But "giving it everything I've got" is my goal. I cannot claim to be living by faith unless I'm living in obedience. Even the miracles Jesus performed were contingent on somebody's obedience, on somebody's doing some little thing such as filling up water pots, stretching out a hand, giving up a lunch. The work I do needs to be transformed. I know that very well. But there has to be something there to be transformed. It's my responsibility to see that it's there.

I can hear the white-throated sparrow now. Sending out his pure sweet call, filling the air from his tiny syrinx with the song he was made to sing, an offering "good and acceptable and perfect" to his Maker--a fact which, unless the sparrow is equipped to doubt, he need never struggle to believe.

Like the sparrow, I've got a song to sing. Unlike the sparrow, I must sing mine by faith.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

The Trail to Shandia - Page 1

There is a road east of the Andes from the little tea-growing town of Puyo, to an unnamed point in the jungle just beyond the mostly Indian town of Pano. When I lived in Ecuador most of the road was not there at all, and it would have taken you three days to cover that distance. I covered it a few weeks ago in the space of a few hours in a jeep driven by a missionary named Ella Rae. We traveled along the south side of the Ansuc River and crossed, on a suspension bridge, the Atun Yacu, which we once crossed by dugout canoe. The road took us through the towns of Napo and Tena and then straight up the middle of what used to be a mission station airstrip in Pano. When the road ended at the Pano River, Ella Rae bade us good-bye and we set out on foot for Shandia, one of the places where I used to live. I had been over the trail from Tena to Shandia many times, but, although the government has laid logs crosswise to make walking easier, horses and cows have been making use of it and the trail was in the worst condition I'd ever seen.

We were two women and one man--he in shorts and rubber knee boots, we in standard jungle garb of blouses, skirts and tennis shoes. As we plowed our way through the mud some spiritual parallels came to mind.

Every step of faith is a step faith. In some places the logs were submerged in mud. Finding one to put your foot on did not make it easier to find the next one.

Each step was a decision, but to make it a problem would have halted progress altogether. Sometimes the choice was to balance on a three-inch-in-diameter log laid parallel to the path and take the chance of slipping off sideways and falling into the mud, or to step deliberately into mud (which was like peanut butter) up to one's knees, or to try to beat one's way through the tangle at the side of the trail (and of course that tangle could always hold snakes). You had to keep moving. Decisions, therefore, had to be snap decisions. If we had let each step be a problem, to be paused and pondered over, we'd still be there. If a decision turned out to be the wrong one, which it often seemed to be, you simply pulled yourself out and kept on.

The trail--always leading us to our goal--took on varied aspects. We were not always in mud up to our knees, or trying to find a footing on logs which were in some places floating and in some places submerged. For short spaces the trail was of gravel. Sometimes there were hills to climb and rivers to wade through where we got the chance to rinse off a few pounds of accumulated jungle soil. At times we were in sunshine where the forest had been cut back to make pasture, at other times in deep shade.

There was a tiny footprint in front of me. You learn when you travel jungle trails to recognize the differences in footprints. A party of Indians had evidently preceded us not long before. One of them was a child no more than three. As we came to what seemed to me impassable sections, I found myself spurred on by the knowledge that where the trail was firmer I would find the little footprint. Sure enough. That little person had made it through what was for him hip-high mud, across the precarious logs, into the streams, up the hills and down the slick ravines. There is something amazingly heartening in the knowledge that somebody else has been over the course before especially if it's somebody who has had manifestly greater difficulties than ours to overcome. Most of the time there was no evidence at all of his going, and I could lose heart. But here and there again the evidence lay, clear and unmistakable. If he had made it, so could I.

We made it. We reached the house my husband Jim Elliot had built twenty-three years ago. The only reason it still stands is that it was built on a cement slab with poured cement walls up to the level of the window sills, boards from there up to the aluminum roof. An ordinary jungle house would have vanished long since. Mary began sweeping out the bat droppings and the dead cockroaches and spiders, tidying up, lighting candles and cooking a simple supper while Frank and I went to visit the Indians in their houses nearby. Thirteen years lay lightly on most of them, but a generation of children had become unrecognizable.

We pulled out some bedding I had left stored in steel drums and stayed the night in the house. A mouse had to be evicted from one of the mattresses. The sound of the Atun Yacu at the foot of the cliff was the same as it had always been. The shadows cast by the candles seemed to take the shapes familiar to me from the nights when I had risen to feed my baby in this very bedroom. Her toy wicker furniture was still there, its upholstery mildewed and nearly colorless.

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The Trail to Shandia - Page 2

Not quite three weeks have passed, and I sit in my green-carpeted study in Massachusetts. The trail--always leading to the goal--does take on different aspects. Soon I will face my seminary students again to remind them that each footstep along the trail matters, not only the goal toward which they aspire. The clean, hard gravel matters, but so does the slough with the floating logs, the hill and the deep ravine. The traveler who makes each decision about where to put his foot is not different from the person who has reached the house and rests at last by the fireplace with a cup of tea and a candle. Are they prospective ministers? Then they must be now, while they are on the journey, true men and women, attending to today's task, living their lives today. They do not see into heaven. They have to live on earth. They must move steadily, putting one foot in front of the other, no matter whether it is the log, the rock or the mire that receives it. They must rightly discharge each small duty, whether it be to a professor, a landlady, a wife or an employer.

I will remind them, too, that the Bible does not speak of problems. As Corrie ten Boom says, "God has no problems, only plans." We ought to think not of problems but of purpose. We encounter the obstacle, we make a choice--always with the goal in mind.

We are conditioned nowadays, however, to define everything as a problem. A little girl on a TV commercial pipes, "I have this terrible problem with my hair! But my mommy bought No More Tangles, and now there's no more tangles!" A group of young wives asked me to speak to them on "The Problems of Widowhood." I declined, explaining in the first place that I did not regard widowhood as a problem, and in the second place that if I did I was not sure I had any warrant for unloading my own problems onto the shoulders of young women who had enough of their own, and in the third place a widow has only one "problem," when it comes right down to it--she has no husband. And that's something nobody can do anything about.

Life is full of things we can't do anything about, but which we are supposed to do something with. "He himself endured a cross and thought nothing of its shame because of the joy." A very different story from the one which would have been written if Jesus had been prompted by the spirit of our own age: "Don't just endure the cross--think about it, talk about it, share it, express your gut-level feelings, get in touch with yourself, find out who you are, define the problem, analyze it, get counseling, get the experts' opinions, discuss solutions, work through it." Jesus endured. He thought nothing of the shame. The freedom, the freshness of that valiant selflessness is like a strong wind. How badly such a wind is needed to sweep away the pollution of our self-preoccupation!

Analysis can make you feel guilty for being human. To be human, of course, means to be sinful, and for our sinfulness we must certainly "feel" the guilt which is rightly ours--but not everything human is sinful. There is a man on the radio every afternoon from California whose consummate arrogance in making an instant analysis of every caller's difficulties is simply breathtaking. A woman called in to talk about her problems with her husband who happens to be an actor. "Oh," said the counselor, "of course the only reason anybody goes into acting is because they need approval." Bang. Husband's problem identified. Next question. I turned off the radio and asked myself, with rising guilt feelings, "Do I need approval?" Answer: yes. Does anybody not need approval? Is there anybody who is content to live his life without so much as a nod from anybody else? Wouldn't he be, of all men, the most devilishly self-centered? Wouldn't his supreme solitude be the most hellish? It's human to want to know that you please somebody.

We visited another place where I lived--Tewaenon-- where the Aucas live. It had been sixteen years since I had seen them, but they remembered me, calling me by the name they had given me, "Gikari," and everybody beginning at once, as was their custom, to tell me what they had done since they saw me. Dabu, with two of his three wives, came walking up the airstrip and began immediately--there are no greetings in Auca--to tell me that when he had heard of the death of my second husband he had cried. This prompted Ipa to remark that she had sat down and written me a letter when she heard of his death, but on rereading the letter said to herself, "It's no good," and threw it away. Sometimes readers of things that I write tell me long afterward that they have thought of writing me a letter, or have written one and discarded it, thinking, "She doesn't need my approval." Well, they're mistaken--for wouldn't it be a lovely thing to know that a footprint you have left on the trail has, just by being there, heartened somebody else?

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

All Creatures Here Below - Page 1

The New Yorker had a picture on its cover in February 1968 of a group of people looking at sleeping puppies in a pet shop window. Every face was alight, and the women, of course, were tapping on the glass, trying to elicit some response from the fetching little beagles in the pen.

What is it we see in the faces of puppies? What else in the whole world instantly softens the expressions of the hardest people as does the sight of a little puppy trotting gaily along the sidewalk? Is there something eternal, some intimation of unutterable sweetness there which we know will be gone in a matter of weeks? We want to get our hands on the softness; we crave response. People who would not dream of addressing a stranger on the street will address a puppy and then often, as though they cannot help themselves, the owner of the puppy as well.

Some years ago my husband and I bought a tiny purebred Scottish terrier. He had a box-shaped body on which black fur grew in the shape of a horse blanket, shaggy and shiny. He had another smaller box for a head, with jaunty chin whiskers, wonderfully bright black eyes and a glistening black nose. His ears pointed sharply, and he moved them up, sideways and back--he could even revolve them--depending on whether he was looking, listening or waiting hopefully to be petted. His tail was a little cone in almost constant motion. His feet were like short flanges at the ends of his unbelievably short legs. His legs were, in fact, just barely long enough to keep his chin off the floor.

The dog's name was MacPhearce. He had a terrier's feistiness and could bark sharply or growl like a tenor gargling, but was putting on an act ("Is he trained to kill on command?" a man on the street asked), for he was really very affectionate and badly wanted friends.

I put a blue collar on him and took him out on a blue leash. (He did not, however, wear a plaid coat or rubbers. It seemed logical to me that the coat he came with was designed for his needs.) People would catch a glimpse of him and stop in their tracks. "Look at this dog!" they would say, if they had anyone with them to say it to, or, "Isn't he adorable?" they would say to me. People under forty often said, "What kind of dog is that?" and people over forty said, "Oh, a Scotty! You don't see many of them anymore!" MacPhearce was not aware that he had gone out of style. He had been succeeded by Boston terriers, then by poodles and boxers and Lhasa apsos. But it never bothered him much, and he behaved as though he was exactly what he was meant to be, which is more than can be said of some human beings. One said, "Ooohhh--I can't stand it, he's so cute!"

I wonder if God felt anything like that on the day he created such creatures. "It is very good" is what he is reported to have said, and I suppose we cannot expect the Almighty to have been thrilled, or even impressed. It was exactly what he had meant. The animal was the living proof of the divine idea.

MacPhearce was not a sinner, theologically speaking, and therefore fulfilled God's intention for him every moment of his life. My husband wrote years ago about a dog he had named Lassie. He believed that she had been "assigned" to him. It was her business to keep him happy, and perhaps of all the marvelous things dogs do for man (herding sheep, retrieving birds, pulling sleds, leading the blind, rescuing the freezing or the drowning), none is more marvelous than this: they are comforters and companions. They think always of their master. What is he doing? Can I accompany him? Is he happy? How can I cheer him?

A woman I know found her teen-age daughter lying on the living room rug one evening, sobbing into the curly fur of their cocker spaniel. The mother had on many occasions wondered if the dog was worth all the fuss and trouble of training, feeding, cleaning fur off the rugs and furniture. She stopped wondering when she saw that the dog was a refuge and a friend to the child when she would have found it impossible to cry on anyone's shoulder. The mother made up her mind then and there that as long as she had children, at least, she would have a dog. (She has since decided that even she needs him.)

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All Creatures Here Below - Page 2

My old friend Dorothy who lives on the Cape has had dachshunds, terriers, poodles and a Scotty. "Oh my, they give so much," she says, "and they ask so little!"

C. S. Lewis had some lovely things to say about animals in his Letters to an American Lady. "I will never laugh at anyone for grieving over a loved beast. I think God wants us to love Him more, not to love creatures (even animals) less. No person, animal, flower, or even pebble, has ever been loved too much--i.e., more than every one of God's works deserves."

In another letter he wrote, "We were talking about cats and dogs the other day and decided that both have consciences but the dog, being an honest, humble person, always has a bad one, but the cat is a Pharisee and always has a good one. When he sits and stares you out of countenance he is thanking God that he is not as these dogs, or these humans, or even as these other cats!"

A dog can gaze with adoration and not be embarrassed, but if he finds himself gazed at by a group not entirely sympathetic, he seems to know this and will often busy himself with licking a paw, or will perhaps decide that he has business elsewhere. He accepts himself for what he is, and us human beings for whatever we may be, and thus teaches us a lesson in the grace of acceptance. Dogs can adapt themselves to whatever treatment we may dish out. If we step on a tail by accident its owner may yelp but will be wagging it at once in forgiveness. A dog's eyes may be filled with reproach if we have left him alone too long, if we go out in the car and tell him to stay, or if his dinner is late, but the reproach is gentle and loving, and he will come and lay his head in our lap seventy times seven.

A truck went by the house the other day labeled Old Mother Hubbard Oven-Baked Dog Foods and Laboratory Diets. The pet food business is an enormous and lucrative one. Any pet shop displays a staggering variety of feeding dishes, foods, toys, medicines, shampoos, flea soaps and powders, beds, baskets, carrying cases, cages, leashes, collars--some of them rhinestone-studded--and garments, including galoshes and raincoats for poodles. We insult our pets by not allowing them to be animals. We violate their being when we try to make them human.

"Love the pride of your dogs," wrote Isak Dinesen. "Let them not grow fat." Put not on them outrageous frippery, I would add. Pamper them not with furniture and food luxurious for people but indecent for animals. Recognize what they are, love them for that, let them love you because you love them for what they are and not because you have made of them a poor facsimile of yourself.

George MacDonald, the Scottish preacher and novelist of the nineteenth century, believed that "dogs always behold the face of the Father." To study a dog's face will make you wonder about the redemption of all creation. Do dogs have souls? We have no clue to that in Scripture. We are told, however, that "everything that exists in heaven or earth shall find its perfection and fulfillment in Christ."

A lady once asked Dr. Harry Ironside of Moody Church in Chicago about the salvation of dogs. She was heartbroken over the death of her little white dog, and was not sure she would be able to enjoy heaven at all if he was not going to be there. "Madam," replied Dr. Ironside, "if when you get to heaven you want your little white dog, I can assure you that he will be there."

What the "perfection and fulfillment" of little white dogs or little black puppies named MacPhearce may mean is not, for us at any rate, a very important question. But it may remind us of unspeakably important questions. Responsibility to our Creator. Obedience to his call. Fulfillment of his purpose for us as men and women who have been given the mandate to take care of the earth. Then we can join with all creatures great and small, and even with the stars of the firmament of which Joseph Addison wrote in 1712:

In reason's ear they all rejoice and utter forth a glorious voice:
Forever singing as they shine, "The hand that made us is divine."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Three Houses, Three Tabernacles - Page 1

Does the Lord of heaven live in the houses of earth? The prophecies of Isaiah ("Behold, a virgin shall . . . call his name Immanuel") and the Book of Revelation ("Now at last God has his dwelling among man! He will dwell among them and they shall be his people, and God himself will be with them," Rev. 21:3 NEB) are fulfilled every day in the homes of those who love God. I've had some glimpses of this lately, and have been blessed by seeing the presence of God in the homes I've visited.

Scene 1: An apartment in Boston. The young wife is pregnant. Her husband, a stock analyst, has made up his mind to get a dog. Not a manageable, apartment-sized dog, but a nice bouncy big golden retriever that he can run and roughhouse with on the Common. "Oh dear," she says to me, "what am I going to do? I'm having this baby, and the apartment is very small."

We had talked on other occasions about the biblical principle of a wife's submission to her husband. There are times, we agreed, when without disobedience to that command, a wife may offer an alternative viewpoint for her husband's consideration. "I don't want to be a shrew," the young woman said. "The dog and the baby in the apartment with me--can I cope?" I wondered if she could. I felt very sympathetic to her.

So we prayed about it, asking God to give his answer. That very afternoon she called me. "Instant solution! Mike has decided not to get the dog until we can move to a house in the country. And I hadn't even said a word, hadn't suggested that I wasn't sure we could manage! Just wanted you to praise the Lord with me, and Mike doesn't need to know."

Scene 2: Early morning. A polished tile veranda on a hillside overlooking a turquoise sea. There is a cool breeze; birds twitter, chirp and dart among the flowers. Heavy perfume rises from the garden. Two black men are talking quietly nearby, speaking the island patois which I cannot understand. From the open door leading into the cool dark dining room comes a man. He is a big man with big shoulders, broad chest, black hair, and a scarred and deeply lined face. He is wearing jeans and a white shirt this morning, not the black in which the public is accustomed to seeing him. He is Johnny Cash. We talk of the beauty of the morning, of what he's been reading in the Bible, and of June, his wife. I speak of how lovely she is (I met her only yesterday). "She's pure," John says. "That woman has a pure heart." John Carter Cash runs out of the house. He is seven years old, the apple of his father's eye, and the three of us go for a ride in a golf cart before breakfast.

Breakfast is served at a glass table on the east veranda by an elegant black man in a white coat. There are six kinds of fruit, including naseberries, an unimpressive brown-skinned sphere with a pulp delectable enough for the gods. The other guests are Billy and Ruth Graham. After breakfast we all go to the beach--John and June, Billy and Ruth, John Carter and Mrs. Kelley who takes care of him, and I. People's faces everywhere light up at once with astonishment and joy--isn't that Johnny Cash? Wow! And--wow again--that's Billy Graham! All of them will carry for the rest of their lives a little of the glow.

Finally two teenagers disengage themselves from a knot of friends. "Mr. Graham, could we have your autograph?" "Sure. Are those your friends over there? Tell them all to come over." They are ecstatic. I take a color photo (and wonder a week later why it didn't occur to me to take the address of one of the kids. How thrilled they would have been to have a picture of themselves with a famous man!). He is gracious and kind to them. When they go I ask if he is ever irritated by autograph hunters. He laughs. "It isn't a very big thing to do for people, is it?" John says that before he turned his life over to Jesus he was sometimes rude. He got sick of publicity and swarms of hangers-on. "But I'm not living for Johnny Cash now. It has to be different."

Evening. We've had dinner and are sitting in the living room. Gleaming dark wood floors and woodwork. White sofa and chairs, with Wedgewood blue cording. Pale blue draperies, white walls, Oriental rugs, grand piano. John Carter sleeps, sprawled on the sofa beside me in the blissful relaxation of childhood. Eight Jamaicans are there with us--cooks, maids, security men. It is the birthday of Miss Vicki, a cook. June has given her a little collection of presents, and Miss Vicki is asked to lead us in prayer. She does so. Without fuss, without hesitation or self-consciousness, she prays for all of us, calling the Cashes and Grahams her best friends, speaking to God of her responsibility to welcome them and help them, speaking then of the Holy Spirit, asking him to bless us, bless her church, bless our communion together.

"'Nothing in my hand I bring,"' she quotes, "'simply to thy cross I cling."' Then, "I'm like a leaf that the wind blows through. Blow, Holy Spirit."

John strums his guitar, talks a little bit about some of the experiences of his life, and goes into a song, "Why me, Lord?"--a favorite of the prisoners, he says, and they always cry when he sings it. Then he sings "One Day at a Time," and "What on earth will you do for heaven's sake?" The servants sing, too. One by one, opening an old hymnal, they stand and sing, "Peace, peace," "Into my 'eart" (islanders seem to drop h's), "Amazing Grace. " Johnny, the "Man in Black," once a drug addict, many times a prisoner, a hard and self-destructive man, listens. He knows well what those simple familiar words mean: "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me." It includes all of us.

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Three Houses, Three Tabernacles - Page 2

Billy reads the Bible--a harmony of the Gospels, giving the Maundy Thursday story since that is what day it is. We pray together. Then June, her great deep eyes earnest, her voice gentle, talks. "Christ dwells in this house," she says, "I know he does. And these people know it." She gestures toward the staff. "When you're here, Elisabeth, you are covered. We're all covered--Billy and Ruth, John Carter, Kelley, John, you and I. We're covered by prayer. These people pray for us, don't you?" The Jamaicans nod. "Yes, mum."

John sings some more at our request. "A Boy Named Sue," "Welfare Cadillac," "I Walk the Line." At 9:30 Billy gets up from his chair. "I don't know about y'all, but for me it's bedtime." Everybody gets up.

Ruth and I pause with June and look down at John Carter on the sofa. "I want to tell you about this little boy," June says. "One time John and I were lying in bed just praising the Lord, thanking the Lord, lifting our hands in praise. John Carter was lying there with us, and he lifted up his little hands and said, 'Mama, I think I'm gonna cry!' We all wanted to cry, we were so happy."

During the night a shutter bangs, a dog howls, rain thunders on the roof, and my sunburn wakes me each time I turn over, but I don't mind. It gives me a chance to luxuriate in the huge antique four-poster, to ponder the unthinkable fact that I am in the Cashes' house in Jamaica, a house built in 1740 by the Barretts of Wimpole Street, now the home of a man utterly transformed by the grace of God, and a woman whose prayers followed him in some of the dark years. ("I wore out the floor praying for him!" June said.)

Next morning we sit by the pool. "I had this passion, this consuming passion, to do something with my life, something besides being a wife and mother." June tells us. "I wanted to be a star. I ruined two marriages because of it and I know it. Well--I gave it all up. I gave it up to the Lord, this selfish ambition, and now I have a husband who adores me." (It is obvious that he does.) "So I tell my daughters (and we've got six of them), 'You do like the Bible says. You submit. You submit to your husband. If he tells you to get down and scrub floors, buddy, you hit it! On all fours if necessary!'"

Scene 3: A doctors' house in San Francisco. In the bedroom are three cribs with three little boys, giggling, cooing, smiling toothlessly, jumping up and down with glee as their mother and I come in. All are about a year old, but they are not triplets. They are adopted and their parents are middle-aged, both of them doctors, the mother nearly fifty. I watch the boys being fed. They get nothing out of baby-food jars. Elizabeth Paeth Lasker (always "Bunny" to me) prepares it herself--pureed chicken and spinach, done in a blender, for lunch, apples and cheese for afternoon snack, salad (salad!) for supper. She lines up three high chairs and starts scooping spoonfuls from a single dish with a single spoon. It is one, two, three, one, two, three. If Number Two spits it out, Number Three gets it. Everybody loves it, everybody is relaxed and exuberant. "Aren't they gorgeous?" Bunny keeps saying. I have never been in a happier home.

Her letter to me last week says, "The children have all had their first birthday now, and so endeth the most eventful and beautiful year of our lives. What a privilege to be this close to these little living, growing persons! There is a constant sacrament of praise as I go through the repeated acts involved in caring for three active little boys. Evelyn Underhill's idea that every temporal act that fills the moments of our day are not just a 'sort' of sacrament but are in fact the real sacrament. And since so much of my day is spent in doing little repetitive activities that seem so mean and small, it is somehow cheering and reassuring to think of each of these (scraping messes off rugs, rerolling entire scrolls of toilet paper, changing diapers, washing clothes, making bread, scrubbing sticky floors, scouring high chairs, ad infinitum) as a sacrament of praise and of worth (incredible!) to the Master."

"The tabernacle of God is with men," and, in the words of John Keble,

"The trivial round, the common task,
Will furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To bring us daily nearer God."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Provision For Sacrifice - Page 1

It took me quite a long time to unwrap my breakfast one day last week. I was flying somewhere I can't remember where because the past two months are a jumble in my memory--checking into TWA, American, Eastern, Delta; plunking my purse and attaché case down on the carpeted counter to be sent through the security scanner; reading the New Yorker in boarding lounges--Atlanta, Cincinnati, San Francisco, Florence, Grand Rapids; buckling seatbelts; drinking tea and ice water and (on Allegheny Airlines) apple juice.

Which brings me back to that breakfast flight, wherever it went. I had to unwrap my breakfast. The cutlery and napkin were sealed in an impregnable plastic bag. The omelet was encased in gold foil, the muffin in a paper cup which clung stubbornly. The butter was protected by a square mold of something nearly as tough as Plexiglass, the orange juice was sealed with a convex foil lid which when pierced squirted a jet of juice in a wholly unpredictable direction, and the fruit cup was fastbound in Saranwrap, the edges, corners and ends of which had been concealed with a cleverness that bordered on the diabolical.

At length, however, the food lay open and exposed to my hunger, and I ate it thankfully. I was thankful, for one thing, to have conquered the wrappings, but genuinely thankful, too, for the luxuries of modern American life the speed of travel, the comfort of the seat (an economy-class airplane seat is infinitely more comfortable than the two boards at right angles which make up a "first-class" seat on an Ecuadorian banana truck, and I've done my stint on those), the temperature of the cabin when outside it is perhaps seventy degrees below zero, the cleanliness, the quiet, the safety.

All these things, some cynic might point out, are relative. The Concorde travels much faster than a DC-10, a seat in first class is a lot roomier than one in economy class, it is sometimes frigid or stifling on planes, occasionally you find crumbs on your tray table and there is the chance of being seated next to some executive who has just had one of those three-martini lunches or some garrulous grandmother who wants to show you the latest Polaroids of the small person she has just visited. And planes crash, don't forget. So says the cynic.

But it is always possible to be thankful for what is given rather than to complain about what is not given. One or the other becomes a habit of life. There are, of course, complaints which are legitimate--as, for example, when services have been paid for which have not been rendered--but the gifts of God are in an altogether different category. Ingratitude to him amounts (let us resort to no euphemisms) to rebellion.

Many women have told me that my husband's advice, which I once quoted in a book, has been an eye-opener to them. He said that a wife, if she is very generous, may allow that her husband lives up to perhaps eighty percent of her expectations. There is always the other twenty percent that she would like to change, and she may chip away at it for the whole of their married life without reducing it by very much. She may, on the other hand, simply decide to enjoy the eighty percent, and both of them will be happy. It's a down-to-earth illustration of a principle: Accept, positively and actively, what is given. Let thanksgiving be the habit of your life.

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Provision For Sacrifice - Page 2

Such acceptance is not possible without a deep and abiding belief in the sovereign love of God. Either he is in charge, or he is not. Either he loves us, or he does not. If he is in charge and loves us, then whatever is given is subject to his control and is meant ultimately for our joy.

I rode horseback this morning through the sweet fragrance of late autumn woods and meadows, fresh with dew. The New England countryside was a softly muted tapestry of fading color. A few apples still clung to the boughs of gnarled trees. The oak leaves, not yet fallen, were golden banners, and the leaves on the blueberry bushes were still blood red. The horses walked, the saddles creaked, a couple of joyful dogs joined us out of nowhere and capered around the horses as we moved through the meadow. Thank you, thank you, thank you was the rhythm of all the world. It was all loveliness, all subject to the will of God, all made for joy.

But I had to come back to my typewriter and remember that there are those for whom today is a burden and a horror. I had intended to write about suffering because on Sunday I was talking to a group of graduate students as we sat in my living room after dinner. "How can we prepare ourselves to suffer?" they had asked, and as I talked one of them said, "Will you write this down for us? Will you do an article on it?" And I thought, yes, perhaps I will do an article. I had been thinking very much about suffering in the past two weeks because it seemed I had encountered more of it in more of its varied forms, in the lives of people I had met, than in any other short period of my life. A couple whose only son had died of bone cancer. A woman who said to me with tears on her cheeks, "I am losing my husband--but in another way from the way you lost yours. But it's all right." A woman with a grotesquely disfiguring disease which had plagued her for more than twenty years. A couple whose two-year-old son choked to death on an almond. A woman whose oldest son died in a motorcycle accident six weeks ago--"and am I angry at God? Oh God, am I angry!" she said. A widow left with millions of dollars in debts. And tonight, only a few hours after that beautiful ride through the woods, I listened to a father tell of appalling things his children have done and are doing which break his heart. His voice broke, his hands tried to find something to do to hide their trembling as he talked.

In the days of Cyrus, when the temple was restored in Jerusalem, he decreed that all that was needed for sacrifice, the young bulls, rams or sheep for burnt offerings to the God of heaven, wheat, salt, wine or oil, should be given "day by day without fail." Is it not reasonable to believe that that same God, the God of heaven to whom all thanks is due, will provide for us today the materials for sacrifice? "All things come of thee, O Lord," we sing, "and of thine own have we given thee."

Sometimes the materials he provides are things of beauty, things for which we give thanks at once with all our being. The glory of the oak trees today was one of these. And sometimes they are things which break our hearts--not gifts in the sense that Almighty God decrees the evil and suffering of the world (we only know that he allowed it, we do not know why), but gifts in that he gives to us himself--his presence, his never-failing love in the midst of our pain. We may offer up those very pains, those inexplicable catastrophes that baffle us to silence. We may even give him our broken hearts, for the sacrifices of God, we are told, are "a broken spirit, a broken and a contrite heart." All of it--the gladness and the sorrow--material for sacrifice, given "day by day without fail." For one who has made thanksgiving the habit of his life, the morning prayer will be, "Lord, what will you give me today to offer back to you?"

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

A Convention, a Winter Storm, and a Wedding - Page 1

It is a dark winter morning. The hemlocks outside my window sag with snow, and the driveway is covered. I have just called Mr. Tognazzi to make sure he still has my name on his list for plowing. I shoveled three times yesterday, but only succeeded in clearing the flagstone walk and the steps, and this morning it was hard to tell I had done anything at all.

But I love being shut in with snow. There is a quietness and a more deliberate pace to life. The cars move more quietly and more slowly on the road beyond the hemlocks. MacDuff, my Scottish terrier, limits himself to a few trails he has made in the backyard, and often just sits motionless in a saucer of snow, letting the falling flakes frost his ragged black coat and beard.

This winter morning is a space of peace between two very attention absorbing events. One took place several weeks ago in Houston. On one side of town the International Women's Year Convention was being held. People like Bella Abzug, Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem and Margaret Mead were there, along with thousands (reports ranged from eight to eighteen thousand) of others, some of them delegates elected in the state IWY conventions held earlier. Betty Ford, Rosalynn Carter and Lady Bird Johnson were there, too--but can they have fully apprehended what the convention was about? Did they read the small print of the amendment? The IWY was asking for the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment, for lesbian rights (which would include the right of homosexual couples to marry and/or to adopt children), for federally funded abortion and other related issues.

Across town fifteen thousand people packed the AstroArena, built to accommodate far fewer, and several thousand were turned away. They were there for a Pro-Family Rally, an orderly attempt to register in the mind of the public an awareness that the IWY was not a true representation of American women. Bella's crowd had a right to speak their piece, but they had no right to speak for all of us. I was one of many speakers at the Pro-Family Rally, and I had been given eight minutes in which to present a Christian view of womanhood. Phyllis Schlafly of Eagle Forum, dedicated to stopping the ERA, spoke, thanking those who had organized the convention, and then thanking her husband Fred for letting her come (italics hers). She went on to explain why the ERA was neither necessary nor desirable, e.g., all the legislation needed to give women equal employment opportunity and equal pay has already been passed; ERA will infringe on the rights of women to be protected from military service and supported as wives and mothers.

Representative Clay Smothers called for "segregation"--from perverts and misfits--in our educational system; Dr. Mildred Jefferson, the first black woman to graduate from Harvard Medical School, spoke eloquently against abortion. Banners bore such slogans as Lesbians--you don't represent women! ERA is a turkey! Family rights are women's rights, and a father carried a baby who was holding up a sign, I was a fetus once. A band played, a group of girls dressed in red, white and blue and carrying big black Bibles sang, a soloist wearing a dazzling yellow suit with a red shirt sang, "When you pray, pray for a miracle," and another soloist led the entire mob in singing "God Bless America."

It was my first convention that resembled a political one, and to see the Bible being waved and to hear the shouts of Praise the Lord! that punctuated the speeches surprised me. It even moved me nearly to tears. Where is our country going when the notion of "equal rights" can mean the introduction of homosexual literature into public schools "to give children options in sexual preference"? Somebody from IWY called it a "low blow" when the Pro-Family group ran an advertisement headed, "Mommie, when I grow up can I be a lesbian?", yet it is a true and sobering illustration of what could happen in the kind of world the IWY seeks to create, a murky wasteland, a hideous anarchy where God-given distinctions are obfuscated or even reversed.

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A Convention, a Winter Storm, and a Wedding - Page 2

When I returned to my hotel room that evening I watched some of the television coverage. There were hours of IWY, with now and then a minute or two of Pro-Family. Viewers could only conclude that the Pro-Family rally was a fringe group of dissidents, far out-numbered by the allegedly representative group at the IWY. What view President Carter and the lawmakers of the nation will take of what happened in Houston remains to be seen. Many thousands of American women pray for the defeat of the Equal Rights Amendment and the preservation by law of sexual distinction so essential to freedom of religion, freedom to build Christian homes, and freedom to be whole men and whole women under God.

The snow has turned to freezing rain now, and the trees bend with the weight of the ice which forms on their branches. Every twig is glazed; every frond of evergreen is cut crystal. I hope my pink dogwood and my two poor little peach trees, so wounded by last year's storms, will not be done in by this one. A small hope and a trivial fear by comparison with my hopes and fears for this beloved country of ours, but I bring both kinds to him who alone can do something about weather and human nature. Psalm 147 is a song of praise:

"He showers down snow, white as wool, and sprinkles hoar-frost
thick as ashes;
crystals of ice he scatters like breadcrumbs;
He utters his word, and the ice is melted.
O praise the Lord."

Ice, hoarfrost, snow. The earth, its realms, its cities. The wounds and broken spirits of his people. All of these subject to his command, affected by the word. He who heals and binds up, who brings peace and sends his command, who scatters crystals of ice like breadcrumbs and then speaks to melt them--he is still in charge.

He is in control of the other event which absorbs my attention with more urgency now than did the Houston convention. It is a wedding. And the wedding is mine. One week from today in a small Gothic chapel with a few friends and family members I will be entering into what the 1662 Prayer Book calls "Holy Matrimony, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church . . . not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God."

And, may I add, with unspeakable thanksgiving. For me it is the third time for me who was sure she was a "one-man woman," for me who thought it a miracle even the first time that any man would want her. But God, whose judgments are unsearchable, gave two and took away two in death, so that his giving a third seems beyond all imagining. I will be making those vows advisedly and soberly, to be sure: "To obey, serve, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep me only unto him, so long as we both shall live." Even for the third time, there are thrills; because it's the third time, there is also a deeper solemnity.

I know why vows, not pleasant sentiments, are required. G. K. Chesterton said they are "a yoke imposed by all lovers on themselves. It is the nature of love to bind itself, and the institution of marriage merely paid the average man the compliment of taking him at his word. Modern [Chesterton wrote more than seventy years ago] sages offer to the lover, with an ill-flavored grin, the largest liberties and the fullest irresponsibility; but they do not respect him as the old Church respected him; they do not write his oath upon the heavens as the record of his highest moment. They give him every liberty except the liberty to sell his liberty, which is the only one that he wants. . . . It will not work. There are thrilling moments, doubtless, for the spectator, the amateur and the aesthete; but there is one thrill that is known only to the soldier who fights for his own flag, to the ascetic who starves himself for his own illumination, to the lover who makes finally his own choice. And it is this transfiguring self-discipline that makes the vow a truly sane thing."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Never Frustrated - Page 1

The first time I saw her she had her back to me as she stood washing dishes at the kitchen sink. She was wearing a dress with a small black and white print, and an apron. She had a slight hump between her shoulders, gray hair, and I could see the wire for her hearing aid running down over her left shoulder. I said something to her but she did not respond.

"She's deaf," my sister said in a loud voice. I thought it was rather too loud a voice, and asked (softly), "You mean she can't hear a thing?" "Not even if you shout!" Ginny shouted. It was true. Mrs. Kershaw couldn't hear even if you shouted--unless you shouted directly into the tiny microphone she kept pinned to her dress.

I touched her shoulder, and she turned to me and smiled. "Oh, here she is!" she said, in a flat, nasal tone and a slight lisp. She had heard about the daughter who was away at college, and her smile of welcome was pure radiance in the wrinkled sweet face.

Mrs. Kershaw was a widow who had come to help my mother. She was quite literally a godsend. Over the years Mother had had a succession of "helpers" who were usually more liability than asset. (One of them met her at the front door when she came home after a shopping trip with, "Oh, Mrs. Howard, I have a surprise for you!" Mother's heart sank. The girl had spent the day, instead of at the tasks assigned, painting her room--woodwork and furniture--shiny chocolate brown.)

God must have seen that Mother had learned her lessons of patience and humility and deserved at last one of his saints, a woman utterly without guile, ambition, touchiness or egotism of any sort. Dear Mrs. Kershaw! When we get together for family reunions we always talk about her. We remember how . . .

She lived alone in a big old wooden house a couple of miles from our home. One of us would pick her up in the car every morning and take her home in the evening. Usually she was at the door, ready to come out when the car arrived. Once in a while we went to the door. There would be a sign on it: "I am home. Please come in." She could not, of course, hear a knock or a doorbell or the telephone. If you wanted her, you had to walk in and find her. She was never afraid the wrong person might want her.

When she got into the car she said what a nice day it was. If the sun shone she said, "Folks can do things outside, work in their gardens." When it rained she said, "Gives folks a chance to do what they wants."

We were sitting at the lunch table in the kitchen one day when a painter was climbing around outside the window. "Gets around pretty soup-le!" she remarked, meaning supple.

One evening at dinner (she always sat at the table with us) the discussion was about Bible names. Five out of us six children had Bible names and Mrs. Kershaw thought this was such a nice idea. My father kept her in on the conversation by speaking into the microphone which she held out to him. She smiled and nodded. Next evening, apropos of nothing, she said, "Harrison isn't in the Bible. I looked him up." Bless her heart! Her only child was named Harrison, a middle-aged man by then.

We always had family Bible reading after dinner. One evening my father said he would read from 1 Thessalonians. "That's a nice book," Mrs. Kershaw said. Nobody answered her remark, partly because we were supposed to be quiet for the reading, and partly because nobody could easily reply--we would have had to ask for the microphone. She looked around the table inquiringly; then, supposing that our silence might indicate disagreement, she said, "I don't know whether it's any good or not, but I like it." We smiled and nodded our agreement and she settled back with a contented sigh.

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Never Frustrated - Page 2

She often took care of a man who was in his nineties, and she would tell us about him. He was inclined to be a bit crotchety and unpredictable, but she said, "When they gets old they gets that way sometimes. Hope I'm not that way when I get old." She was in her mid-seventies but not, in her mind, even approaching "old."

She would spend hours sitting with my step-grandmother who lived with us and was confined to her room upstairs. Nana was quite deaf, too, so the two of them would chatter away, often at cross-purposes, but not minding, Mrs. Kershaw doing her best to cheer up an otherwise very gloomy lady not much older than herself. Once my father overheard a conversation between Mrs. Kershaw and a Belgian lady who was visiting us who did not speak English. The answers did not match the questions at all, but he let them alone until he heard Mrs. Kershaw repeating several times, "What is your name?" The Belgian lady, by guesswork, figured out what she was asking and replied, "Victorine." "Oh," said Mrs. Kershaw, "Freda. That's a nice name." At that my father felt it was time to help out.

Mrs. Kershaw was not a great cook, but she knew how to make applesauce and brown sugar cookies. The gallons of the former and dozens of the latter were consumed as fast as she could turn them out. She could do plain country cooking--meat, potatoes and vegetables--and she loved to see us eat. One of my brothers spurned the cabbage on his plate. She begged him to eat it. "Why don't you like cabbage? You like chicken, don't you?" she said. Often her comments amused us beyond concealment but she always laughed with us, looking eagerly around the circle for any clues, confident, I feel sure, that she knew we were all crazy about her.

She did get old, finally. I suppose she was well along in her eighties when she had to go and live with Harrison in a tiny cramped room, so packed with her furniture and boxes and things that she could hardly move. I visited her there in a little town some distance from ours. "They calls it a clam town," she said of the village near the New Jersey shore. "Well, I call it a clam town, too--the people just kinda clams up, you know. Yes. Not friendly. They're not friendly at all." They don't know what they missed.

If ever a woman accepted the demands of her own life with simplicity and grace, it was she. It was a positive and active acceptance of the given. Words which have taken hold of our minds today like some noxious fungus--hassle, frustration, hang-up, put-down--were never in Mrs. Kershaw's vocabulary, nor could they have been. She wasn't interested in herself. She had nothing to say about herself or her own feelings. She lived for us.

I think of the contrasts Paul speaks about in 1 Corinthians 4. It is illuminating to set them in two lists and read straight down one list, then read down the other and ask oneself which describes his own life.

handicapped--never frustrated
puzzled--never in despair
persecuted--never have to stand it alone
knocked down--never knocked out

"We know sorrow, yet our joy is inextinguishable. We have 'nothing to bless ourselves with,' yet we bless many others with true riches. We are penniless, and yet in reality we have everything worth having."

For Paul to have said that--Paul, who had suffered the loss of all things--ought to shake up our categories of what is "worth having." Mrs. Kershaw would have said the same. I doubt that it ever occurred to her that she had been deprived of anything in her life that really mattered. The Lord had made his face to shine upon her and had given her peace, and she brought that shine and that peace to our house every day.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Darkness Never Conquers Light - Page 1

"I spent all day today at the Shore Country Day School Annual Fair and Sale. A huge bash, enormous fun, all the parents pitching in enthusiastically to sell hot dogs and manage games. There were balloons, pompoms and crepe paper all fluttering about, music playing, pie-eating contests, cream-pie-throwing contests (the teachers volunteered their faces as targets), raffles, etc. My job was to oversee the antique car ride. The car in question was a three-quarter size scale model of a 1903 car with a tiny gas engine that putted along at six miles per hour. The tots drove it, with one of the fathers 'riding shotgun' on the running board...."

This is from a letter I received from one of my four brothers not many weeks ago. I hear from all of them, and from my sister and mother as well, quite regularly. Few people, it seems, correspond regularly with anybody nowadays, let alone with their own relatives. Crowded lives, expensive postage and the convenience of long-distance phone calls are the usual excuses.

But we have always kept up with each other, thanks to our mother who when we first went off to boarding school began sending copies of our letters around to the others. As the years passed we began to make it a little easier for her by making carbons of our letters, and week after week, year in and year out, she takes a good-sized chunk of her time to sort and stuff copies into envelopes, which she addresses and stamps and sends off around the world--always including her own cheerful newsy page, on which nearly every sentence is an exclamation! Or a double exclamation!! Or contains words written in CAPITAL LETTERS!!!

There was another paragraph in my brother's letter, very different from the first: "This week I drove to Children's Hospital in Boston to chauffeur a mother and her little boy, who has acute leukemia. The child is having (1) radiation on the brain, (2) chemotherapy and (3) some dreadful spinal injections in the bargain.

"The scene in the playroom where all the little children come with their mothers to wait for their 'medicine' (that seems to be the term) is too much: all these little, bald, gray, elfin phantoms, peering out of brown-ringed eyes. One tiny girl with a cane. Little tots with stuffed frogs and teddy bears clutched under their arms. Bone-chilling screams coming from the room labeled 'Special Procedures' (read spinal taps and marrow scrapings, I guess).

"A whole room full of beds where they sit, propped up, while the lethal chemicals drip through plastic tubes into their veins. One teen-age girl lying on her side in that room, quietly, with tears dropping slowly across the bridge of her nose. One colored baby with just enough hair left for her mother to have arranged two pigtails exactly the thickness of twisted black sewing thread about three inches long."

A letter came in that same mail from another brother: "'Twas the eighteenth of April in seventy-five....' Yet two hundred years later I am sitting in a hotel almost in sight of the infamous Berlin wall that represents the opposite of all that Paul Revere stood for. Yesterday I crossed that wall into East Berlin, and from the time I entered with stony guards carefully scrutinizing me and my passport until I came out--again under the cold eyes of sullen-faced guards--I never saw a smile from one official.

"By contrast I spent lunch and all afternoon with a group of six joyful, hearty pastors and Christian leaders who hugged me, gave me strong handshakes, joked, prayed earnestly, spoke words of encouragement to me (yes, not vice versa), promised to pray for me, pronounced a benediction on me at our parting.

"One man said, 'Everything is gray here, no color.' That is both literally and symbolically true. Very little color on the streets, buildings still pock-marked with shells from street fighting at the end of World War II. Gray, sad faces. Another said, 'You can only be a happy man in this country if you know Jesus.' 'Here you are either a Christian or not a Christian. No middle ground. When we don't have outward liberty we learn more of true liberty in Jesus."'

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Darkness Never Conquers Light - Page 2

The juxtaposition in a few paragraphs of these scenes--gaiety, anguish, persecution--read through hurriedly one morning as I opened a pile of mail, brought once again the insistent question of God's meaning and purpose. What does he want of us? How, finding himself in such starkly opposing frameworks, is the Christian to respond to God? Is it best, perhaps, to try not to think about him when one is watching a pie-throwing contest? Ought one to try not to think--better still, to try not even to see anything at all--when one has to enter a children's cancer ward? Shall we not even read about the suffering on the other side of the Wall? But that is not accepting life. It is evasion. Those Eastern European Christians are not evading, they are rejoicing. How can it be?

Another letter came to me, this one from a young woman I do not know: "This year the Concerts and Lectures Committee at the college I attend has sponsored a series of lectures concerning the topic, 'What Future for My Generation?' Yesterday the guest speaker was the black activist Stokely Charmichael. Although I have been upset about the direction our world seems to be heading, his talk along with the others has prompted me to write to you.

"I am getting married in June. My question is this: What responsibility do you feel a Christain couple has in regard to having children? . . . I know the Lord is totally in charge of the future, but it frightens me to think of my part in bringing a child into an unhappy and unstable world."

Music, balloons, cream pies. Brain tumors, barbed wire, death. This is the world we live in. Ever since the Garden of Eden was sullied by evil it has been an unhappy and an unstable world. Has it ever been right to bring a child into such a world? For the Christian it is right--a thousand times right. For it is the will of God that married people accept the responsibility of children. It is the will of God that we live in the world--this world of light and darkness, of gladness and suffering--for it is this world that Jesus Christ came to redeem. Christianity, alone among the religions of the world, looks steadfastly at the facts, whatever they may be, and says there is an ultimate explanation, an ultimate purpose, a glorious answer.

"Everything belongs to you!" Paul said. "The world, life, death, the present, or the future everything is yours, for you belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God."

We cannot protect the child we bring into the world. ("This, this is the victory of the grave; here is death's sting, that it is not strong enough, our strongest wing," wrote the poet Charlotte Mew. "But what of His who like a Father pitieth? His Son was also, once, a little thing....") But we can bring him to the Cross, where all longings, all hopes and failures, all sin and sadness and pain and fear are gathered up in everlasting love and transformed for us forever into glory and beauty and Joy.

So what about the country fair? Try to keep God out of it? Why? He is watching it. He sees us watching it. Does he mind that we have a hilarious time? "Everything belongs to you!" Try thanking him.

And what of the children with the tubes running into them? He sees them. He loves them. He has not finished yet with their redemption. Can we watch with him-- watch and pray and hold them up to everlasting love?

And the prisoners and exiles--they, too, are in his plan. "God has no problems," Corrie ten Boom says, "only plans." We suffer with them because they are members of the same Body, but our Christian faith enables us to look steadfastly and not hide our eyes, to pray earnestly and not despair, because Jesus commanded us: "Be of good cheer. I have overcome the world!"

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Junk Food - Page 1

If you're hungry, the airport in Fayetteville, Arkansas, is not a good place to be. The selection of "snacks" in the vending machine is impressive, but there is nothing at all that one could call food. You can insert your quarters, nickels and dimes (no pennies) and get chocolate chip cookies, potato chips (plain), potato chips with "bar-B-Q" flavor, potato chips with sour cream and onion (artificial) flavor, potato "Stix," pork rinds, corn chips, "Cornies," "Pub Fries," "Cheddar Fries," "Cheetos," "Cheese Smackers," and things called "Doritos," "Bugles," "yammers" and "Dunkums."

Alongside that machine is another one offering brightly colored aluminum cans of sweet fizzy stuff with which to wash down all those snacks or, I suppose, to Dunkum. I don't like to contemplate what state your blood sugar or your nerves or your sanctification would be in if your supper comprised a Tab and a package of Jammers, but on second thought, a look around the boarding lounge of almost any airport--at the facial expressions, the behavior of the pre-school-age tots, and the remarks overheard--give a clue. We are a nation "overfed but undernourished," to borrow the title of Curtis Wood's book.

Junk food is not nourishment. It's easily available (if you have the right coins). It is packaged up in eye-catching wrappings, presumably untouched by human hands. It can be transported to plane, to beach, to movie theatre, to school, to bed. It can be grabbed in a moment, wolfed down on the run; and there are no preparations to make, nothing to clean up except greasy fingers. It does away altogether with the ritual of eating--the laid table, the attractive presentation of a dish, the fellowship with others, the leisure to enjoy. In a world that has lost or discarded nearly all other rituals, what will become of us if we do away with even this one?

But worst of all, junk food feeds (feeding will make you fat) but does not nourish. Nourishment makes you strong. I sat on the molded fiberglass seat in Fayetteville, waiting for the small plane which would take me to Tulsa, and wished for a few crunchy fat Bing cherries or a slice of the wheat-honey bread that I make regularly at home--real food.

Don't misunderstand. I like potato chips. I like Cheetos. I haven't tried the commercially packaged pork rinds, but I certainly enjoyed the kind the Indians gave me in South America--fished out of a cauldron of hot fat bubbling over an open fire in some jungle clearing, eaten with a chunk of steamed manioc or a plantain roasted in the ashes.

We are people of our times and culture. Because of the "schedule" I seem to be obliged to keep, I am always looking for ways to use my time more efficiently, and one of them is to listen to tapes while I do my hair and face. I switched the recorder off the other day, disgusted with what I told my husband was spiritual junk food. A man was rambling on about his own feelings, his "meaningful" experiences, and how he got in touch with himself, with other people, and with God. No doubt he was telling the truth, but there wasn't a single reference to Scripture, and not much there that would nourish me.

Christian bookstores usually carry some real "meat," if you can find it. It is not likely to be up front where the paperbacks, the tapes and the records are, which display on their jackets color photographs of the author, the speaker or the singer, often taken in an open meadow, in a soft, misty light, and with a few wildflowers. (Are there any analogies here artificial color, perhaps, or flavor? What about preservatives? I understand preservatives are used in foods to give a longer "shelf life." The booksellers have thought of some tricks, I'm sure, to keep their wares in the public eye for a few weeks longer, but no trick takes the place of quality for preserving a book's shelf life.)

Tastes are developed. Solzhenitsyn, in his speech at Harvard a few months ago, deplored the "TV stupor" in which Americans live. He spoke of the decadence of art, of intolerable music, of mass prejudice, spiritual exhaustion, material luxury, and a morally inferior happiness. He is right. Alas, his own experience of totalitarianism and concentration camp gives him the perspective and the authority to judge our society. We must hear him.

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Junk Food - Page 2

Doctors have been learning of the physical exhaustion that can result from artificial or refined or highly sugared foods. Might not one cause of the spiritual exhaustion which Solzhenitsyn observes be the spiritual junk food we consume? What shall be done for the child fed on the snack-pack, the soft drink and the TV dinner? Will he never choose, let alone enjoy, vegetables? Will the Christian whose spiritual sustenance has been limited to the mass-produced, who is accustomed only to "snacking," whose tastes have been conditioned by the majority, ever choose what is truly nourishing?

What it comes down to, with regard to spiritual things, is that we ought to learn to do some of our own cooking. Granted, it is much easier to grab a package. But sometimes we ought to start from scratch.

Let us start with silence. That may be the hardest thing to achieve in our world. But it is not impossible. For one thing, it takes the will to be quiet. It is possible to be quiet on a crowded subway or in the kitchen when the bacon is frying, the washing machine is running and the baby wants more milk. It is easier by far to be quiet when things around us are quiet, and for most of us this means getting up early.

I was in my study this morning before the traffic had started up on Route 1A. No sound came from the road or the house. Only the sweet susurrus of the crickets in the grass and the cawing of a crow in a beech tree broke the silence, yet it took also an act of the will to be still and know that He is God. My mind races quite naturally over things done yesterday (burying a beloved friend's beloved little dog, getting my sister from the hospital, swimming in the ocean, writing a page or two) or things to be done today (writing more than a page or two, having a friend to tea, getting my mother from the airport). Be still. It is a command. The Hebrew word used in Psalm 46 can mean "Shut up."

The great books that have been spiritual meat and drink for me have been produced, I feel sure, out of great silence. Men and women of God have learned of him by being quiet and allowing him to speak to them in their solitude. They have been willing to be alone, to shut up, to listen, and to think and pray over what they have heard. In our modern world most people choose noise. Go to the beach or a forest camp and find portable radios, television sets, record players. Sit down in a waiting room and listen to what Malcolm Muggeridge calls that "drooling melange" of Muzak. People want noise. They would far rather discuss than think, talk over their problems than pray about them, read a paperback about what somebody else thinks about the Bible than read the Bible.

We cannot stand stillness. Yet we need it. I wonder if the popularity of transcendental meditation is due to this felt need. Whatever may be said about TM's being a religion or not, the measure of success it seems to enjoy could be attributed in part to the simple fact that its devotees spend a certain amount of time daily in motionless silence. That can't hurt anybody.

As one of those who write the stuff that is for sale in the bookstores I referred to, I know that responsibility is laid upon me to provide real food. So I speak to myself-- I must do my own "cooking." It is not fast food that I ought to provide for my reader. I must feed him, but in order to do that I must myself be fed. What I speak or write must come out of silence where only a still small voice can be heard.

I speak also to my reader. Seek what is good for the soul, even if it doesn't come in paperback. Read an old book once in a while. (Try P. T. Forsyth, The Principle of Authority, or Luther's Letters of Spiritual Counsel.) And once in a while lay aside the books and the tapes. For a set period of time be alone, be still. "The man who lives on me will live because of me," Jesus said. "This is the bread which came down from heaven."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Little Black Dog - Page 1

It is a late October morning of glorious sunshine in New Hampshire and I sit in an antique rocking chair by the window of an old house which was once a barn. The gray rocks on Mount Lafayette's broad summit are dusted with snow, and the sky is as blue as a sky can be. All that is still green today is the evergreens. Between them are the black line drawings of the thin leafless maples, wild cherries, aspens and birches. The feathery tamaracks are dark gold. Little yellow apples hang on one of the gnarled old trees of the orchard. I keep hoping a deer will come for them.

My friend Miriam and I drove up yesterday from Boston for a few days of quiet at my brother's place. Both of us brought a load of desk work. No one else is here except Daisy, Miriam's new friend, a little white Pekingese. (Her old friend, Pity Sing, died a few weeks ago.)

MacDuff, my six-year-old Scottish terrier, is not here this time either. We went for a short climb yesterday afternoon, up a rocky wooded trail that he used to love. He would race after the chattering chipmunks, bound up the steep granite slabs, and wait, panting, at the top for us to catch up. I missed him yesterday on that trail. I miss him today when I look out of the window.

MacDuff died of cancer last week. I knew he was sick during the summer when his routines changed. He sat in the middle of the back yard one morning, instead of in his usual place by the fence, looking bewildered instead of in charge. One rainy day he was not on his chair in the screened porch, but I found him lying in a hollow place under a bush. He no longer leaped for his Milk-Bone at the breakfast table. But he kept his ears and tail up, and thus kept my hopes up.

The vet said he had an infection and gave us pills. MacDuff got very cagey at detecting where those pills had been hidden in his food, so I had to try ever sneakier methods of getting them into him. They worked fine. He was well again--for a while faithfully putting in his self-appointed barking time each day, letting neighbor dogs know who was in charge, and keeping off trespassers, some of whom must have been demons since none of us humans could see them.

But I saw that he was losing weight. I could feel the shoulder blades and spine through his heavy, ragged coat. I bought new kinds of dog food, special hamburger, yogurt. He was apologetic when he couldn't eat it, his eyes limpid with a plea for understanding, his stiff brush-tail quivering to explain.

"Little Duffer, little black dog--could you try this?" I would ask, offering some tidbit that would surely be irresistible. He would lift his black nose, take it slowly and delicately in his teeth, hold it for a moment hoping I would look away, and then place it on the floor as tactfully as he could. He did not want to disappoint me.

His suffering was a hard thing to watch. He was alone in it, as all creatures, human or animal, are alone in their pain. "The toad beneath the harrow knows exactly where each sharp tooth goes." There is no qualitative or quantitative measurement for pain. It is simply there sharp or dull, shooting or stabbing, bearable or excruciating, local or general, it is unexplained, uninvited, unavoidable. It takes command. It is all-encompassing, implacable, exigent. But of course I am speaking only of what I know of pain. How was it for MacDuff?

He expected no special treatment. He did not pity himself. He took for granted that he would be able to go on about his accustomed terrier business and when he found that it was somehow not working well, he made his own adjustments as unobtrusively as he could. It was still the supreme object of his life to see that I was happy. I think he lay under the bush in the rain not in order to wallow in solitary self-pity, but in order that I might not see him in trouble. He liked to please me. He delighted to do my will.

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Little Black Dog - Page 2

Is animal suffering different from human suffering? I hope so. Animals surely must not suffer the agonies of anxiety which accompany much human pain. "How shall I carry out my duties? What am I to do if this doesn't clear up quickly? Can I bear it if it gets worse?" The element of time is not a philosophical torment to them. They live as we have to be told to live--one day at a time, trustfully. I don't know whether it is accurate to say that "faith" is required of them, but if it is, they fulfill the requirement perfectly. They look to God, the Psalmist tells us, for provision for their needs. They are watched over and cared for by a kind Father. Not the least sparrow falls without his notice. Surely MacDuff was of more value than many sparrows!

I watched him try to lie down on his side, but something obstructed his breathing. When he was asleep he would begin to pant and would waken to change his position, sometimes with little muffled groans. This fellow-creature, I thought, formed by the Hand that formed me, suffers for my sin--for I am of the race of men who brought evil into the world, and without evil there could be no pain, no death. A Scotty would not have had cancer.

His wonderful face bearded, with tufts of eyebrows springing and black eyes shining--had reminded me of George MacDonald's belief that dogs always behold the face of the Father. MacDuff knew things--what did he know? What were the mysteries he saw--too deep or too high or too pure for me to be entrusted with yet? I think they helped him endure the pain. He was not bewildered, of course, by the questions that needle my mind--the origin of evil, God's permission of an animal's or a child's suffering. He was a dog, and to ponder such questions was not required of him. What was required of him he did, in an authentically, thoroughly dog-like style.

I will not weep more for him. I will be thankful for such a gift of grace. He was, I am sure, "assigned" to me. In the sorrow of my late husband's illness, when life seemed a desolate wasteland, MacDuff was there. Jesus, the Bible tells us, during his temptation in the wilderness, was "with the wild beasts." I used to think of that phrase as descriptive of one of the elements of his dereliction, but it may be that the wild beasts, like the angels, ministered to him. Is it mere sentimentality to believe that? Is it too much to say that Duffer "ministered" to me? He did. He was my little wild beast in that wilderness.

The Bible does not speak specifically of the destiny of animals but there is a promise in the Letter to the Ephesians which surely must include them, "Everything that exists in heaven or earth shall find its perfection and fulfillment in Christ" (Eph. 1:10 Phillips).

Paul expresses his hope in the eighth chapter of Romans (verse 21 Phillips) "that in the end the whole of created life will be rescued from the tyranny of change and decay, and have its share in that magnificent liberty which can only belong to the children of God!"

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture: Luke 16:9 Deuteronomy 1:29-30
The Path of Lonliness

Not One Thing Has Failed - Page 1

I love to read people's journals. Except for one which I was allowed to read in the original handwriting, that of my late husband Jim Elliot, I have had to limit myself to published journals--those, for example of David Brainerd, early missionary to American Indians; Katherine Mansfield, short-story writer from New Zealand; Anne Morrow Lindbergh, wife of the famous pilot; and Mircea Eliade, Rumanian professor of the history of religion at the University of Chicago.

Jim started his journal as a means of self-discipline. He began to get up early in the morning during his junior year in college to read the Bible and pray before classes. He was realistic enough to recognize the slim chances of fitting in any serious study and prayer later in the day. If it had priority on his list of things that mattered, it had to have chronological priority. To see that he did not waste the dearly-bought time, he began to note down on paper specific things he learned from the Word and specific things he asked for in prayer.

"It is not written as a diary of my experiences or feelings," he recorded in his journal, "but as a 'book of remembrance' to enable me to ask definitely by forcing myself to put yearnings into words. All I have asked has not been given and the Father's withholding has served to intensify my desires.... He promises water to the thirsty, satiation to the unsatisfied (I do not say dissatisfied), filling to the famished for righteousness. So has His concealing of Himself given me longings that can only be slaked when Psalm 17:15 ['As for me I shall behold thy face in righteousness; when I awake I shall be satisfied with beholding thy form'] is realized" (From The Journals of Jim Elliot, ed. Elisabeth Elliot. Old Tappan, N.J.: Fleming H. Revell).

"All I have asked has not been given." Not, that is, in the way or at the time he might have predicted. Jim beheld the longed-for Face much sooner than he expected. It is startling to see, from the perspective of nearly thirty years, how much of what he asked was given, and given beyond his dreaming.

In his meditations on the Revelation of John, Jim prayed for a greater love for God's church, which he saw "in a shambling ruins," sadly in need of awakening to her calling. "And where shall an overcomer be found? Alas, they all witness that there is no need for overcoming.... But Christ was among the churches. The tarnish of the lampstand did not send Him away from them; He is still in their midst. Ah, turn me, Lord Jesus, to see Thee in Thy concern for Thy witness and let me write, publish, and send to the church what things I see."

Knowing Jim and the context in which he wrote, I am quite certain it was beyond his dreaming to publish a book. He wanted to witness. He wanted to preach. He was called to be a missionary. But he did not imagine himself a published author. The way this came about (his posthumous notoriety) cannot have entered the frame-work of his prayer.

When Jim prayed for revival he was instructed by reading in David Brainerd's diary how a revival came when Brainerd was sick, discouraged, and cast down, "little expecting that God had chosen the hour of his weakness," Jim wrote, "for manifestation of His strength."

"I visited Indians at Crossweeksung," Brainerd records, "Apprehending that it was my indispensable duty.... I cannot say I had any hopes of success. I do not know that my hopes respecting the conversion of the Indians were ever reduced to so low an ebb . . . yet this was the very season that God saw fittest to begin His glorious work in! And thus He ordained strength out of weakness . . . whence I learn that it is good to follow the path of duty, though in the midst of darkness and discouragement."

Following the quotation from David Brainerd Jim includes in the journal a quotation I had sent him from a book which had encouraged me. At that time I was working for the Canadian Sunday School Mission in the bush country of Alberta. My own journal of the first day says, "It is a new and strange experience and I feel keenly my need of the mighty Fortress." On the second day, "I woke at 4:30 with the farm fowl. Made a small breakfast and cleaned up my little home [a fourteen-foot trailer]. In the hot stillness of the afternoon I felt desolate, helpless, lonely, discouraged. Was helped by Deuteronomy 1:29, 30: 'Then I said to you, Do not be in dread or afraid of them. The Lord your God who goes before you will himself fight for you."'

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Not One Thing Has Failed - Page 2

Jessie Penn-Lewis's book Thy Hidden Ones showed me God's purpose in my isolation and helplessness. It was her words I sent in a letter to Jim: "In the Holy Spirit's leading of the soul through the stripping of what may be called 'consecrated self,' and its activity, it is important that there should be a fulfillment of all outward duty, that the believer may learn to act on principle rather than on pleasant impulse." It was a spiritual lesson that was to fortify me through countless later experiences when feelings or impulses contributed nothing to an inclination toward obedience. God allows the absence of feeling or, more often, the presence of strong negative feeling that we may simply follow, simply obey, simply trust.

Jim saw, in reading Brainerd, the value of his own journals. He also "was much encouraged to think of a life of godliness in the light of an early death.... Christianity has been analyzed, decried, refused by some; coolly eyed, submitted to, and its forms followed by others who call themselves Christians. But alas, what emptiness in both!

"I have prayed for new men, fiery, reckless men, possessed of uncontrollably youthful passion--these lit by the Spirit of God. I have prayed for new words, explosive, direct, simple words. I have prayed for new miracles. Explaining old miracles will not do. If God is to be known as the God who does wonders in heaven and earth, then God must produce for this generation. Lord, fill preachers and preaching with Thy power. How long dare we go on without tears, without moral passions, hatred and love? Not long, I pray, Lord Jesus, not long." I read these prayers now with awe--new men, new words, new miracles all granted as a result of this young man's death.

The next day, October 28, 1949, when Jim was twenty-two years old he wrote, "He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose." This was the lesson he found in Luke 16:9, "Make friends for yourself by means of unrighteous mammon, so that when it fails they may receive you into the eternal habitations." The lesson had one application for him in that early morning devotional hour. He did not know how poignantly it would be applied in his life, how aptly illustrated in his death, and how often quoted in the years following.

He wrote in 1953 of watching an Indian die in a jungle house. "And so it will come to me one day, I kept thinking. I wonder if that little phrase I used to use in preaching was something of a prophecy: 'Are you willing to lie in some native hut to die of a disease American doctors never heard of?' I am still willing, Lord God. Whatever You say shall stand at my end time. But oh, I want to live to teach Your word. Lord, let me live 'until I have declared Thy works to this generation."'

God let him live another three years and then answered that prayer as he answers so many--mysteriously. Five men from a little Stone Age tribe speared him to death. "We thought he had come to eat us," they told me several years later when I had learned their language.

"Why did you think so?" I asked, holding the tiny microphone of a transistor recorder to the mouth of Gikita, the man who seemed to have made the decision to use his spear first.

He laughed. "Unungi!" "For no reason. For no particular purpose."

But the God who holds in his hand the breath of every living thing had a purpose. He answered Jim's prayer mysteriously, and "exceedingly abundantly above all" that he had asked or thought. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Jim's generation for whom he had prayed were brought to their knees, some of them in lifelong surrender to the call of Christ. Now another generation, born since Jim died, is reading the record of his young man-hood--the days which seemed so sterile, so useless, so devoid of any feelings of holiness, when God was at work shaping the character of a man who was to be his witness; the prayers which seemed to go unheard at the time, kept--as all the prayers of all his children are kept, incense for God--and answered after what would have seemed to Jim a long delay.

I think of the farewell message of old Joshua to the elders, heads, judges and officers of Israel: "Be steadfast . . . cleave to the Lord . . . love the Lord your God.... You know in your hearts and souls, all of you, that not one thing has failed of all the good things which the Lord your God promised concerning you; all have come to pass for you, not one of them has failed."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

On Asking God Why - Page 1

One of the things I am no longer as good at as I used to be is sleeping through the night. I'm rather glad about that, for there is something pleasant about waking in the small hours and realizing that one is, in fact, in bed and need not get up. One can luxuriate.

Between two and three o'clock yesterday morning I luxuriated. I lay listening to the night sounds in a small house on the "stern and rockbound" coast of Massachusetts. The wind whistled and roared, wrapping itself around the house and shaking it. On the quarter hour the clock in the living room softly gave out Whittington's chime. I could hear the tiny click as the electric blanket cut off and on, the cracking of the cold in the walls, the expensive rumble of the oil burner beneath me, and the reassuring rumble of a snoring husband beside me. Underneath it all was the deep, drumming rhythm of the surf, synchronized with the distant bellow of "Mother Ann's Cow," the name given the sounding buoy that guards the entrance to Gloucester Harbor.

I was thinking, as I suppose I am always thinking, in one way or another, about mystery. An English magazine which contained an interview with me had just come in the mail, and of course I read it, not to find out what I'd said to the man last spring in Swanwick, but to find out what he said I'd said. He had asked me about some of the events in my life, and I had told him that because of them I had had to "come to terms with mystery.'' That was an accurate quotation, I'm sure, but as I lay in bed I knew that one never comes to any final terms with mystery--not in this life, anyway. We keep asking the same unanswerable questions and wondering why the explanations are not forthcoming. We doubt God. We are anxious about everything when we have been told quite clearly to be anxious about nothing. Instead of stewing we are supposed to pray and give thanks.

Well, I thought, I'll have a go at it. I prayed about several things for which I could not give thanks. But I gave thanks in the middle of each of those prayers because I was still sure (the noise of the wind and ocean were reminding me) that underneath are the everlasting arms.

My prayers embraced four things:
1. Somebody I love is gravely ill.
2. Something I wanted has been denied.
3. Something I worked very hard for failed.
4. Something I prized is lost.

I can be specific about three of the things. A letter from a friend of many years describes her cancer surgery and its aftermath--an incision that had to be scraped and cleaned daily for weeks.

"It was so painful that Diana, Jim, Monica, and I prayed while she cleaned it, three times and some days four times. Monica would wipe my tears. Yes, Jesus stands right there as the pain takes my breath away and my toes curl to keep from crying out loud. But I haven't asked, Why me, Lord? It is only now that I can pray for cancer patients and know how the flesh hurts and how relief, even for a moment, is blessed."

The second thing is a manuscript on which I have spent years. It is not, I believe, publishable now, and I can see no way to redeem it. It feels as though those years of work have gone down the drain. Have they? What ought I to do about this failure?

The other thing is my J.B. Phillips translation of the New Testament, given to me when I lived in the jungle in 1960 and containing nineteen years' worth of notes. I left this book on an airplane between Dallas and Atlanta several weeks ago. The stewardess brought my breakfast as I was reading it, so I laid it in my lap and spread my napkin on top of it. I suppose it slipped down beside the seat. (Stupid of me, of course, but on the same trip my husband did just as stupid a thing. He left his briefcase on the sidewalk outside the terminal. We prayed, and the prayers were almost instantly answered. Someone had picked the briefcase up and turned it in to the airline, and we had it back in a couple of hours.) I am lost without my Phillips. I feel crippled. It is as though a large segment of the history of my spiritual pilgrimage has been obliterated. It was the one New Testament in which I knew my way around. I knew where things were on the page and used it constantly in public speaking because I could refer quickly to passages I needed. What shall I do?

I have done the obvious things. Prayer is the first thing--asking God to do what I can't do. The second thing is to get busy and do what I can do. I prayed for my friend, of course, and then I sat down and wrote her a letter. I don't know what else to do for her now. My husband and I prayed together about the lost New Testament (and many of my friends prayed too). We went to the proper authorities at the airline and have been assured that everything will be done to recover it, but it has not turned up. We prayed about the bad manuscript and asked for editorial advice. It looks quite irremedial. I continue to pray repeatedly, extensively, and earnestly about all of the above. And one more thing: I seek the lessons God wants to teach me, and that means that I ask why.

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On Asking God Why - Page 2

There are those who insist that it is a very bad thing to question God. To them, "why?" is a rude question. That depends, I believe, on whether it is an honest search, in faith, for his meaning, or whether it is a challenge of unbelief and rebellion. The psalmist often questioned God and so did Job. God did not answer the questions, but he answered the man--with the mystery of himself.

He has not left us entirely in the dark. We know a great deal more about his purposes than poor old Job did, yet Job trusted him. He is not only the Almighty--Job's favorite name for him. He is also our Father, and what a father does is not by any means always understood by the child. If he loves the child, however, the child trusts him. It is the child's ultimate good that the father has in mind. Terribly elementary. Yet I have to be reminded of this when, for example, my friend suffers, when a book I think I can't possibly do without is lost, when a manuscript is worthless.

The three things are not all in the same category. The second and third things have to do with my own carelessness and failure. Yet in all three I am reminded that God is my Father still, that he does have a purpose for me, and that nothing, absolutely nothing, is useless in the fulfillment of that purpose if I'll trust him for it and submit to the lessons.

"God disciplines us for our good that we may share his holiness." That is a strong clue to the explanation we are always seeking. God's purpose for us is holiness--his own holiness which we are to share--and the sole route to that end is discipline.

Discipline very often involves loss, diminishment, "fallings from us, vanishings." Why? Because God wills our perfection in holiness, that is, our joy. But, we argue, why should diminishments be the prerequisite for joy? The answer to that lies within the great mystery that underlies creation: the principle of life out of death, exemplified for all time in the Incarnation ("that a vile Manger his low Bed should prove, who in a Throne of stars Thunders above," as Crashaw expressed it) and in the cross and resurrection ("who, for the joy that was set before him, endured a cross"). Christ's radical diminishments--his birth as a helpless baby and his death as a common criminal--accomplished our salvation.

It follows that if we are to share in his destiny we must share in his death, which means, for us sinners, the willingness to offer up to him not only ourselves but all that goes with that gift, including the simplest, down-to-earth things. These things may be aggravating and irritating and humiliating as well as mysterious. But it is the very aggravation and irritation and humiliation that we can offer--every diminishment of every kind--so that by the grace of God we may be taught his loving lessons and be brought a little nearer to his loving purpose for us and thus be enlarged.

Somehow it's easy to understand the principle of control and denial and loss in the matter of self-discipline. It is perfectly plain to anyone who wants to do a difficult and worthwhile thing that he's got to deny himself a thousand unimportant and probably a few hundred important things in order to do the one thing that matters most. Bishop Stephen Neill said that writing is almost entirely a matter of self-discipline. "You must make yourself write." I know. Alas. Sit yourself down, shut yourself up, restrict your enthusiasms, control your maunderings. Think. (Sir Joshua Reynolds wrote, "There is no expedient to which a man will not resort to avoid the real labor of thinking.") Diminishments. Then put things on paper--carefully. Then (and this is the part I resist most strenuously) rewrite. Cut things. Drop things you've spent hours on into the wastebasket.

I lay in bed, luxuriating in the physical bliss, cogitating on the spiritual perplexities. I could not explain why God would restore Lars' lost briefcase and not my New Testament. I could not fathom my friend's suffering or the "waste" of time. But God could. It's got something to do with that great principle of loss being the route to gain, or diminishments being the only way we can finally be enlarged, that is, conformed to the image of Christ.

"Who watched over the birth of the sea?"

The words from God's dialogue with Job came to mind as I listened to the throbbing of the ocean from my bed.

"Have you descended to the springs of the sea, or walked in the unfathomable deep?"

No, Lord, but you have. Nothing in those dark caverns is mysterious to you. Nor is anything in my life or my friend's life. I trust you with the unfathomables.

But you know I'll be back--with the usual question.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

On Brazen Heavens - Page 1

For about a year now I have been witness to a drama that is all too familiar to us mortal men. Someone finds he has cancer; the medical treadmill begins, with its implacable log of defeat; hope is marshalled, begins the march, is rebuffed at every juncture, flags, rouses, flags again, and is finally quietly mustered out.

And meanwhile, because the people in the drama are Christian believers, everyone is dragged into the maelstrom that marks the place where our experience eddies into the sea of the Divine Will. The whole question of prayer gapes open.

The promises are raked over. And over and over. "Is the primary condition enough faith on our part?" "We must scour our own hearts to see that there is no stoppage there--of sin or of unbelief." "We must stand on the promise.'' ''We must claim thus and such." ''We must resist the Devil and his weapons of doubt."

And we leap at and pursue any and all reports and records of healings. "Look at what happened to so-and-so!" "Listen to this!" "I've just read this wonderful pamphlet." We know the Gospel accounts by heart. We agree that this work of healing did not cease with the apostolic age. We greet gladly the tales of healing that pour in from all quarters in the Church--no longer only from those groups that have traditionally "specialized" in healing, but from the big, old, classic bodies in Christendom-- Rome, Anglicanism, Lutheranism, Presbyterianism, and so forth. ''God is doing something in our day," we hear, and we grasp at it eagerly.

And meanwhile the surgery goes on its horrific way, and the radiation burns on, week after grim week; and suffering sets in, and the doctors hedge and dodge into the labyrinthine linoleum and stainless-steel bureaucracy of the hospital world, and our hearts sicken, and we try to avert our eyes from the black flag that is fluttering wildly on the horizon, mocking us.

And the questions come stealing over us: "Where is now their God?" "Where is the promise of his coming?" "He trusted in God that he would deliver him . . ." and so on. And we know that we are not the first human beings into whose teeth the Tempter and his ilk have flung those taunts.

We look for some light. We look for some help. Our prayers seem to be vanishing, like so many wisps, into the serene aether of the cosmos (or worse, into the plaster of the ceiling). We strain our ears for some word from the Mount of God. A whisper will do, we tell ourselves, since clearly no bolts or thunderings have been activated by our importunity (yes, we have tried that tactic, too: the ''nonfaith" approach).

But only dead silence. Blank. Nothing. "But Lord, how are we supposed to know if we're on the right track at all if we don't get some confirmation from you--some corroboration--in any form, Lord--inner peace maybe, or some verse springing to life for us, or some token. Please let us have some recognizable attestation to what you have said in your Book." Nothing. Silence. Blank.

Perhaps at this point we try to think back over the experience of the people of God through the millennia. There has been a whole spectrum of experience for them: glorious deliverances, great victories, kingdoms toppled, widows receiving their dead back, men wandering about in sheepskins and goatskins--

"Men wandering about in sheepskins and goatskins? What went wrong there?"

"That's in the record of faith."

''But then surely something went wrong."

"No. It is part of the log of the faithful. That is a list of what happened to the people of faith. It is about how they proved God.

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On Brazen Heavens - Page 2

The whole spectrum of experience is there. The widow of Nain got her son back and other mothers didn't. Peter got out of prison and John the Baptist didn't. Elijah whirled up to heaven with fiery horses and Joseph ended in a coffin in Egypt. Paul healed other people, but was turned down on his own request for healing for himself.

A couple of items in the Gospels seem to me to suggest something for the particular situation described in this article, where deliverance did not, in fact, come, and where apparently the juggernaut of sheer nature went on its grim way with no intervention from Heaven.

One is the story of Lazarus and the other is the Emmaus account. You object immediately: "Ah, but in both those cases it turned out that the dead were raised.'' Well, perhaps there is something there for us nonetheless.

For a start, the people involved in those incidents were followers of Jesus, and they had seen him, presumably, heal dozens of people. Then these followers experienced the utter dashing of all their expectations and hopes by death. God did not, it seemed, act. He who had been declared the Living One and the Giver of Life seemed to have turned his back in this case. What went wrong? What did the household at Bethany not do that the Widow of Nain had done? How shall we align it all? Who rates and who doesn't? Whatever it is that we might have chosen to say to them in the days following their experience of death, we would have had to come to terms somehow with the bleak fact that God had done something for others that he had not done for them.

From the vantage point of two thousand years, we later believers can, of course, see that there was something wonderful in prospect, and that it emerged within a very few days in both cases. The stories make sense. They are almost better than they would have been if the deaths had not occurred. But of course this line would have been frosty comfort for Mary and Martha, or for the two en route to Emmaus, if we had insisted to them, "Well, surely God is up to something. We'll just have to wait."

And yet what else could we have said? Their experience at that point was of the utter finality of death, which had thrown everything they had expected into limbo. For them there was no walking and leaping and praising God. No embracing and ecstatic tears of reunion. Only the silence of shrouds and sepulchres, and then the turning back, not just to the flat routines of daily life, but to the miserable duel with the tedious voices pressing in upon their exhausted imaginations with "Right! Now where are you? Tell us about your faith now! What'd you do wrong?"

The point is that for x number of days, their experience was of defeat. For us, alas, the "x number of days" may be greatly multiplied. And it is small comfort to us to be told that the difference, then, between us and, say, Mary and Martha's experience of Lazarus' death, or of the two on the road to Emmaus, is only a quantitative difference. "They had to wait four days. You have to wait one, or five, or seventy years. What's the real difference?" That is like telling someone on the rack that his pain is only quantitatively different from mine with my hangnail. The quantity is the difference. But there is, perhaps, at least this much of help for us whose experience is that of Mary and Martha and the others, and not that of the widow of Nain and Jairus and that set: the experience of the faithful has, in fact, included the experience of utter death. That seems to be part of the pattern, and it would be hard indeed to insist that the death was attributable to some failure of faith on somebody's part.

There is also this to be observed: that it sometimes seems that those on the higher reaches of faith are asked to experience this "absence" of God. For instance, Jesus seemed ready enough to show his authority to chance bystanders, and to the multitudes; but look at his own circle. John the Baptist wasn't let off--he had his head chopped off. James was killed in prison. And the Virgin herself had to go through the horror of seeing her Son tortured. No legions of angels intervened there. There was also Job, of course. And St. Paul--he had some sort of healing ministry himself, so that handkerchiefs were sent out from him with apparently healing efficacy for others, but, irony of ironies, his own prayer for himself was "unanswered." He had to slog through life with whatever his "thorn" was. What do these data do to our categories?

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On Brazen Heavens - Page 3

But there is more. Turning again to the disclosure of God in Scripture, we seem to see that, in his economy, there is no slippage. Nothing simply disappears. No sparrow falls without his knowing (and, one might think, caring) about it. No hair on anybody's head is without its number. Oh, you say, that's only a metaphor; it's not literal. A metaphor of what, then, we might ask. Is the implication there that God doesn't keep tabs on things?

And so we begin to think about all our prayers and vigils and fastings and abstinences, and the offices and sacraments of the Church, that have gone up to the throne in behalf of the sufferer. They have vanished, as no sparrow, no hair, has ever done. Hey, what about that?

And we know that this is false. It is nonsense. All right then--we prayed, with much faith or with little; we searched ourselves; we fasted; we anointed and laid on hands; we kept vigil. And nothing happened.

Did it not? What angle of vision are we speaking from? Is it not true that again and again in the biblical picture of things, the story has to be allowed to finish?

Was it not the case with Lazarus' household at Bethany, and with the two en route to Emmaus? And is it not the case with the Whole Story, actually--that it must be allowed to finish, and that this is precisely what the faithful have been watching for since the beginning of time? In the face of suffering and endurance and loss and waiting and death, what is it that has kept the spirits of the faithful from flagging utterly down through the millennia? Is it not the hope of Redemption? Is it not the great Finish to the Story--and to all their little stories of wandering about in sheepskins and goatskins as well as to the One Big Story of the whole creation, which is itself groaning and waiting? And is not that Finish called glorious? Does it not entail what amounts to a redoing of all that has gone wrong, and a remaking of all that is ruined, and a finding of all that has been lost in the shuffle, and an unfolding of it all in a blaze of joy and splendor?

A finding of all that is lost? All sparrows, and all petitions and tears and vigils and fastings? Yes, all petitions and tears and vigils and fastings.

"But where are they? The thing is over and done with. He is dead. They had no effect."

Hadn't they? How do you know what is piling up in the great treasury kept by the Divine Love to be opened in that Day? How do you know that this death and your prayers and tears and fasts will not together be suddenly and breathtakingly displayed, before all the faithful, and before angels and archangels, and before kings and widows and prophets, as gems in that display? Oh no, don't speak of things being lost. Say rather that they are hidden--received and accepted and taken up into the secrets of the divine mysteries, to be transformed and multiplied, like everything else we offer to him--loaves and fishes, or mites, or bread and wine--and given back to you and to the one for whom you kept vigil, in the presence of the whole host of men and angels in a hilarity of glory as unimaginable to you in your vigil as golden wings are to the worm in the chrysalis.

But how does it work? We may well ask. How does Redemption work?

Thomas Howard is a college professor, author of Christ the Tiger, Splendor in the Ordinary, and other books.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

A Look in the Mirror - Page 1

Most of us are rather pleased when we catch sight of ourselves (provided the sight is sufficiently dim or distant) in the reflection of a store window. It is always amusing to watch people's expressions and postures change, perhaps ever so slightly, for the better as they look at their images. We all want the reflected image to match the image we hold in our minds (e.g. a rugged, casual slouch goes well with a Marlboro Country type; an erect, distinguished carriage befits a man of command and responsibility). We glimpse ourselves in a moment of lapse, and quickly try to correct the discrepancies.

A close-up is something else altogether. Sometimes it's more than we can stand. The shock of recognition makes us recoil. "Don't tell me that's my voice!" (on the tape recorder); "Do I really look that old?" (as this photograph cruelly shows). For me it is a horrifyingly painful experience to have to stand before a three-way mirror, in strong light, in a department-store fitting room. ("These lights--these mirrors--they distort, surely!" I tell myself.) I have seen Latin American Indians whoop with laughter upon first seeing themselves on a movie screen, but I have never seen them indignant, as "civilized" people often seem to be. Perhaps it is that an Indian has not occupied himself very much with trying to be what he is not.

What is it that makes us preen, recoil, laugh? It must be the degree of incongruity between what we thought we were and what we actually saw.

People's standards, of course, differ. Usually, in things that do not matter, we set them impossibly high and thus guarantee for ourselves a life of discontent. In things that matter we set them too low and are easily pleased with ourselves. (My daughter came home from the seventh grade one day elated. "Missed the honor roll by two C's!" she cried, waving her report card happily.) Frequently we judge by standards that are irrelevant to the thing in question. You have to know what a thing is for, first of all, before you can judge it at all. Take a can opener--how can I know whether it's any good unless I know that it was made for opening cans?

Or a church. What is it for? Recently the one I belong to held a series of neighborhood coffee meetings for the purpose of finding out what the parishioners thought about what the church was doing, was not doing, and ought to be doing. The results were mailed to us. Eighty people participated and came up with one hundred and five "concerns and recommendations.'' These revealed considerable confusion as to what the church is meant to be about. "Should have hockey and basketball teams." "There is too much reference to the Bible in sermons." "The ushers should stop hunching at the doors of the church and seek out unfamiliar faces." "The rear parking lot is messy." "A reexamination of spiritual goals should be carried out." I was glad there were a few like that last one. The range of our congregational sins was pretty well covered (we didn't get into the mire of our personal ones), and as I read them over I thought, If we just managed to straighten out these one hundred and five things we'd have--what? Well, something' I suppose. But not a Perfect church. Not by a long shot. If by our poor standards (some of them obviously applicable to things other than churches) we picked out over a hundred flaws, how many were visible to God, "to whose all-searching sight the darkness shineth as the light"?

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A Look in the Mirror - Page 2

There are times when it is with a kind of relief that we come upon the truth. A man passing a church one day paused to see if he could catch what it was the people were mumbling in unison. He moved inside and heard the words: "We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws."

"Hmm," thought the man, "they sound like my kind of people. "

"We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done."

"This is the church for me," he decided. (I don't suppose a basketball team or a blacktopped parking lot would have persuaded him.)

"Put up a complaint box and you'll get complaints," my husband says. There is something to be said for airing one's grievances, and there is a great deal to be said for not airing them, but one thing at least seems good to me--that we be overwhelmed, now and then, with our sins and failures.

We need to sit down and take stock. We need mirrors and neighborhood coffees and complaint boxes, but our first reaction may be despair. Our second, "Just who does so-and-so think he is, criticizing the church when he never even comes to church?" And we find ourselves back where we started, setting our own standards, judging irrelevantly and falsely, excusing ourselves, condemning an institution for not being what it was never meant to be, and so on.

Then there is Lent. It is a time to stop and remember. All year we have had the chance in the regular communion service to remember the death and passion of the Lord Jesus, and this once during the year we are asked, for a period of six weeks, to recall ourselves, to repent, to submit to special disciplines in order that we may understand the meaning of the Resurrection.

We are indeed "miserable offenders." We have done and left undone. We are foolish and weak and blind and self-willed and men of little faith. We run here, we run there, we form committees and attend meetings and attack the church and its organization and its isolation and its useless machinery and its irrelevance and ineffectiveness. But all the time it stands there, holding the Cross, telling us that there is forgiveness, that we have not been left to ourselves, that no matter how shocking the image that we finally see of ourselves in the light of God's truth, God himself has done something about it all.

"He was wounded for our transgressions. He was bruised for our iniquities." For the very things we've been discussing. For the things that make us moan and groan and ask, "What's the use?"

And so Lent, simply because it is another reminder of him who calls us to forgiveness and refreshment, makes me glad.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Happy Birthday -- You're Heading Home! - Page 1

The cards on the racks simply won't fill the bill. I wander disconsolately past the "Relative," ''Comic," and other categories of birthday cards, even a rack labeled, "These cards are outrageous. Prepare for shock!" What I want to wish on your birthday is not the sort of happiness that depends on the denial of the passing years, or on your undiminished power to get ever bigger and better thrills out of tall bottles or other people's beds. The cartoons are crazy. In fact, they're horrifying, in that they show what a dead-end street the desperate search for happiness usually is. The only cards that suggest the possibility of any other kind of happiness make such exaggerated claims for my feelings for you, in such soupy, mawkish language, and with such wispy or misty illustrations--no, I'm sorry, I can't bring myself to buy them.

What I want to wish you today is joy. I want you to have the happiest birthday ever. Not because you're just exactly the age you've always dreamed of being: the perfect age. Not because you'll be having the splashiest, roaringest party ever, or because you're surrounded by all your favorite fans, feeling marvelous, getting a vast pile of gorgeous gifts. I could merely wish you a happy birthday, but I'll do more than that. I'll turn my wish into prayer, and ask the Lord to give you the happiest birthday ever. I'll ask him for the kind of joy that isn't dependent on how you feel or who's there to celebrate or what's happening.

The people who write those awful cards are doing the best they can, but they haven't much to fall back on. Best to try to forget the hard facts: time is passing, people are actually growing old, happiness is pretty hard to come by in this old world. What is there to fall back on? Can't do a thing about the facts. The misery and loneliness and disintegration and horror are there (Edna St. Vincent Millay put it bluntly: "Death beating the door in"), but who wants to put things like that into a birthday card? Isn't it good enough to settle for cute comics, sweet sentiments, and just have fun? We can at least pretend we're happy. Forget the truth for a day. It's your birthday, and by George, we're gonna frolic!

That's one way to do it, but why frolic for all the wrong reasons? I love celebrations and gifts, a little dinner by candlelight in a quiet place with loved friends is my idea of a happy evening. But it's specially nice to have somebody remind me of something even happier than the bouquets, the balloons, and the bubbly, something that will last out the day, the week, even the coming year, if there is any such thing. There is, you know. Here's joy:

The wretched and the poor look for water and find none,
their tongues are parched with thirst;
but l the Lord will give them an answer,
I the God of Israel will not forsake them.
I will open rivers among the sand-dunes and wells in the valleys;
I will turn the wilderness into pools
and dry land into springs of water;
l will plant cedars in the wastes,
and acacia and myrtle and wild olive
the pine shall grow on the barren heath.

(Isaiah 41:17-19 NEB)

A birthday is a milestone. It's a place to pause. Look back now for a minute over the way the Lord has brought you. There has been thirst, hasn't there? You've been over some sand dunes, through some valleys, some wilderness, out on a barren heath once in a while. I have too. Sometimes it seemed that there weren't any rivers, wells, pools, or springs. Nothing but sand. No lovely acacias or wild olives, only barrenness. The trouble was I hadn't learned to find them. I was trying to travel alone. I made the same mistake when I first went to live as a missionary in the South American jungle. After one bad experience of getting lost, I learned to follow an Indian guide. He knew the trails. He could find water to drink (inside a bamboo, for example, if there wasn't a river handy), honey in a hollow tree, fruit where there seemed to be no fruit. I couldn't see them. I didn't know where to look. The Indian did. He could make a cup out of a palm leaf, build a fire in the rain, construct a shelter for the night in an hour or so. I was helpless. He was my helper.

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Happy Birthday -- You're Heading Home! - Page 2

A milestone is not only a place to look back to where you've come from. It's a place to look forward to where you're going. We don't always want to do that on birthdays. If we look back it seems such a long time, the good old days are over, and (here's the hard part) so much guilt clogs the memories. If we look forward--alas. How many more birthdays? What will happen before the next one? Thoughts of the future are full of for

I the Lord your God
take you by the right hand;
I say to you, Do not fear;
It is I who held you.

(Isaiah 41:13 NEB)

Parties and presents won't do much for a checkered past or a frightening future. Only the God who was loving you then, loves you today on your birthday, and will keep right on loving you till you see him face-to-face, can possibly do anything about them. "It is I who help you," he says. There is help for all the guilt. Confess it in full. He'll forgive it in full. And I mean forgive. That doesn't mean he denies its reality, sweeps it under the rug, or bathes it in sentiment. There was once an old rugged cross. You know where it was--on a hill far away. And you know what it means--nothing sentimental at all, but forgiveness, freely offered to all of us, the whole price paid in blood by the Dearest and Best.

There is help for your fear too. Express it in full. Let the Lord take you by your right hand and help you. I had to do that with my Indian guide. I simply could not make it across those slippery log bridges, laid high over jungle ravines, without help. I was scared to death. The Indian, who had been over them many more times than I had, held me by the hand.

You've heard those bad news/good news jokes. Well, this isn't cheap birthday card humor. The bad news is that another year has gone by and we haven't done all we meant to do and it's not going to come back to give us another chance. The good news is the Gospel. We can be reconciled to God--sins forgiven, fears taken care of. That old cross, the emblem of suffering and shame, stands between us and our sins and fears, our past and future, and on its outstretched arms we see Love. The Love that would die for us is the Love that lives for us--Jesus Christ, Lord, Master, Savior of the World, wanting to give you (for your birthday if you'll take it) something that will really quench your thirst, rivers among the sand dunes and wells in the valley; wanting to hold your hand, help you, give you--not only a happy birthday, but everlasting joy.

I'm not the least bit bashful about telling my age. I'm glad for every birthday that comes, because it is the Lord, my faithful Guide, who "summoned the generations from the beginning." I look in the mirror and see the increasingly (and creasingly) visible proofs of the number of years, but I'm reconciled. Christ reconciles me to God and to God's wonderful plan. My life is his life. My years are his years. To me life is Christ, and death is nothing but gain. When I remember that, I really can't think of a thing I ought to be afraid of. I can't be sorry I'm a year older and nearer to absolute bliss.

I pray for you on your birthday, that your path, as is promised to the just man, will shine not less and less but more and more; that you will still bring forth fruit in old age; that the Lord will give you a thankful heart like the psalmist's who sang,

O God, thou hast taught me from boyhood,
all my life I have proclaimed thy marvellous works:
and now that I am old and my hairs are gray,
forsake me not, O God....
Songs of joy shall be on my lips;
I will sing thee psalms, because thou has redeemed me.
All day long my tongue shall tell of thy righteousness.

(Psalms 71:17, 18, 23, 24 NEB)

So--happy birthday! If you have friends and parties and presents, be thankful for such bonuses. If you have no friends with you today, no party, not a package to open, you still have a long list of things to thank God for, things that matter much more. A birthday filled with thanksgiving and hope is the happiest kind of birthday. Have one of those! Deck yourself with joy!

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

I Won't Bother With a Face-Lift

Because tomorrow I will begin the last of threescore years, and because my mother is now closer to ninety than to eighty, I do a lot of thinking about old age. Has any of my friends called me ''spry" yet, or remarked, "She's amazing--still got all her faculties " ?

If they have, of course, it means they see me as over the hill, i.e., old. When I look in the mirror, I have to admit the evidence is all on their side, but otherwise it's hard to remember. I feel as "spry" and energetic as I did twoscore years ago.

I don't mind getting old. Before the day began this morning I was looking out at starlight on a still, wintry sea. A little song we used to sing at camp came to mind--"Just one day nearer Home.'' That idea thrills me. I can understand why people who have nothing much to look forward to try frantically and futilely to hang on to the past--to youth and all that. Get a face-lift, plaster the makeup on ever more thickly (but Estee Lauder says false eyelashes can add ten years to your looks), wear running shoes and sweat suits, dye your hair--anything to create the illusion you're young. (The illusion is yours, of course, nobody else's.)

Let's be honest. Old age entails suffering. I'm acutely aware of this now as I watch my mother, once so alive and alert and quick, now so quiet and confused and slow. She suffers. We who love her suffer. We see the "preview of coming attractions," ourselves in her shoes, and ponder what this interval means in terms of the glory of God in an old woman.

It would be terrifying if it weren't for something that ought to make the Christian's attitude toward aging utterly distinct from all the rest. We know it is not for nothing. ''God has allowed us to know the secret of his plan: he purposes in his sovereign will that all human history shall be consummated in Christ, that everything that exists in Heaven or earth shall find its perfection and fulfillment in him" (Ephesians 1:9, 10 PHILLIPS).

In the meantime, we look at what's happening--limitations of hearing, seeing, moving, digesting, remembering; distortions of countenance, figure, and perspective. If that's all we could see, we'd certainly want a face-lift or something.

But we're on a pilgrim road. It's rough and steep, and it winds uphill to the very end. We can lift up our eyes and see the unseen: a Celestial City, a light, a welcome, and an ineffable Face. We shall behold him. We shall be like him. And that makes a difference in how we go about aging.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: 1 Peter 5:7
The Path of Lonliness

Leave Him to Me

When there is deep misunderstanding which has led to the erection of barriers between two who once were close, every day brings the strengthening of those barriers if they are not, by God's grace, breached. One prays and finds no way at all to break through. Love seems to "backfire" every time. Explanations become impossible. New accusations arise, it seems, from nowhere (though it is well to recall who is named the Accuser of the brethren). The situation becomes ever more complex and insoluble, and the mind goes round and round, seeking the place where things went wrong, brooding over the words which were like daggers, regretting the failures and mistakes, wondering (most painfully) how it could have been different. Much spiritual and emotional energy is drained in this way--but the Lord wants to teach us to commit, trust, and rest.

"Leave him to me this afternoon," is what his word is. "There is nothing else that I am asking of you this afternoon but that: leave him to Me. You cannot fathom all that is taking place. You don't need to. I am at work--in you, in him. Leave him to Me. Some day it will come clear--trust Me."

"Humble yourselves under God's mighty hand, and he will lift you up in due time. Cast all your cares on Him, for you [and the other] are his charge" (l Pt 5:7).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture: 1 Thessalonians 4:2-8 Genesis 24 1 Corinthians 6:12-20
The Path of Lonliness

A Man Moves Toward Marriage - Page 1

Letters keep coming from both men and women who are in a quandary about how one ought to move toward marriage. While I was sitting here, rereading some of them, a man phoned with a question about the same subject. I wonder what is happening. Why so much confusion? Here's one of the letters:

"I'm a male Christian who needs help. I just ended a long-term 'relationship' with a non-Christian girl. I made plenty of compromises during those years, and by God's grace I hope next time will be better. I read your book The Mark of a Man and was shown things I never knew before which blew my mind. I'm excited about the idea of sharing life with a girl in a way which would honor Jesus. At the same time I get scared about making bad moves, when to initiate, and financial fears about supporting a family if I'm a missionary, which at the moment I'm being directed to. These things may seem silly but they're real to me. Could you address some issues which could benefit us guys who see marriage as a blessing and not as years of imprisonment?"

No, the questions do not seem silly to me--far from it. They are vital questions, and I'm glad there are men to whom they matter enough to pray about and ask counsel for.

I think one reason for confusion is the notion which arose, before the men who are now in their twenties and thirties were born, about the "equality" of the sexes. It is a word that belongs to politics but certainly not to courtship, a realm which concerns human beings in their entirety.

Another reason for confusion is misunderstanding the order which God established in the beginning. I've tried to explain that divine arrangement in two books: Let Me Be a Woman and The Mark of a Man. If men would be men, women could do a better job of being women (and vice versa, of course, but the buck really stops with the men). What does it mean to be a man?

Christ is the supreme example. He was strong and He was pure, because His sole aim in life was to be obedient to the Father. His very obedience made Him most manly--responsible, committed, courageous, courteous, and full of love. A Christian man's obedience to God will make him more of a man than anything else in the world. Consider these qualities:

Responsibility. He must work out the salvation that God has given him "with a proper sense of awe and responsibility, for it is God who is at work" in him, giving him the will and the power to achieve His purpose (Philippians 2:12, 13, PHILLIPS). Man was made to be initiator, provider, protector for woman.

Commitment. He must be a man of his word, no matter what it costs. My father's strong counsel to my four brothers: Never tell a woman you love her until you are ready to follow that immediately with, "Will you marry me?" In other words, a man's love for a woman, if deep and abiding, leads to a lifetime commitment to her. Many heartaches would be avoided if he held back any expressions of love until he is ready to make that commitment. Once promised, he never goes back on that word.

Courage. A man must be willing to take the risks of rejection (she might say No), blame, and all that commitment costs.

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A Man Moves Toward Marriage - Page 2

Courtesy. A Christian's rule of life should be: my life for yours. He is concerned about the comfort and happiness of others, not of himself. He does not seek to have his own needs met, his own image enhanced, but to love God, to make Him loved, and to lay down his life to that end. In small ways as well as great, he shows the courteous love of the Lord.

Purity. He must be master of himself if he is to be the servant of others. This means "buffeting" his body, bringing it into subjection, as Paul did. It means restraint, discipline, the strength to wait. It means an utter yielding to the will of God as revealed in 1 Corinthians 6:12-20 and 1 Thessalonians 4:2-8.

As I have heard the sad stories and studied what I call "The Dating Mess" of today, it appears to me that men have generally overlooked another vital matter which ought to precede all overtures in the direction of a prospective wife. If we assume that a man is an adult when he is eighteen (or twenty-one at the latest), he should by that time be giving marriage some serious thought. He should get down to brass tacks with God to find out if this may be a part of His agenda for him. This will take time, and it might help if during this period he simply quits dating and starts praying. As long as the answer is uncertain, don't date. Does this sound extreme? It wasn't my idea. I learned it from a group of young men who have chosen this way. It is a guaranteed way of avoiding sexual activity (always illicit outside of marriage), of preserving one's wholeness and holiness, and of preventing the heartbreaks we see on every hand.

I urge you to trust God. He wants to give you the best. He will help you. He has promised to guide. He knows what you need. Ask Him to show you whether, when, and whom you should marry.

And don't be alone in this. Ask counsel of your spiritual superiors who are wise, who know how to pray and how to keep silence. Take their counsel seriously. If they have suggestions as to a possible mate, take those very seriously. My own parents prayed for godly spouses for all six of us, and actually named before God the very people that four of us married.

Read Genesis 24, study the principles Abraham's servant followed. Pray silently. Watch quietly.

Before you start dating, draw clear guidelines for yourself as to "how far to go." The only truly safe line is a radical one, but it works: hands off and clothes on. If you think you can put the line somewhere else, remember that a little thing leads on to a bigger thing. A touch leads to a hug which leads to a kiss which leads to play which leads to consummation. That was how God intended the whole thing to work, but the idea of the "whole thing" was marriage and babies.

Can you trust yourself to quit once you start? The Bible says, "Flee youthful lusts." Don't toy with them.

When God has guided you* as to the whether, the when, and the whom, then you must choose to love and not to fear. The Will of God always involves risk and cost, but He is there with grace to help and with all the wisdom you need. Every deliberate choice to obey Him will--depend upon it--be attacked by the enemy. Never mind. Nothing new about that. Be a man and stick with it.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: 1 Corinthians 7:34-35 Matthew 19:29 Psalm 34:22
The Path of Lonliness

Singleness is a Gift - Page 1

Nearly a hundred years ago a twenty-eight-year-old woman from a windy little village on the north coast of Ireland began her missionary work in India. Amy Carmichael was single, but on the very eve of her leaving the docks, an opportunity "which looked towards 'the other life' " was presented.

Amy, with the combined reticence of being a Victorian and being Irish, never said how or by whom this "opportunity" was presented. She spoke very little of matters of the heart. She was also a thoroughgoing Christian, with a soldier's determination to carry out her Commander's orders. Single life, she believed, was not only a part of those orders; it was also a gift.

She tried not to suggest in any way that her gift was superior. "Remember,'' she wrote, "our God did not say to me, 'I have something greater for you to do.' This life is not greater than the other, but it is different." It was simply God's call to her.

The oldest of seven children, she had been full of ideas to amuse, educate, inspire, and spiritually edify her brothers and sisters. One of these ideas was a family magazine called Scraps, beautifully handwritten, illustrated, and published monthly for family and friends. Before Amy was twenty, one brother knew the direction her life was taking. In a series of sketches for Scraps he wrote:

Our eldest sister is the
light of our life.
She says that she will never
be a wife.

Amy took as her guide the ideal set forth by the apostle Paul: "The unmarried (woman) concerns herself with the Lord's affairs, and her aim is to make herself holy in body and in spirit. . .I am not putting difficulties in your path, but setting before you an ideal, so that your service of God may be as far as possible free from worldly distractions" (1 Corinthians 7:34, 35 PHILLIPS).

With all her heart she determined to please him who had chosen her to be his soldier. She was awed by the privilege. She accepted the disciplines.

"A Touch of Disappointment"

Loneliness was one of those disciplines. How--the modern young person always wants to know--did she "handle" it? Amy Carmichael would not have had the slightest idea what the questioner was talking about. "Handle" loneliness? Why, it was part of the cost of obedience, of course. Everybody is lonely in some way, the single in one way, the married in another; the missionary in certain obvious ways, the schoolteacher, the mother, the bank teller in others.

Amy had a dear co-worker whom she nicknamed Twin. At a missions conference they found that in the posted dinner lists, Twin and a friend named Mina had been seated side by side.

"Well, I was very glad that dear Mina should have Twin," Amy wrote to her family, "and I don't think I grudged her to her one little bit, and yet at the bottom of my heart there was just a touch of disappointment, for I had almost fancied I had somebody of my very own again, and there was a little ache somewhere. I could not rejoice in it. . .I longed, yes longed, to be glad, to be filled with such a wealth of unselfish love that I should be far gladder to see those two together than I should have been to have had Twin to myself. And while I was asking for it, it came. For the very first time I felt a rush, a real joy in it, His joy, a thing one cannot pump up or imitate or force in any way. . .Half-unconsciously, perhaps, I had been saying, 'Thou and Twin are enough for me'--one so soon clings to the gift instead of only to the Giver."

Her letter then continued with a stanza from the Frances Ridley Havergal hymn:

Take my love, my Lord, I pour
At Thy feet its treasure-store.
Take myself and I will be
Ever, only, all for thee.

After writing this, Amy felt inclined to tear it out of the letter. It was too personal, too humiliating. But she decided the Lord wanted her to let it stand, to tell its tale of weakness and of God's strength. She was finding firsthand that missionaries are not apart from the rest of the human race, not purer, nobler, higher.

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Singleness is a Gift - Page 2

"Wings are an illusive fallacy," she wrote. "Some may possess them, but they are not very visible, and as for me, there isn't the least sign of a feather. Don't imagine that by crossing the sea and landing on a foreign shore and learning a foreign lingo you 'burst the bonds of outer sin and hatch yourself a cherubim.' "

The Single "Mother"

Amy landed in India in 1897 and spent the first few years in itinerant evangelism. She began to uncover a secret traffic in little girls who were being sold or given for temple prostitution. She prayed that God would enable her find a way to rescue some of them, even though not one had ever been known to escape.

Several years later, God began to answer that prayer. One little girl actually escaped and came (led by an angel, Amy believed) straight to Amy. Then in various ways babies were rescued. Soon she found that little boys were being used for homosexual purposes by dramatic societies connected with Hindu temple worship. She prayed for the boys, and in a few years Amy Carmichael was Amma ("Mother") to a rapidly growing Indian family that, by the late 1940s, numbered about 900. In a specially literal way the words of Jesus seemed to have been fulfilled: "Everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life'' (Matthew 19:29).

In answer to a question from one of her children who years later had become a close fellow worker, Amy described a transaction in a cave. She had gone there to spend the day with God and face her feelings of fear about the future. Things were all right at the moment, but could she endure years of being alone?

The Devil painted pictures of loneliness that were vivid to her years later. She turned to the Lord in desperation. "What can I do, Lord? How can I go on to the end?"

His answer: ''None of them that trust in me shall be desolate" (from Psalms 34:22 KJV). So she did not "handle" loneliness--she handed it to her Lord and trusted his Word.

"There is a secret discipline appointed for every man and woman whose life is lived for others," she wrote. "No one escapes that discipline, nor would wish to escape it; nor can any shelter another from it. And just as we have seen the bud of a flower close round the treasure within, folding its secret up, petal by petal, so we have seen the soul that is chosen to serve, fold round its secret and hold it fast and cover it from the eyes of man. The petals of the soul are silence."

Her commitment to obedience was unconditional. Finding that singleness was the condition her Master had appointed for her, she received it with both hands, willing to renounce all rights for his sake and, although she could not have imagined it at the time, for the sake of the children he would give her--a job she could not possibly have done if she had had a family of her own.

Many whose houses, for one reason or another, seem empty, and the lessons of solitude hard to learn, have found strength and comfort in the following Amy Carmichael poem:

O Prince of Glory, who dost bring
Thy sons to glory through Thy Cross,
Let me not shrink from suffering,
Reproach or loss ....

If Thy dear Home be fuller, Lord,
For that a little emptier
My house on earth, what rich reward
That guerdon* were.

*recompense; something earned or gained

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: 1 John 5:2
The Path of Lonliness

The Real Test of Love

It is not difficult to imagine, in certain moods and settings, that we love people. We may feel expansive and good-natured for a variety of reasons--our own good health or digestion, for example, or beautiful weather, comfortable circumstances, nice folks doing nice things for us. The Bible is a sword that cuts through mere sentiment. It tells us that the accurate test of our love for God's children is obedience to God. "By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God and obey His commandments" (1 Jn 5:2 RSV). It is an objective test, not a subjective one. Love as the Bible defines it is perceptible through action rather than through mere feeling. It is not, as Eric Alexander of Scotland put it, a "glandular condition."

Much of the talk nowadays about loving one another is soupy and silly. It will not stand the biblical test. Love for people goes hand-in-hand with love for God--if you don't love the brother you see, how can you love the God you don't see? Loving God requires submission to his discipline--He rebukes, chastens, refines with fire, purifies by trial. Do we love Him enough to say yes to all that? Do we love others enough to encourage endurance in them?

Jesus, Thou art all compassion,
Pure, unbounded Love Thou art;
Visit us with Thy salvation,
Enter every trembling heart.
(Charles Wesley)

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture: 1 Corinthians 13
The Path of Lonliness

Love Has A Price Tag - Page 1

It is early morning. I lie as usual in a double bed, and as usual I wake and give thanks for the sleep and safety of the night, for health and warmth and food and friends, for work to do and strength to do it. There is, as before, a layer of silence above the distant sound of traffic.

There are some other sounds as well, not usual at all--instead of the sharp, peremptory bark of MacDuff I hear the muted and mournful howl of Johnny Reb, a beagle who belongs to the next-door neighbors. The garbage truck grinds up the hill outside my window (for this house is on a hill). And there is the sound of someone breathing--beside me.

Lord, Father of Spirits, Lover of Souls, my Light and my Stronghold, thanks! Thanks for the greatest of earthly blessings, marriage.

My prayer goes on for a little while thanksgiving and petition (that I may be the sort of wife I ought to be, that together we may accomplish the will of the Father). Later in the kitchen while I fix breakfast I think about this business of being transplanted. We have a nice little brick house on a very quiet street with a view of the Atlanta skyline from the kitchen windows.

Usually to get married means to be transplanted. Always it means to hand over power. Our Lord has a sense of humor, and he has heard me over the past couple of years as I went around talking about marriage, "popping off" about how a woman is supposed to behave toward a man. He has "read" my book, too, I'm sure--Let Me Be a Woman. He knows, too, that I believed every word of it, believed it was the truth of God that I spoke.

"All right," he said, "try it again."

He gave me a third husband four-and-a-half years after the death of the second, and he said, "Did you really believe all those things you said and wrote? Have another go at it to make sure."

Love means self-giving. Self-giving means sacrifice. Sacrifice means death. Those are some of the things I've said. I got them out of the same Book, the only thoroughly and eternally reliable Sourcebook. The principles of gain through loss, of joy through sorrow, of getting by giving, of fulfillment by laying down, of life out of death is what that Book teaches, and the people who have believed it enough to live it out in simple, humble, day-by-day practice are people who have found the gain, the joy, the getting, the fulfillment, the life. I really do believe that.

"Lord," I ask, "help me to live it out."

"All right," he says to me, "here's your chance."

In Georgia.

Georgia, where I'm the one with the accent. They call me "Lizbeth." They "carry" children to school or friends to the airport, they don't "take" them. Photographers "make" rather than "take" pictures. They drink "CoCola," they go to "fillin' stations," they eat "congealed" salads, and words like spin and hill have two long-drawn-out syllables.

Sometimes we can trace strange connections in the patterns God works in human lives. One of the last things Add Leitch said to me was that if God should restore him to health he would like to become a hospital chaplain. My new husband is a hospital chaplain.

He took me to Milledgeville to visit the women in the geriatric ward.

"How ya doin', Miz Jackson?"

"Tol'ble well, tol'ble well, preacher. Come here, Ah'm'on' pray for you."

She rises, slowly and painfully, from her chair, places her hands on his shoulders, and repeats with deep fervor the whole of the Lord's prayer.

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Love Has A Price Tag - Page 2

A woman with beautiful white hair sits in a wheelchair that is hung with more than a dozen pouches, purses and drawstring bags. She quotes from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, talks knowledgeably of Canterbury Cathedral, of Henry VIII, and Cranmer's Prayer Book, winking at me as she talks, as though the two of us are privy to something Lars doesn't know.

We eat breakfast with Mr. Smith, a very handsome man with white hair, ruddy skin and bright blue eyes. He is wearing a blue shirt and blue sweater. He tells us a story which brings into sharp focus the words of the wedding vows--"in sickness and in health, for better, for worse." His wife has been a patient at Milledgeville for three years.

"When she first got sick I carried her everywhere. I did. The doctor said, 'She'll get worse, every week and every month. So if you want to go on any trips or anywhere, go now.' We had some good times, me and her. But the doctor said, 'You cain't stand it. You won't be able to stand it.' Well, I said, 'Ah'm'on' hang on long's I can.'

"I took care of her for five years, but I lost fifty-two pounds just from worry. I was so tense they broke three needles tryin' to put a shot in my arm. Well, I carried her to twenty-five doctors but they couldn't do nothin'. It's brain deter'ation, they told me. I did everything for her. I dressed her and fed her and everything, but it like to whup me and if it hadn't of been for the good Lord I'da never made it. Doctor said, 'I'da sworn you'd never last six months.' But a lot of people were prayin' for me. Oh yes. But finally I had to give up and put her here.

"She cain't do nothin.' Cain't move or speak or hear. She's in the prebirth position, legs and arms locked, heels locked up tight behind. You cain't straighten her out. But I come every other day. I go in and kiss her 'bout a dozen times, jes' love her to death. I talk to her. She don't hear, but she knows my touch.

"Well." Mr. Smith finished his story. "I work for the florist here. Volunteer work, you know. I go around the wards, carrying flowers."

We went later to see Mrs. Smith. If ever there was a sight to confound a man's love for a woman, to strain to the breaking point the most potent human passion, we saw it in that stark white crib--a crumpled scrap of inert humanity. But there is a love that is strong as death, a love many waters cannot quench, floods cannot drown.

I thought of that kind of love not long afterwards, and I thought of it with shame, for I had been disturbed by a petty thing. It is sweet Georgia springtime now, lavish compensation for January's cold, and the birds sing. But I, being still a sinner, can be disturbed by a petty thing. Back I went to the Sourcebook, to the thirteenth chapter of 1 Corinthians, for a clear description of how I ought to act if I really wanted my prayer answered ("Make me the sort of wife I ought to be").

What I found was the precise opposite of my own inclinations in this instance, because this time I was quite sure that my husband was wrong. Reading my own name in place of the word love, followed by the opposites of each characteristic described, I saw my own face in the glass and the truth knocked me down. "E. loses patience, is destructive, possessive, anxious to impress, cherishes inflated ideas of her own importance, has bad manners, pursues selfish advantage, is touchy, keeps account of evil...."

I couldn't go on. The antidote to these horrors was love the kind that "knows no limit to its endurance, no end to its trust, no fading of its hope; it can outlast anything. It is, in fact, the one thing that still stands when all else has fallen."

The Word of God is light, and in its light we see light. My perspective changed; I saw what had bothered me as a petty thing, as nothing. Peace and equilibrium were restored--and that without a "sharing" session. "Thy words were found and I did eat them, and they were unto me the joy and rejoicing of my heart." "Thy statutes have been my songs in the house of my pilgrimage." Thanks be to God for such songs.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: 1 Thessalonians 4:17 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14
The Path of Lonliness

Why Funerals Matter - Page 1

When a dear friend died recently I found myself unexplainably disappointed when I learned that there would be only a memorial service. I wanted a funeral, and I was not sure why. Even more unexplainably, I wished there had been a "viewing" or wake--a chance to see her face. Is this wholly indefensible? I am sure that it is wholly human, but is it mere idle curiosity? Is it crass, or childish, or pagan, or materialistic? Is it hideously ghoulish?

"Christians do not need to make much of the body. We believe in the Resurrection. We know the person is not here but There." Thus I argued with myself.

''Who wants to see somebody dead? Wouldn't you rather remember him as you knew him, strong and healthy and alive?" That makes sense too.

"Funerals are meaningless ordeals, pompous, expensive, emotionally costly, and serve no purpose other than conventional and commercial. And as for viewings--what can possibly be the point of coiffing, painting, powdering, and dressing up a corpse, stretching it out lugubriously in a satin-lined mahogany box with its head on a fancy Pillow, for People to stare at?'' What indeed?

I could not come up with immediate rejoinders. There did not seem much logic in my protest. Didn't it spring from emotions alone, and those perhaps crude and primeval? Yes, very likely. But crude and primeval emotions may be eminently human and not necessarily sinful. They may even be useful. How do we know? Well, back to the Bible. What does it say?

The Bible does not say "Thou shalt have funerals," or ''Thou shalt not have memorial services."

When Jacob died there was the final scene in which he blessed each of his sons, then drew up his feet into the bed, breathed his last, and was "gathered to his people." Then Joseph threw himself on his father's body and wept over him and kissed him and commanded that he be embalmed. The Egyptians went through the customary seventy days of mourning. Then Joseph carried the body to Canaan, accompanied by a huge retinue of servants, elders, relatives, friends, chariots, and horsemen. Seven more days were spent in "a very great and sorrowful lamentation."

When Moses died God buried him, but the people of Israel wept for him thirty days. Joseph's bones were carried by the people of Egypt to be buried at Shechem.

Stephen was the first martyr, stoned to death, and it says "devout men buried Stephen and made great lamentation over him." It was right and proper that a man killed for his Christian witness should be buried by those who shared his faith--devout men. It was right and proper that they should grieve greatly, that they should grieve together, and that they should grieve "over him," which I take to mean literally over the grave.

Only last week my friend Van found her little black dog which had been lost ten days before. But she was dead--drowned in a pond where she had apparently fallen through the ice. Little Nell was Van's friend, and Van grieved for her, but she thanked God she found her and knew at last what had become of her. She lifted the wet furry thing in her arms and looked into her face and talked to her. Then, of course, giving her back to death, she buried her.

That was what we had been deprived of in my late friend's decision not to have a funeral. The memorial service was held eleven days after her death, and when we entered the church there was nothing of her there. It would only have been a body, of course--but it would have been the "earthly house of this tabernacle" in which our friend had lived, through which we had known her, and it would have been the resurrectible body. It was long since deposited miles away in a mausoleum. We could not see her face. We could not even see a closed box with the knowledge that what was left of her was inside it. She had died of that most feared of diseases and no doubt its ravages were great. She had not wanted any of us to come near her during the last four or five weeks of her life. We understood her feeling. It is doubtful that she was in a position to understand ours. It was too late. I write this so that thoughtful people can consider the matter before it is too late.

We longed for the privilege of entering into her suffering insofar as it would have been possible. She was too ill to talk. We understood that. We would not have asked her to. If we had been allowed only to slip into the room for a minute, hold her hand, pray briefly or be silent, we would have been grateful. Perhaps a little of the loneliness of dying would have been assuaged for her, and a little of our sorrow and love communicated. I am sure that we, at least, would have been helped. But it was not to be. Even after she died, we to whom she had meant so much needed to establish a last link. That, too, was denied.

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Why Funerals Matter - Page 2

Several months ago a friend from New York wrote of the death of a child she had been close to. ''I have mixed feelings about private funerals. Does that seem harsh to you? I so badly wanted to be with them in their grief, and I think a lot of others felt the same way. It was almost more than I could do, having an errand at the church, to walk past the hearse and out of sight before the family arrived. There will be a memorial service, but not for several weeks. I guess I am very old-fashioned or something. It is not a morbid hankering to 'view' the body, but the sight of a coffin brings home the reality and gives an outlet for grief, in my experience, as nothing else can."

Yes, my heart said, she is right. Now, after many years, I have sorted out why it mattered to me that we had only a memorial service for my first husband and real funeral for the second. In the first case, we had no choice. He was murdered, and the body was not found for five days. It was deep in uninhabited jungle from which transportation would have been nearly impossible. My second husband knew he was going to die, and we had time to discuss the funeral together. I don't remember his saying anything about a viewing, but I made that decision without difficulty as soon as he died. I knew that I had missed something when Jim died. Add had been beaten down by cancer and the last weeks were horrifying. Somehow it was a relief to see his face one more time in a different setting from his sickroom. The face was thin and aged and pallid, of course, but this time free from pain. The strength of the features was still there, the brow, as somebody observed, still noble. I could say good-bye to him then in my heart and resign him to the grave.

When I was nine years old, my best and almost my only friend died. I remember the hot July day when I was playing in the side yard and my mother came out to tell me that Essie had gone. I remember my parents driving me up Broad Street in Philadelphia to the funeral parlor where she lay in a white dress with her golden curls around her face. She was nine years old too.

Nobody said to me, "But it's only a body. The spirit has flown, you know." Nobody needed to. I could see that. But I could also see my friend who had led me on many a wild chase through vacant lots and back alleys and had scared the wits out of me with terrible tales of giants she had run across. She was very quiet now, very subdued. My playmate was dead. The sight was very real to me. It was not a shock. Children are not shocked at things. It is their elders who cannot face reality. I was awed and solemn, and I thought about it for years afterward. It was a very wise decision of my parents to take me to the funeral.

I appeal to Christians. Plan your funeral now. If you are "getting on in years" it may be possible even to choose the minister and discuss things with him. If death seems more remote, at least write down the fact that you want a funeral, and choose hymns and Scripture passages to be used. Don't be too dogmatic about the practical arrangements. Leave those to whoever is responsible for disposing of you, so that it will be easiest for them.

But please remember your friends. They are the people to whom it will matter greatly to be allowed to bid you farewell, and to grieve in company with others who love you. Don't make light of that.

C. S. Lewis, that wise man who seems to have thought through almost everything, writes in his Preface to Paradise Lost: ''Those who dislike ritual in general--ritual in any way and every department of life--may be asked most earnestly to reconsider the question. It is a pattern imposed on the mere flux of our feelings by reason and will, which renders pleasures less fugitive and griefs more endurable, which hands over to the power of wise custom the task (to which the individual and his moods are so inadequate) of being festive or sober, gay or reverent, when we choose to be, and not at the bidding of chance" (Oxford University Press, 1952, p. 21).

If it is a Christian funeral, we will be reminded in word and hymn that we do not "grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again; and so it will be for those who died as Christians; God will bring them to life with Jesus," and "we who are left alive shall join them, caught up in clouds to meet the Lord in the air" (1 Thessalonians 4:13, 14, 17 NEB). Let funerals be, then, for Christians, celebrations in the presence of the mortal remains, visible signs of those glorious invisible realities which we believe with all our hearts.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

A No-Risk Life - Page 1

The risks people are prepared to take these days are certainly a different set from what they used to be. I have been reading what Dickens and Kipling said about travel in their times. The reason I have been reading Dickens and Kipling just now when I am also trying to catch up with Solzhenitsyn and C. S. Lewis (I never catch up with Lewis--I have to start over as soon as I've finished one of his books because while I am always completely convinced by his argument I find I can't reproduce it for somebody else so I have to go back) is that a friend asked me to take care of some books she had just inherited from a rich aunt.

But it was risks I started out to write about. Dickens describes a journey into the Scottish Highlands:

When we got safely to the opposite bank, there came riding up a wild highlander, his great plaid streaming in the wind, screeching in Gaelic to the post-boy on the opposite bank, making the most frantic gestures.... The boy, horses and carriage were plunging in the water, which left only the horses' heads and boy's body visible.... The man was perfectly frantic with pantomime.... The carriage went round and round like a great stone, the boy was pale as death, the horses were struggling and plashing and snorting like sea animals, and we were all roaring to the driver to throw himself off and let them and the coach go to the devil, when suddenly it all came right (having got into shallow water) and, all tumbling and dripping and jogging from side to side, they climbed up to the dry land.

Kipling, in a speech made more than sixty years ago to the Royal Geographic Society, looks forward to the possibilities of air travel:

Presently--very presently--we shall come back and convert two hundred miles across any part of the Earth into its standardized time equivalent, precisely as we convert five miles with infantry in column, ten with cavalry on the march, twelve in a Cape cart [which I found is a strong, two-wheeled carriage used in South Africa], or fifty in a car--that is to say, into two hours. And whether there be one desert or a dozen mountain ranges in that two hundred miles will not affect our timetable by five minutes.

Traveling nowadays means what it has always meant: facing risks. Take air travel, for example. There is of course the total risk--a crash--but most of us, when it comes to actually getting on a plane, are not preoccupied with that possibility. We are much more conscious of the sort of risk that calls forth no very high courage. Weather, topography, sources of food and water along the way hardly concern us at all. We expect the aircraft itself, the radar, the pilots, the mechanics, the caterers, and the stewardesses to do their jobs and we forget about them from the start. We worry instead about whether we will get stuck in the middle seat between two (perhaps fat) people who use both arms of their seats, whether we'll have legroom after we've stuffed our bag underneath the seat in front of us, and whether a talkative seatmate will ruin our plans to get some serious reading done on a coast-to-coast flight.

There is a white paper bag in the seat pocket reminding us of another risk, ''motion discomfort,'' which has superseded what sounds like a worse one, airsickness. The stewardess's voice comes over the intercom at takeoff, while another stewardess goes through a pantomime, telling us where to find the emergency exits and what to do in "the extremely unlikely event of a change in cabin pressure," and we pay no attention.

The apostle Paul was shipwrecked three times. He had to spend twenty-four hours in the open sea. He wrote to the Corinthians:

In my travels I have been in constant danger from rivers and floods, from bandits, from my own countrymen and from pagans. I have faced danger in city streets, danger in the desert, danger on the high seas, danger among false Christians. I have known exhaustion, pain, long vigils, hunger and thirst, doing without meals, cold and lack of clothing.

Well, Paul, once in a transoceanic flight in something called a jumbo jet my daughter watched a movie for a whole hour before she realized that the sound track she had plugged into her ears was for another movie. (What do I mean by "flight"? ''Movie"? "Sound track''? Never mind. They're all of them hazards you never had to cope with.) On top of that, the reading lights didn't work, there was no soap in the lavatories, no pillows or blankets on board although the air-conditioning was functioning only too well, and they served dinner at eleven o'clock at night and breakfast at one in the morning.

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A No-Risk Life - Page 2

We take risks, all right. But what acquaintance have we with the physical hardships which used to be the testing ground for a man's character and stamina? We know nothing of the necessity of covering ground with our own two feet for days or weeks or months at a time, every step of which must be retraced on those same two feet if we're ever to get back to civilization again. We haven't felt the panic of isolation beyond help. When a book like Alive: The Story of the Andes Survivors appears, it becomes a best-seller for we recognize then the hermetic seal of our civilization.

An ancient longing for danger, for challenge, and for sacrifice stirs in us--us who have insulated ourselves from weather by heating and air-conditioning and waterproofing and Thermopane; from bugs, germs, pests, and odors by screening, repellents, insecticides, weed killers, disinfectants, and deodorizers; from poverty by insurance, Medicare, and Social Security; from theft by banks, locks, Mace, and burglar alarms; from having to watch others suffer by putting them where somebody else will do the watching; and from guilt by calling any old immorality a "new morality," or by joining a group that encourages everybody to do whatever feels good.

We don't risk involvement if we can help it. We try not to turn around if anybody screams. Responsibility for others we'd rather delegate to institutions, including the government, which are supposed to make it their business to handle it.

I saw a man on television just a few days after Mr. Ford became President telling us that what America needs is a little more honesty. Because of technology, the man said, people have to be more dependent on each other than they used to be (Oh?) and therefore we need more honesty (Oh). Probably, he allowed, our standards have never been quite what they ought to be and it's time to hike them up a notch or two.

How do we go about this? Take a deep breath and--all together now--start being honest? Ah, the man had a plan. I waited, tense and eager, to hear what it might be. Popularization was what he proposed. Make honesty the In Thing. If everybody's doing it, it will be easy. In fact, the bright-eyed man told us, it would take the risk out of it.

Funny, I always thought righteousness was supposed to be risky. I was taught it wasn't easy, and I found it hard when I tried it. It's never likely to be either easy or popular.

"But I'm not asking for a change in human nature or anything," the man on the TV insisted, "only a change in attitude." And the round-eyed artlessness with which the remark was made and with which it was received by the TV host was breathtaking.

I'm for civilization. I'm all for certain kinds of progress and I accept quite gladly most of today's means of avoiding the risks that Dickens and Kipling and all of mankind before them had to run, but to imagine that we shall whip off the dishonesty that is characteristic of fallen human nature everywhere as painlessly as we whip off one garment and put on another, to imagine that by simply taking a different view we shall come up with a no-risk brand of honesty, is a piece of self-deception and fatuity to make the mind reel.

Plato, three hundred years before Christ, predicted that if ever the truly good man were to appear, the man who would tell the truth, he would have his eyes gouged out and in the end be crucified.

That risk was once taken, in its fullest measure. The man appeared. He told the world the truth about itself and even made the preposterous claim "I am the Truth." As Plato foresaw, that man was crucified.

He calls us still to follow him, and the conditions are the same: "Let a man deny himself and take up his cross."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: Proverbs 3:7-8 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 Proverbs 10:19-19 Philippians 2:5-8 Galatians 6:2
The Path of Lonliness

Shortcut to Peace - Page 1

"Later he said to Marjorie, 'Brenda tried to be confidential about Beaver this evening.' "

"'I didn't know you knew.'

" 'Oh, I knew all right. But I wasn't going to let her feel important by talking about it.' "

Lines from Evelyn Waugh's A Handful of Dust

* * * * *

A Christian man who for many years has been helping alcoholics who want to be helped: ''I make it clear from the start that I don't want to know where they've been. I've heard all that. I only want to know where they're going.''

* * * * *

''She's been seeing a psychiatrist for months, and says he's really fantastic, says she's just beginning to understand why she's been acting that way toward her husband.'' "But does she really need to know all that?"

* * * * *

Most of us enjoy talking about ourselves, our problems, our escapades. We want to defend our mistakes (''I was really down that day") and explain our failures ("Couldn't get my head together"). People who are willing to listen make us feel important. Analysis not only exonerates us of full responsibility for bad behavior but even lends dignity. Sin, of course, is highly undignified. We dignify it by calling it something else. Trauma, hurts, "syndromes," and the whole pattern of ordinary human reaction to them are respectable. We would far rather discuss processes and symptoms than make the radical turnaround that means repentance. It is nicer to be soothed than summoned. As long as we are "undergoing treatment," or "in counselling" we can postpone decision.

I don't want to knock psychology, unless theology is being put at the mercy of psychology. That's dangerous.

Psychology may be a science, but it is certainly not an exact science. Psychiatry is even less exact, though it has risen almost to the place of supreme authority in our time. One theologian has called it "the anti-Christ of the twentieth century." I know one psychiatrist who has quit the field altogether and returned to general practice because, he says, "psychiatry does not exist. It is a pseudoscience."

Science at best is only science, and while we thank God for every realm of knowledge he has allowed men to enter, it is one thing to give it place. It is another to own its sovereign sway. Lewis Thomas, in an essay entitled, "On Science and Uncertainty" (Discover magazine, October 1980), wrote, "It is likely that the twentieth century will be looked back at as the time when science provided the first close glimpse of the profundity of human ignorance....Science is founded on uncertainty....We are always, as it turns out, fundamentally in error. I cannot think of a single field in biology or medicine in which we can claim genuine understanding."

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Shortcut to Peace - Page 2

It would be well to keep Dr. Thomas's statement in mind when we are tempted to think that we shall, through psychological treatment or counselling, arrive at an understanding of ourselves which is deeper and closer to the truth than that which the writer of the Book of Proverbs, for example, perceived.

When my father was editor of a religious weekly a reader once wrote, "What is philosophy? Is it good or bad?" I have no record of his reply but I suppose he told her it was a method of inquiry, and in itself neither good nor bad. Psychology is also a method of inquiry, but P. T. Forsyth said that it cannot go beyond method, has no machinery for testing reality, and no jurisdiction in ultimates. In the sixty or seventy years since he wrote that, we have moved much closer to the edge of the precipice where we abandon the protection, restraint, and control of the everlasting Word and plunge over into the abyss of subjectivism. We need a control.

To change the metaphor: a certain psychological approach which seems to have gained tremendous popularity among Christians reminds me of the jungle rivers that I used occasionally to travel by canoe. They meandered. It was possible to get where you wanted to go by following the tortuous curves and loops, some of them doubling back almost on themselves. It was also possible to get there on foot by cutting straight through a curve, covering in ten minutes what it would take hours to cover by canoe.

To search out and sort out and "hang out" all the whys and wherefores of what we call our problems (a few of which just might be plain sins) may be one route to the healing of certain kinds of human difficulties, but I suggest that it may be the longest way home. I say this, I know, at the risk of being labeled simplistic, reductionist, obscurantist. But where, I want to know, does the genuine understanding which Dr. Thomas says science cannot claim begin? Where does it begin?

No man knows the way to it:
It is not found in the land of living men.
The depths of the ocean say, 'It is not in us,'
and the sea says, 'It is not with me.'
Red gold cannot buy it,
nor can its price be weighed out in silver....
Where then does wisdom come from,
and where is the source of understanding?
....God understands the way to it,
he alone knows its source.
And he said to man:
The fear of the Lord is wisdom,
and to turn from evil is understanding
(Job 28:13--15, 23, 28 NEB).

The ancient and tested source is revealed in a Book whose reliability, relevance, and accuracy all fields of human knowledge continue to corroborate. It is the Bible. My plea is not that we reject the findings of psychology or any other field of study. It is that we start instead with theology, with the knowledge of God. Without that knowledge (given only to those who turn from evil) there is "no jurisdiction in ultimates,'' no knowledge even of ourselves, no certainty of any kind. My plea is that we give the Word a first hearing, take our bearings there, and turn only after that to whatever branch of science may apply to the need in question. Chances are it will be a more direct route to the truth, a shortcut to peace.

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Shortcut to Peace - Page 3

The Scriptures encompass the whole man, his whole world, and reveal the Lord of the universe. In them we have not only a perfect frame of reference, but specific and practical instruction, reproof when it's reproof we need, correction when we've gone wrong.

I have found this to be true every time I have tried it. Recently I was in turmoil about some things somebody said to me. I lay awake at night, mentally enacting whole scenes and conversations in which we would "have it out," dragging everything into consciousness, saying everything that was in our minds, pitting what she said against what I said, what she did against what I did, defending and offending, complaining and explaining. I had heard this was what we are supposed to do--get it out, get it up front, express it. But what a devastating business! What a crashing bore! What a way to consume time, not to mention emotional and spiritual energy! The very process itself gives me the chance to add to my own list of sins against her. "When men talk too much," says Proverbs 10:19, "sin is never far away. Common sense holds its tongue."

Psychology describes. The Bible prescribes. "Turn from evil. Let that be the medicine to keep you in health" (Proverbs 3:7, 8 NEB).

"Love is kind. Love is never quick to take offense. Love keeps no score of wrongs. There is nothing love cannot face; there is no limit to its faith, its hope, and its endurance" (1 Corinthians 13:4, 5, 7 NEB).

"Help one another to carry these heavy loads, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ" (Galatians 6:2 NEB).

"Let your bearing toward one another arise out of your life in Christ Jesus...He made himself nothing...humbled himself...accepted death" (Philippians 2:5, 7, 8 NEB).

The woman who had hurt me had plenty of heavy burdens to bear. I knew that very well. How could I help her to bear them? Well, for one thing, by "being offended without taking offense," that is, by following my Master.

What a relief! I no longer had to plot and plan and cogitate about how to handle my feelings or how to confront my friend or just what to say. My bearing toward her would arise out of my life in Christ Jesus. I couldn't do it myself. He could, and he would enable me.

To cut the straight path a good deal of the jungle of my selfishness had to be slashed through. But it was a much shorter way home.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

To Judge or Not to Judge - Page 1

"But everybody's being so judgmental! And you're another one,'' she complained. "Since you have chosen to be my judge, you can never be my friend."

For months Lisa had been watching Joan's behavior, which seemed to her to be very wrong. She had prayed about mentioning it. When she felt at last that she could no longer keep silent she approached her dear friend in the spirit of Galatians 6:1.

Even if a man should be detected in some sin, my brothers, the spiritual ones among you should quietly set him back on the right path, not with any feeling of superiority but being yourselves on guard against temptation. Carry each other's burdens and so live out the law of Christ.

Joan, in response, was bitter, angry, and hurt. The wrong, she insisted, was Lisa's. Lisa was being "judgmental." The right, she felt, was on her side, for neither Lisa nor anyone else knew "the whole story."

The only verse about judgment in the Bible which anyone seems to have heard of these days is "Judge not." There the discussion usually ends. It is tacitly assumed that negative judgments are forbidden. That positive judgments would also come under the interdict escapes the notice of those who assume it is a sin to judge.

One morning long before dawn I sat staring out onto a starlit sea, thinking of Joan and Lisa's story and of what Christian judgment ought to be. My thoughts ran like this:

If one does right and is judged to be right, he will be neither angry nor hurt. He may, if he is humble, be pleased (is it not right to be glad that right is done?) but he will not be proud.

If one who is proud does wrong and is judged to be wrong he will be both angry and hurt.

If one who is proud does right and is judged to be wrong he also will be both angry and hurt.

If one who is truly humble does wrong and is judged to be wrong, he will not resent it but will in gratitude and humility, no matter what it costs him, heed the judgment and repent.

If one who is truly humble does right and is judged to be wrong he will not give the judgment a second thought. It is his Father's glory that matters to him, not his own. He will "rejoice and be exceeding glad," knowing for one thing that a great reward will be his, and, for another, that he thus enters in a measure into the suffering of Christ--"when he suffered he made no threats of revenge. He simply committed his cause to the One who judges fairly."

Joan was outraged that her close friend should judge her, thus disqualifying herself, Joan felt, from ever again being her friend. She failed to see that one as close as Lisa ought in fact to be the first to rebuke her, since she loves her and will be the first to notice that she needs to be rebuked. Joan, however, was sure that if Lisa could have seen the whole picture as God sees it she would have judged differently: because what she was doing was right, both God and Lisa would see it to be right. That kind of "judgment" Joan would not have minded, nor would the word judgmental have entered her head. Perceptive or discerning are words which perhaps would have come to her mind.

Joan was right, of course, that Lisa did not see the whole picture. No one but God ever sees it, for only to him are all hearts open, all desires known. We mortals often fail to see right as right, wrong as wrong. We look on the outward appearance. It is all we have access to. We therefore know only in part.

In the meantime we are given the book of standards by which to judge our own actions and those of others. "By their fruits" we know them. If we were not to judge at all we would have to expunge from our Christian vocabulary the word is, for whatever follows that word is a judgment: Jack is a fine yachtsman, Mrs. Smith is a cook, Harold is a bum. It depends on how one sees Jack, Mrs. Smith, and Harold.

Jesus told us to love our enemies. How are we to know who they are without judging? He spoke of dogs, swine, hypocrites, liars, as well as of friends, followers, rich men, the great and the small, the humble and the proud, "he who hears you and he who rejects you," old and new wineskins, the things of the world and the things of the Kingdom. To make any sense at all of his teachings requires, among other things, the God-given faculty of judgment, which includes discrimination.

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To Judge or Not to Judge - Page 2

The current popular notion that judging others is in itself a sin leads to such inappropriate maxims as ''I'm O.K. and you're O.K." It encourages a conspiracy of moral indifference which says "If you never tell me that anything I'm doing is wrong, I'll never tell you that anything you're doing is wrong." "Judge not that ye be not judged" has come to mean that if you never call anything sin nobody can ever call you a sinner. You do your thing and let me do mine and let's accept everybody and never mind what they're up to.

There is a serious misunderstanding here. The Bible is plain that we have no business trying to straighten out those who are not yet Christians. That's God's business. Alexander the coppersmith did Paul "much evil," and was "an obstinate opponent" of Paul's teaching. That description is a straightforward judgment, but Paul did not consider it his duty to deal with that man. "The Lord will reward him for what he did."

''But surely it is your business to judge those who are inside the church," he wrote to the Christians at Corinth, and commanded them to expel a certain immoral individual from the church:

Clear out every bit of the old yeast....Don't mix with the immoral. I didn't mean, of course, that you were to have no contact at all with the immoral of this world, nor with any cheats or thieves or idolaters--for that would mean going out of the world altogether! But in this letter I tell you not to associate with any professing Christian who is known to be an impure man or a swindler, an idolater, a man with a foul tongue, a drunkard, or a thief. My instruction is: Don't even eat with such a man.

That's pretty clear. And pretty hard to obey. I have seldom heard of its being obeyed in this country, but a missionary named Herbert Elliot tells me that he has seen it obeyed many times in the little Peruvian churches he visits in remote regions of the Andes and the jungle, where Christians simply believe the Word and put it into practice. In the majority of cases, he tells me, this measure has led to repentance, reconciliation, restoration, and healing.

The key to the matter of judgment is meekness. Childlikeness might be just as good a word. Meekness is one of the fruits of the Spirit. No one who does not humble himself and become like a little child is going to get into the Kingdom. We can never set ourselves up as judges, for we ourselves are sinners and inclined to be tempted exactly as those we judge are tempted. But if we are truly meek (caring not at all for self-image or reputation) we shall speak the truth as we see it (how else can a human being speak it?). We shall speak it in love, recognizing our own sinful capabilities and never-ending need for grace, as well as the limitations of our understanding. If we are to do the will of God in this matter, as in all other matters, we must do it by faith, taking the risk of being at times mistaken. We may misjudge, but let us be at least honest and charitable. We ourselves may be misjudged. Let us be charitable then, too, and accept it in humility as our Lord did. "When He was reviled, He reviled not in return."

I said we cannot set ourselves up as judges. It is God who sets us this task, who commands us Christians to judge other Christians. It is not pride that causes us to judge. It is pride that causes us to judge as though we ourselves are not bound by the same standards or tempted by the same sins. It was those who were trying to remove "specks" from a brother's eye when they themselves had "logs" in their own eyes to whom Jesus said "Judge not.''

"You fraud!" he said to them. "Take the plank out of your own eye first, and then you can see clearly enough to remove your brother's speck of dust." The dust must indeed be removed, not tolerated or ignored or called by a polite name. But it must be removed by somebody who can see--that is, the humble, the childlike, the pure, the meek. If any of us are inclined to excuse ourselves from the responsibility to judge, pleading that we do not belong in that lovely company, let us not forget that it is those of that company and only those who are of any use in the Kingdom, in fact, who will even enter it. We must take our stand with them beneath the cross of Jesus, where, as the hymn writer says:

...my eyes at times can see
The very dying form of One
Who suffered there for me.
And from my smitten heart, with tears,
Two wonders I confess:
The wonders of His glorious love,
And my own worthlessness.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Have It Your Way--Or God's - Page 1

When Lars and I lived in Georgia he took me one Saturday night to a place called "Swampland" in the little country town of Toomsboro. It comprised a barnlike eating place and a barnlike auditorium where there was a gospel singing jamboree from four until midnight.

As we sat at a long table with a lot of people we didn't know, eating our catfish and hush puppies (there wasn't much else on the menu), we noticed an odd person standing by the fireplace. He was a kind of middle-aged hippie. He had long gray hair like a broom. He was wearing baggy patched pants, a jacket with fringes (some of them on purpose and some just tatters), a pistol belt, and a hat that was so greasy Lars said it would burn for a week if it ever caught fire. Every now and then he gave the logs on the fire a poke or two, but seemed to be otherwise unoccupied.

When the manager of the restaurant came by, table-hopping, we asked about the local character.

"You mean old Rusty Russell there? You don't know Rusty Russell?"

We said no. We asked if he was the official fire-poker.

"Nope."

"What does he do?"

"Do? Don't do nothin'. Come with the place." The manager went on to tell us a little more. Seems he was from Alabama originally. His old daddy used to live with him, and when he died, Rusty wanted to bury him back home in Alabama. Dressed him up in his Sunday suit, put a Sunday hat on his head, belted him into the front seat of his old Ford car, and headed out of town.

''Health authorities caught up with him, though. It was summertime. No way was they gonna let him drive that corpse outa state.

"Old Rusty had a wife once, too. Next-door neighbor took a shine to 'er Rusty goes over, says, 'See you like ma wife.'

'' 'Yup,' he says.

" 'Want 'er?' Rusty says.

" 'Yup,' he says.

" 'What'll you give me for 'er?'

" 'Stove,' he says.

"Old Rusty says 'I'll take it.'

"He did. Traded his wife for a wood stove. Good one, too. Rusty still uses that stove, by golly. Got a good deal. Better'n the neighbor got, I reckon."

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Have It Your Way--Or God's - Page 2

We loved that story. We did not love the story we heard last week--three stories, in fact, depressingly familiar, of three ministers of the Gospel who, like Rusty's neighbor, let their eyes wander to their neighbors' wives. All three liked what they saw next door (or, more accurately, in one of the pews of their churches) and, hearkening to current commercials ("You can have it all," "Do yourself a favor," "Have it your way") opted out.

Among the processes accelerating the breakdown of human structures is the flooding of imagery, produced by the mass media, "sweeping us into a chaotic and unassimilable whirlpool of influences," writes Dr. James Houston in I Believe in the Creator (Eerdmans, 1980). "We are overwhelmed by undigested data, with endlessly incomplete alternatives to every sphere of living."

Christians, encouraged by the example of Christian leaders everywhere, have begun to regard divorce as an option. There is nothing new about marital difficulties. If a man who is a sinner chooses as a life partner a woman who is a sinner they will run into trouble of some sort, depend upon it. Paul was realistic about this in 1 Corinthians 7: "Those who marry will have worldly troubles and I would spare you that."

Jill Briscoe says that she and her husband Stuart are incompatible. She told a whole audience this. "And we live with incompatible children and an incompatible dog and an incompatible cat." The point she makes is: when it comes right down to it, aren't all human beings incompatible? It takes grace for any of them to get along on an every-day-of-the-year basis. The apostle Peter, who was married, reminded us that a husband and wife are "heirs together of the grace of life." God knows our frame, remembers we're nothing but dust, and we need grace, lots of grace. This God supplies--plenteous, sufficient, enough--to those willing to receive.

If we receive that grace with thanksgiving he will enable us to make the sacrifice of self without which no human relationship will work very well. The refusal of grace is like the refusal to put oil in an engine. The machinery will break down. Prolonged friction between the parts will result in the whole thing's grinding to a halt. When, for lack of grace in one or both partners, a marriage grinds to a halt, the "world," coming at us loud, clear, and without interruption via television and other media, persuades us that we have plenty of alternatives. The Church, always in dancer of pollution by the spirit of the world, begins to choose the proffered alternatives in preference to grace, to replace "I believe" with "I feel.''

There is an Eternal Word which has been spoken. For thousands of years Christians have taken their stand on that Word, have driven into it all the stakes of their faith and hope, believing it to be a liberating Word, a saving Word. They have arranged their lives within its clear and bounded context.

The trouble with television is that it has no context. We sit in our living rooms or stand, as I often do, dicing carrots in our kitchens with the Sony on the counter. The program comes to us from New York or Hollywood or Bydgoszcz or Virginia Beach. The set--a corner of an elegant living room, a city street, a desk high in some skyscraper, or perhaps Cypress Gardens or a "crystal" cathedral--seems fake even if it is real. It has nothing to do with us or with what is being spoken. There is no context which embraces both my life and theirs, or it is "the context of no-context," as George W. S. Trow argued brilliantly in a New Yorker article (November 17, 1980):

The work of television is to establish false contexts and to chronicle the unravelling of existing contexts; finally to establish the context of no-context and to chronicle it....The New History was the record of the expression of demographically significant preferences: the lunge of demography here as opposed to there....Nothing was judged, only counted. The preferences of the child carried as much weight as the preferences of an adult, so the refining of preferences was subtracted from what it was necessary for a man to learn to do.

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Have It Your Way--Or God's - Page 3

Divorce has become "demographically significant" among Christians. So have too many other things. It is because we have forgotten that our context is the Kingdom of God, not the kingdom of this world (which is the kingdom of self). In the Kingdom of God the alternatives are not boundless, not so long as we live in this mortal coil. You can't have it all. You are not there to do yourself a favor. You may not have it your way. You opted out of all that when you made up your mind to follow a Master who himself had relinquished all rights, all equality with the Father, and his own will as well. You are called not to be served but to serve, and you can't serve two masters. You can't operate in two opposing kingdoms. These kingdoms are the alternatives. Settle it once for all. It is, quite simply, a life and-death choice. Pay no attention to what is demographically significant.

I receive a good many letters from young people who are utterly at sea about their life's choices college, career, marriage. They are faced with too many alternatives. The seeming limitlessness overwhelms, unsettles, often even paralyzes them. (Can I have marriage and a career? Can I have marriage and a career and babies? Can I be really feminine and be an initiator? Can I be really a man and not the head of my home?) Twenty years ago they were faced with a whole cupboard full of packaged breakfast foods and were asked by a well-meaning but unwise mother what they wanted for breakfast. They didn't know. They have been going to McDonald's ever since, gobbling up those (how many billions is it now?) hamburgers with or without onion, with or without mustard, relish, catsup, everything. They still think they can have it all, and they still don't know what they want. Why not stop bothering about what you want, I suggest to them. Find out what your Master wants.

The three ministers think they know. They married the wrong woman. A youthful mistake. They've grown apart now. The children will not be hurt if they ''handle" it properly, they say. They owe it to themselves to take this daring and creative step. God wants them to be happy. It's a leap and a risk and there's a price to pay, but look how liberating, how stretching, how redemptive. Why be threatened by traditional morality? Why be hung up? The other woman has understood and affirmed and fulfilled them as the poor wife was never equipped to do an--a line from an old song reminds them--"to waste our lives would be a sin."

Twirl those television dials. Look, for a minute, at the suffering of the world on the evening news. Twirl it off. Look at the beautiful people if you want to. There they are. You can be beautiful too. You can do what they do, go where they go. TWA will take you up, up and away. Delta is ready when you are. Become a legend. Charm a holiday party. Enhance your fragrance image. Give to thyself. Wear the Mark of Success. Try everything. Experience all the thrills.

Now it may be the flower for me
Is this beneath my nose,
But how shall I tell unless I smell
The Carthaginian rose?

So wrote Edna St. Vincent Millay (Collected Lyrics, Washington Square Press) decades ago. In the 1980s the possibilities seem even more endless and enticing, the unreached corners of the world ever more reachable, the pleasures of sin more innocuous. In fact, we suspect, they are not even luxuries. They have become, for the self-respecting man or woman, requirements.

There is plenty of room on the road that leads to that kingdom, and many go that way, but it is still true that the gate that leads to Life is small and the road is narrow and those who find it are few.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: Jeremiah 1:5
The Path of Lonliness

Person or Thing? - Page 1

Not long ago Time magazine reported another triumph of modern medical technology. An unborn child, found, by means of a process called amniocentesis, to suffer from Down's syndrome, was aborted (terminated? quietly done away with? killed?). It was all very safe and scientific and sterile. Not only was there little danger to the mother, there was no harm to the other twin in the mother's womb. The affected child (Is that an acceptable word? Should I say afflicted? unwanted? undesirable? useless? disposable?) was relieved of its life by being relieved of its lifeblood, which was slowly withdrawn through a long needle which pierced its beating heart. This was called a therapeutic abortion. The word therapeutic means serving to cure or heal. The strange part about this case was that nobody except the aborted child was ill. Who then was cured? Who was healed?

It seemed a huge irony that only a few weeks later the same magazine hailed another medical breakthrough: surgery to correct an abnormal kidney condition known as hydronephrosis. The amazing part about this case was that the patient was an unborn child, again one of twins. Again, a needle was inserted-through the mother's abdominal wall, through the uterus, through the amniotic sac lining, through the abdominal wall of the fetus, into the bladder. The needle was not used to withdraw blood but to insert a catheter which would drain urine, thus saving little Michael's life.

"For all its promise," Time comments, "fetal surgery poses some difficult ethical dilemmas."

Difficult indeed but only if we refuse to call the thing operated on a child.

In the first case, the mother did not want it. Whatever she called it, it had every possibility of becoming a person, and only as a person posed a threat. When it was rendered harmless, that is, when the heart no longer beat, when it was, in fact, dead, she continued to carry it to term. Then, along with its twin, it was born. Its twin had been very like itself to begin with, fully capable of becoming a person, but now very different indeed-- wanted, desirable, "useful"--and alive.

In the second case, the mother wanted both the twins, the well one and the sick one with the swollen bladder and kidneys. To her, what was in her womb was her children. Could they possibly save the tiny thing? Was there anything they could do for her baby? It was (Did the mother ever question it?) a baby.

Dr. Leonie Watson said, "If they can do surgery on a fetus, then it is in fact a baby."

We recognize how far we have departed from what nature has always told any prospective mother, when we realize that arguments must be adduced, some of them even from technical procedures like fetal surgery, to prove that the living, moving, creature about to come forth into the world is a human baby. If surgery is possible, then it's a baby.

This is, of course, where the battle lines are drawn. Is it, or is it not? What is the thing to be aborted? What is the thing to be born? What is the thing on which surgery was done? If we call it a fetus does it make the ethical dilemmas less difficult?

Dr. Phillip Stubblefield, a gynecologist at Boston's Massachusetts General Hospital, argues that a fetus is only a baby if it can live outside the womb.

If we can accept this assertion, may we also assume that a patient is not a person unless "it" can survive without, for example, dialysis or a heart pump? Is a machine somehow more humanizing than a womb? Is it possible seriously to believe that successful detachment from the mother is what turns an otherwise disposable and expendable mass of tissue into what we may legitimately call a baby?

Katharine Hepburn recently sent out a letter (I suppose to nearly everybody, otherwise I don't know how I would have gotten on her list) appealing for $3.6 million to stand up against what she called "repressive legislation" to limit individual rights and reproductive freedom. She listed eight reasons a certain amendment which would prevent abortion on demand should be defeated. Not a single one of her eight reasons would stand up in any court as a valid argument against the amendment if the thing aborted were called a person.

That is the question.

That is the only relevant question.

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Person or Thing? - Page 2

When what Miss Hepburn calls "individual rights and reproductive freedom" impinge on the rights of a person other than the pregnant woman, that is, on a person who happens to be hidden, helpless, and at the mercy of the one entrusted with its life, are we who object hysterical, illogical, bigoted, fanatic? Are we duped by what she calls "simple outdated platitudes of television preachers" if we cry aloud against her and her kind?

Last week there was another scandal. A woman had been running nursing homes which turned out to be what an investigator called "human sewers." She made a great deal of money off another group of defenseless human beings--the elderly, who had something in common with the "fetuses" Miss Hepburn claims the right to dispose of. They, too, were hidden, helpless, and at the mercy of the one entrusted with their lives. People were outraged. These victims had not been treated as human beings.

Why all the fuss? Suppose we apply some of the arguments used in favor of abortion to the treatment of the indigent, the friendless, the senile.

If there is brain damage or deformity, the fetus (read also the senile or the crippled) may be terminated.

If the fetus's becoming a person, i.e., being born, would be a serious inconvenience to the mother, or to other members of the family, it may be terminated. As has often been observed, there is no such thing as a ''convenient" time to have a baby. All babies (and many disabled or bedridden people) are an inconvenience. All are at times what might be called a serious inconvenience. Love alone "endures all things."

If a baby is allowed to be born, it may become the victim of brutality. One solution offered for the "battered child syndrome" is abortion. What about the "neglected octogenarian syndrome"?

A sixteen-year-old high school student who has no prospect for a stable home and whose pregnancy will end her chance for an education is counseled to abort her baby. How shall we counsel a fifty-eight-year-old divorced man about what to do with his invalid mother? Taking care of her might end his chances for a lot of things.

If we refuse to allow medically "safe" abortions, we are told that we thereby encourage "back-alley butchery," self-induced procedures of desperate women, even suicide. By the same token, if we outlaw sterile injections of, say, an overdose of morphine administered to an old man in a nursing home whose "quality of life" does not warrant continuation, do we thereby encourage less humane methods of getting people out of the way?

Miss Hepburn deplores "cold constitutional prohibitions," prefers instead individual choice based on "sound advice from the woman's personal physician.'' Some of those cold constitutional prohibitions happen to deal with the question of human life and what we citizens of these United States are allowed to do for or against it.

That is still the question. What do we do with the gift of life? Shall we acknowledge first of all its Creator, and recognize the sanctity of what is made in his image? Shall we hold it in reverence? If any human life, however frail, however incapable of retaliation, is entrusted to us shall we nourish and cherish it, or may we--by some enormously civilized and educated rationalization--convince ourselves either that it is not a person, or that, although it is a person, its life is not worth living, and that therefore what we do with it is a matter of individual choice?

What is this thing?

We are faced with only one question. Are we talking about an object, or might it by any stretch of the imagination be a person? If we cannot be sure of the answer, at least we may pick up a clue or two from the word of the Lord which came to Jeremiah: "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you for my own; before you were born I consecrated you, I appointed you a prophet to the nations." To God, at least, Jeremiah was already a person. For my part, I will try to regard whatever bears the marks of humanity as God's property and not mine.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Images of Hell

Somehow or other North Dakota did not seem quite the place where my husband and I expected to find the sort of television program which shocked us. We were in a motel--not one of those that offers Home Box Office or other special shows for a fee, but a perfectly ordinary one. The program that stopped us in our tracks was, we discovered, a perfectly ordinary one that is shown all over the country, twenty-four hours a day. It hasn't gotten to the Boston area as far as I know, but it will. It is rock music--the screaming, thundering, pulsating, shrieking, eardrubbing, earsplitting, ear-bludgeoning kind, played by groups with names like Cheap Trick, the Boomtown Rats, the Sex Pistols, Missing Persons, The Destroyers, and The Clash. Across the bottom of the screen ran a legend from time to time, giving the name of the soloist, the title of the "music," and the group performing. Song titles were such things as "Screaming for Vengeance," "Bad Boy Having a Party," "Children of the Grave," "Escalator of Life'' ("I'm shoppin' the human mall" was a line from that one), "Combat Rock," "Maneater,'' and "Paranoid.

Songs, they're called. I had some idea that singing was supposed to touch the heart. What is the condition of the heart that is touched by titles like those? What was happening on the screen was at least as depressing. The music was being dramatized by children. They were heavily made up, of course, doing their level best to act as sophisticated, blase, and bored as adults must seem to them, but it was plain that most of them were teenagers, early teenagers. They were slinking around bars, slouching along brilliantly lighted city streets; toying with elegant wineglasses in high-toned restaurants, smoking with long, slim, shiny cigarette holders. They were gazing dully at the camera, looking up through lowered eyebrows or down through false eyelashes. They were writhing in horizontal positions, or girls were sashaying away from boys, casting over a raised shoulder the cruel come-on glance of the vamp. Boys were striding with thrust-forward pelvises toward the girls, breathing heavily through parted lips, hulking, swaying, scowling.

The camera went from these scenes to the rock groups sweating and screaming under the colored lights, dressed in rags, blue jeans, tights, sequins, undershirts, and in some cases nearly nothing. Hair was stringy, spinachy, wild--or "punk rock," dyed, partially shaved, stiff. They smashed, hammered, clobbered those drums. They doubled up in agony over their guitars, striving, twisting, stamping, and jumping. Their faces were contorted with hatred or pain, at times jeering, insolent, defiant. Back the camera would go then to the slithering kids trying to "express themselves" or to play out the lyrics which were being yelled at top decibel by whoever was clutching the microphone. (How do their vocal cords stand it?)

But oh, the faces of those kids. I was riveted to the screen, aghast, horrified. There was a terrible fascination in the very absence of reality. How had they been programmed to erase from their fresh young faces every trace of personality, every least hint of humanity? They stared with unblinking blankness, lifeless, spiritless, cold. A strange and surreal alternative to the spastic seizures, paroxysms, and nauseated retchings of the "musicians."

This, then, is what rock music is all about. Images of Hell. That's all I could think of. Hell is the place where those whose motto is My will be done will finally and forever get what they want. Hell is agony and blankness and torture and the absence of all that humanity was originally destined to be. The glory has terminally departed. It is the heat of flames (not of passion--that will long since have burned out) and the appalling lifelessness of solid ice, an everlasting burning and an irreversible freezing.

Tyndale House's little paper, The Church Around the World, cited a study by Columbia University which helps to explain why we get what we get on TV:

· 50% of those controlling the media have "no religion"
· 8% attend church or synagogue weekly
· 86% attend seldom or never
· 84% believe government should have no laws regulating sex
· 55% believe extramarital affairs are not immoral
· 95% believe homosexuality is not wrong
· 85% believe homosexuals should be permitted to teach in public schools

I do not plan a campaign to squelch rock music. It is simply an accurate expression of the powers that are at work in our society:

For the words that the mouth utters come from the overflowing of the heart. A good man produces good from the store of good within himself; and an evil man from evil within produces evil.... Out of your own mouth you will be acquitted; out of your own mouth you will be condemned. (Matthew 12:35, 36 NEB).

From racket, din, cacophony, and pandemonium ("all demons"), Good Lord, deliver us. Give us the strength that comes from quietness; your gentleness, Lord, your peace. And one more thing, Lord--put a new song in our mouths, even praise to our God.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: Psalm 139
The Path of Lonliness

When I Was Being Made In Secret

As I drove into the yard a boy of nine raced across the lawn with his new golden retriever puppy on a training lead.

"Aunt Betty! This is Bucky! We just got him!" Within the next few minutes, I heard all about Bucky and about Charles's new collections of stamps, baseball cards, and toy cars (among them a police car, a space vehicle, a green hatchback, a Volkswagen with oversize tires, and a model of "Le Car"), as well as about his golf lessons ("I got a set of clubs, too!"), tennis lessons ("Look at my new racquet!"), the Christmas cards he is selling in order to win prizes, and about sleeping on the screened porch in a sleeping bag.

Nothing extraordinary or astonishing about this nine-year-old. He's lively, he has a very wide grin, he wears ragged cutoffs, and he even chopped up his shirt with scissors (collar and sleeves were too hot, he explained). His blond hair sticks out in funny places, and his striped tennis shoes seem as clumsily huge as Mickey Mouse's always did.

But yesterday when I visited this charming nephew of mine I thought of some people I saw last month when I went to a hospital in Mississippi to visit my new granddaughter Elisabeth. I peered eagerly through the nursery window along with all the other grandmothers and the smug fathers. "Ours" was shown to us by the nurse, a beautiful tiny thing clenching her perfect fists. I gazed as enthralled as though I had never seen a newborn child, as though Elisabeth were the first of her kind ever to appear to mystify and bewitch and melt the soul of a grandmother.

It was at the back of the nursery that I saw the people who affected me very differently but also very deeply. They were extremely small. A nurse thrust her hands into built-in rubber gloves in the side of an incubator and ever so gently lifted a little creature that looked infinitely more fragile and helpless than our baby, a "preemie" of perhaps two and a half pounds. He was one of several in incubators, and as I watched them lying there, eyes bandaged against the heat lamp, moving and breathing in their plastic boxes, I thought of Charles, who was just such a baby nine years ago. Born three months early, he was not expected to make it through the first night.

Earnestly prayed for by his parents and many others, cared for continuously by many hands as gentle as those of the nurse I watched in Mississippi, he survived.

Not long ago I saw a picture which will remain ineradicable in my mind: a black plastic garbage bag which contained what was left of the morning's work in one city hospital--four or five babies, some of them the size of Charles when he was born, some of them larger. They were rejects.

Who is it that makes the "selections"? Who may determine which tiny person is acceptable and may be permitted to be born (and if necessary, hovered over, cradled in a sterile temperaturecontrolled incubator to assist his survival), and which is unacceptable and may be treated as a cancer or a gangrenous growth and surgically or chemically removed? What perverted vision of "life enhancement" warrants such a choice?

Gloria Steinem appeared on television recently to speak about what she calls "pro-choice." What she did not say, what no proponent of abortion ever says, is that the choice they defend is the choice to kill people. Babies are people, but the U. S. Supreme Court has decreed that certain people, if they are young enough and helpless enough, may be killed.

Another choice which the courts and modern liberality and morality permit us to make is the choice of a tasteful vocabulary. To begin with, the rejects I saw in the plastic bag are not babies, they are not people, they are, if small enough and unrecognizable enough, merely "tissue" or, as ethicist Charles Curran puts it, "the matter involved in the research." If undeniably identifiable, they are but the "products of conception." Well, so is Charles. So am I.

Words most assiduously to be avoided are "kill" and "murder." They were also avoided by the physicians who supervised the "selections" in Nazi concentration camps. Heirs to Europe's proudest medical traditions, they resorted to complicated mental gymnastics to provide moral and scientific legitimacy for Hitler's crazed racial and biological notions. In a world forty years advanced from those barbarities we speak of freedom, of the liberation of women, of the right over our own bodies-- viewing ourselves as emancipated and enlightened while we sink into ever more diabolical (though always finely calculated and carefully rationalized) modes of self-worship and idolatry.

When anyone has the indelicacy to call a spade a spade (i.e., an abortion a murder) he is accused (as in Time, July 30, 1979) of "hateful propaganda, harassment, disregard of other people's civil rights…an attempt to force [his] own perception of morality on everyone else.'' It was Uta Landy, executive director of the National Abortion Federation in New York, who wrote that.

Shall we, like those idealists in Germany, in order to evade the real horror, invoke such forms of self-delusion and insist on innocuous and deceptive terms like "procedure'' or "loss" instead of "killing," or "tissue" for "child"? While we pharisaically deplore Malaysia's management of the pitiful "boat people" (the Home Affairs Minister, Ghazali bin Shafie, said, "The Vietnamese keep throwing rubbish into our gardens''), we rationalize and legalize--we even feel it our duty to facilitate and finance--the disposal of tens of thousands of--what shall we call them if not people?

I could not miss the ironies of The New Yorker's editorializing about Malaysia. Not many months ago it threw up its hands in horror at those who would oppose "the right to choose" abortion. Now it points out that it is the policy of our government to favor human rights around the world, yet "one of earth's peoples is being set adrift on the high seas, and in the whole wide world there is no dependable place of refuge."

Let us who claim to accept moral responsibility for refugees and the world's rejects remember that another of earth's peoples is being "selected," shall we say, for annihilation. We are accused of insensitivity if we mention the black plastic garbage bags or saline burning or the intrauterine dismemberment of gestating human beings, but in the whole wide world is there for them "no dependable place of refuge''?

Let us consider these things in quietness before God who sees them all. "O Lord, thou hast searched me and known me…my frame was not hidden from thee when I was being made in secret…Thy eyes beheld my unformed substance; in thy book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them…See if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting."

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: Luke 17:33
The Path of Lonliness

How To Sell Yourself - Page 1

A couple of hundred secretaries attended a seminar in Syracuse a few months ago. Because I happened to be in the hotel that day, I did a little eavesdropping.

The speaker was a snappily dressed, fast-talking Yuppie who dished out a lot of expensive advice about how to sell yourself in the business world. By the way you dress, she explained, you can put across a message of power (suits, ladies, not soft sweaters; skirts, not slacks; pumps, not sandals).

The way you wear your hair tells the boss more than your resume did. Hair over the forehead tells him (yes, the lecturer did actually refer to the boss as "him" most of the time) you're shy, coy, or afraid of something; long, loose stuff says you haven't grown up. And you know what fluffed-out hair proclaims the minute you walk into the office: fluffbrain!

What you eat for lunch and how you arrange your desk lets people know who's in charge. No creamed dishes, no desserts; no teddy bears or cutesy mottoes on the desk. Feel good about yourself--slim, trim, lots of vim. Be assertive. Be confident. Walk into the head office in your elegant Joseph A. Bank suit--dark (of course) impeccably (of course) tailored (of course). Stand tall. Head up. Smile. Give him the kind of handshake that lets him know it could have been a knuckle-cruncher--he'll get the message: power. You're in charge.

Beneath the Surface

In Tree of Life magazine Peter Reinhart writes:

The spirit of this age is one of personal power; the spirit of Christ is one of humility. The spirit of this age is one of ambitious accomplishment; the spirit of Christ is one of poverty. The spirit of this age is one of self-determination; the spirit of Christ is one of abandonment to Divine Providence.

He goes on to suggest a new kind of seminar: training in the assertion of virtues--humility, for example, spiritual poverty, purity of heart, chastity of mind. Instead of self-reliance he sees reliance on Christ as the source of empowerment and liberation.

So do I. To be Christ's slave is perfect freedom.

Will this idea sell? Will it work? Can we really get what we want this way? The third question is the crucial one for Christians. Answer it, and you already have the answer to the first two.

If what you want is what the world wants, nobody will be able to sell Reinhart's seminar to you. It isn't going to work.

But if you've made up your mind to have what the world despises--the things that last forever--and if Jesus Christ is Lord of your life, the whole picture, even in the dog-eat-dog world of competition and big money and big success, will be different.

What distinguishes the Christian from others in that world? I admit the validity of some of the Yuppie's advice, silly as it sounds. The medium, alas, is to a certain extent the message. A Christian must he at least as careful, sensible, and serious about doing the job properly as anybody else. He must also dress and act carefully, sensibly, seriously. Man looks on the outward appearance because it's the only thing man can look on. God alone can look on the heart.

What's in the heart reveals itself sooner or later. You may get the job on the basis of first appearance. You'll keep it on the basis of how you perform day by day. Many perform well because they're after money and power--but there's nearly always room for a little fudging here and there, a lot of elbowing and shoving and downright trampling of whoever's in your way, not to mention high-level crimes that people get away with.

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How To Sell Yourself - Page 2

The Christian in the office or factory or construction job operates from a wholly different motive: "service rendered to Christ himself, not with the idea of currying favor with men, but as the servants of Christ conscientiously doing what you believe to be the will of God for you" (Ephesians 6:5, 6 PHILLIPS).

How High, How Mighty?

I would hope that the Christian businessman or woman, whether lowest on the corporate totem pole or the chief executive officer, would be distinguished from the rest not only by conscientious work but also by graciousness, by simple kindness, by an unassuming manliness or a modest womanliness, and above all by a readiness to serve. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with ambition--Jesus often appealed to it--but the nature of those ambitions makes a huge difference: "He that would be chief among you must be servant of all,'' even if that means serving coffee instead of serving on the committee you were itching to join.

A Christian is the sort of person who can be asked to do whatever needs to be done without retorting, "That's not my job." Somebody is bound to remind me that you can get in trouble with the unions this way. Well, you know what I mean. Christians are available. Christians aren't too high and mighty to do the nasty little task nobody else will do. Christians can be counted on, imposed on, sometimes walked all over. Why not? Their Master was.

I think of my friend Betty Greene, a pilot (called an aviator in her early days) who ferried bombers during World War II and helped found Mission Aviation Fellowship. "I made up my mind," she told me, "that if I was to make it in a man's world, I would have to be a lady." A more ladylike lady I have never known. She knows when to keep her mouth shut. She's modest. She's the very soul of graciousness. She isn't trying to prove anything. Nate Saint, an early colleague of hers, once told me he had had no use for women pilots until he met Betty. She shook up his categories.

Christians ought to be always shaking up people's categories. I guess one of the things the world finds most infuriating about much-maligned Jerry Falwell is his unflappable graciousness, his refusal to retreat behind spurious logic. They'd like to call him a rechecked bigot, but he doesn't fit the category. His worst offense is that he's so often right. He speaks the truth--that's bad enough--and he speaks it in love. That's unforgivable.

"The very spring of our actions," said the apostle Paul, "is the love of Christ.'' That goes for all of us who claim the name Christian. It is the energizing principle of whatever we do--from praying and serving the church to laundry and lawn mowing and the jobs we get paid for. Charity is the word.

Charity? In the late twentieth century? Yes. If in home, school, and workplace the rule of each Christian's life were MY LIFE FOR YOURS ("in honor preferring one another") it would make a very great difference.

The Christian's distinctive mark is love. It was what set the Lord Jesus apart from all others. It was, in the end, what got him crucified. If we follow him in the marketplace, many of the self-promotion methods others use will be out of the question to us.

Won't we run the risks of being ignored, stepped on at times, passed over for a promotion? Yes, those and a good many others. But what price are we willing to pay for obedience? The faithful, unconcerned about self-actualization, will find along the pathway of self-denial the blossoms of fulfillment. We have our Lord's paradoxical promise in Luke 17:33: "Whoever tries to preserve his life will lose it, and the man who is prepared to lose his life will preserve it.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: Colossians 1:11 Ephesians 3:17-18 Psalm 119:14-14
The Path of Lonliness

The Song of the Animals - Page 1

A very tall man, wrapped in a steamer rug, kneeling alone by a chair. When I think of my father, who died in 1963, this is often the first image that comes to mind. It was the habit of his life to rise early in the morning--usually between 4:30 and 5:00 A.M.--to study his Bible and to pray.

We did not often see him during that solitary hour (he purposed to make it solitary), but we were used to seeing him on his knees. He had family prayers every morning after breakfast. We began with a hymn; then he read from the Bible to us; and we all knelt to pray. As we grew older, we were encouraged to pray alone as well.

Few people know what to do with solitude when it is forced upon them; even fewer arrange for solitude regularly. This is not to suggest that we should neglect meeting with other believers for prayer (Hebrews 10:25), but the foundation of our devotional life is our own private relationship with God.

My father, an honest and humble disciple of the Lord Jesus, wanted to follow his example: "Very early in the morning…Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed" (Mark 1:35).

Christians may (and ought to) pray anytime and anywhere, but we cannot well do without a special time and place to be alone with God. Most of us find that early morning is not an easy time to pray. I wonder if there is an easy time.

The simple fact is that early morning is probably the only time when we can be fairly sure of not being interrupted. Where can we go? Into "your closet," was what the Lord said in Matthew 6:6, meaning any place apart from the eyes and the ears of others. Jesus went to the hills, to the wilderness, to a garden; the apostles to the seashore or to an upper room; Peter to a housetop.

We may need to find a literal closet or a bathroom or a parked car. We may walk outdoors and pray. But we must arrange to pray, to be alone with God sometime every day, to talk to him and to listen to what he wants to say to us.

The Bible is God's message to everybody. We deceive ourselves if we claim to want to hear his voice but neglect the primary channel through which it comes. We must read his Word. We must obey it. We must live it, which means rereading it throughout our lives. I think my father read it more than forty times.

When we have heard God speak, what then shall we say to God? In an emergency or when we suddenly need help, the words come easily: "Oh, God!" or "Lord, help me!" During our quiet time, however, it is a good thing to remember that we are here not to pester God but to adore him.

All creation praises him all the time--the winds, the tides, the oceans, the rivers, move in obedience; the song sparrow and the wonderful burrowing wombat, the molecules in their cells, the stars in their courses, the singing whales and the burning seraphim do without protest or slovenliness exactly what their Maker intended, and thus praise him.

We read that our Heavenly Father actually looks for people who will worship him in spirit and in reality. Imagine! God is looking for worshippers. Will he always have to go to a church to find them, or might there be one here and there in an ordinary house, kneeling alone by a chair, simply adoring him?

How do we adore him? Adoration is not merely unselfish. It doesn't even take into consideration that the self exists. It is utterly consumed with the object adored.

Once in a while, a human face registers adoration. The groom in a wedding may seem to worship the approaching bride, but usually he has a few thoughts for himself--how does he look in this absurd ruffled shirt that she asked him to wear, what should he do with his hands at this moment, what if he messes up the vows?

I have seen adoration more than once on faces in a crowd surrounding a celebrity, but only when they were unaware of the television cameras, and only when there was not the remotest possibility that the celebrity would notice them. For a few seconds, they forgot themselves altogether.

When I stumble out of bed in the morning, put on a robe, and go into my study, words do not spring spontaneously to my lips--other than words like, "Lord, here I am again to talk to you. It's cold. I'm not feeling terribly spiritual...." Who can go on and on like that morning after morning, and who can bear to listen to it day after day?

I need help in order to worship God. Nothing helps me more than the Psalms. Here we find human cries--of praise, adoration, anguish, complaint, petition. There is an immediacy, an authenticity, about those cries. They speak for me to God--that is, they say what I often want to say, but for which I cannot find words.

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The Song of the Animals - Page 2

Surely the Holy Spirit preserved those Psalms in order that we might have paradigms of prayer and of our individual dealings with God. It is immensely comforting to find that even David, the great king, wailed about his loneliness, his enemies, his pains, his sorrows, and his fears. But then he turned from them to God in paeans of praise.

He found expression for praise far beyond my poor powers, so I use his and am lifted out of myself, up into heights of adoration, even though I'm still the same ordinary woman alone in the same little room.

Another source of assistance for me has been the great hymns of the Church, such as "Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven," "New Every Morning Is the Love," "Great Is Thy Faithfulness," "Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken," and ''O Worship the King." The third stanza of that last one delights me. It must delight God when I sing it to him:

Thy bountiful care, what tongue can recite?
It breathes in the air, it shines in the light;
It streams from the hills, it descends to the plain,
And sweetly distills in the dew and the rain.

That's praise. By putting into words things on earth for which we thank him, we are training ourselves to be ever more aware of such things as we live our lives. It is easy otherwise to be oblivious of the thousand evidences of his care. Have you thought of thanking God for light and air, because in them his care breathes and shines?

Hymns often combine praise and petition, which are appropriate for that time alone with God. The beautiful morning hymn "Awake, My Soul, and With the Sun" has these stanzas:

All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept,
And hast refreshed me while I slept.
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake,
I may of endless light partake.
Direct, control, suggest, this day,
All I design, or do, or say;
That all my powers, with all their might,
In Thy sole glory may unite.

Adoration should be followed by confession. Sometimes it happens that I can think of nothing that needs confessing. This is usually a sign that I'm not paying attention. I need to read the Bible. If I read it with prayer that the Holy Spirit will open my eyes to this need, I soon remember things done that ought not to have been done and things undone that ought to have been done.

Sometimes I follow confession of sin with confession of faith--that is, with a declaration of what I believe. Any one of the creeds helps here, or these simple words: "Christ has died; Christ is risen; Christ will come again. Lord, I believe; help my unbelief."

Then comes intercession, the hardest work in the world--the giving of one's self, time, strength, energy, and attention to the needs of others in a way that no one but God sees, no one but God will do anything about, and no one but God will ever reward you for.

Do you know what to pray for people whom you haven't heard from in a long time? I don't. So I often use the prayers of the New Testament, so all-encompassing, so directed toward things of true and eternal importance, such as Paul's for the Christians in Ephesus: ''…I pray that you, rooted and founded in love yourselves, may be able to grasp…how wide and long and deep and high is the love of Christ" (Ephesians 3:17, 18). Or I use his prayer for the Colossians, "We pray that you will be strengthened from God's boundless resources, so that you will find yourselves able to pass through any experience and endure it with joy" (Colossians 1:11). I have included many New Testament prayers in a small booklet entitled And When You Pray (Good News Publishers).

My own devotional life is very far from being Exhibit A of what it should be. I have tried, throughout most of my life, to maintain a quiet time with God, with many lapses and failures. Occasionally, but only occasionally, it is impossible. Our Heavenly Father knows all about those occasions. He understands perfectly why mothers with small children bring them along when they talk to him.

Nearly always it is possible for most of us, with effort and planning and the will to do his will, to set aside time for God alone. I am sure I have lost out spiritually when I have missed that time. And I can say with the psalmist, "I have found more joy along the path of thy instruction than in any kind of wealth" (Psalms 119:14).

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: 1 Timothy 5:10 Titus 2:3-5
The Path of Lonliness

We've Come a Long Way--Or Have We?

Nowadays Christian women seem to be operating on the premise that they're perfectly free to do anything they like, including work outside the home. Whether they're young, middle-aged, or old, married or single, with children or without, droves of Christian women are now career-minded.

Isn't that okay? I'm not sure it is. Francis Schaeffer, shortly before he died, said, "Tell me what the world is saying now, and I'll tell you what the Church will be saying seven years from now." Careerism is one of the great cries of the feminist movement, and Christian women seem to be trotting along quite willingly, though perhaps five or seven years behind the secularists, tickled pink that ''we've come a long way, baby.''

Well, we certainly have. But is it in the right direction? Have Christian women's seminars, Christian books (and, dare I suggest it, Christian women's magazines), encouraged us, by the tacit acceptance of notions not carefully examined, to move in a direction which does not lead to freedom at all?

It's interesting to note a growing swell of disillusionment among women of the world. They're beginning to discover that the "fulfillment" they had sought in the business or professional world hasn't proved to be all that fulfilling. For many of them it's more like a sucked-out lemon.

Not long ago on the "Today Show" Jane Pauley hosted a TV special on working women. She's one herself, and I have a hunch she was wondering if other women had any unconfessed misgivings about the joys of a career. Is a career really stimulating? Is it really more "creative" than mothering or homemaking? Is it satisfying? Is it fun? Has it brought the fulfillment it promised? Her show was not a parade of happy faces. Women actually looked straight into the cameras and admitted they'd been had. They were willing to change their whole life-style, make sacrifices, do whatever was necessary, to get out of the work world. Several hard-driving executive types said they were going home to take care of their children. One newspaper columnist described the results of the new forms of child rearing as ''emotional carnage.''

Two psychologists, one from Yale, one from Harvard, have echoed these career women's misgivings, stating that what we are doing to our children now may be the equivalent of "psychological thalidomide.'' It's sobering to me to think that we may be maiming our children by depriving them of normal home life.

"You've got to be kidding," I hear someone say. "You aren't going to tell me that women with children aren't supposed to be working?" I'd be crazy to try to tell anybody that unless I had some authority more convincing than my personal bias. I think I have. It's a clear and simple list of things godly women--all of them--are meant to do, and it's found in Paul's instructions to a young pastor (Titus 2:3-5):

Likewise, teach the older women to be reverent in the way they live, not to be slanderers or addicted to much wine, but to teach what is good. Then they can train the younger women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God.

Might there be a pattern in these verses that we've ignored? I've met women lately who had jumped on the careerism bandwagon but have now discovered the Bible's pattern (more of it can be found in 1 Timothy 5). Realizing that the life-style they've been pursuing doesn't fit the biblical pattern, they are making drastic changes. For some of them the cost has been high, but not too high for the liberation that comes with honest obedience.

I'm one of those older women Paul refers to. If I'm a Christian, I am bound by what Scripture tells me to do (there's no Christianity without obedience). By every means open to me, I am to "teach," that is, to set an example, to be a model for younger women--by reverence; by self-control; by being a loving wife and mother; pure; kind; working at home; respecting the authority of my husband; prayerful; worshipful; hospitable; willing to do humble and dirty jobs; taking "every opportunity of doing good" (1 Timothy 5:10 NEB).

That's a tall order. Who of us is sufficient for these things? None of us, of course, without a large portion of the grace of God every minute of every day. But if we will trust him for that grace, we must be sure our wills are lined up with his and our lives ordered according to his pattern.

There are many "buts" in our minds whenever we face truthfully any of God's clear directives. I am well aware of the thousands of women without men who must find some way to support themselves and their children. The Lord who gave us his pattern also knows intimately every situation: "Your Heavenly Father knows that you need these things." Might he have another way than the one which seems inevitable? Might there be a way to work at home? How serious are we about following him? Whoever is willing to obey will be shown the way.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture: Hebrews 2:9 1 John 3:16
The Path of Lonliness

Parable in a Car Wash - Page 1

My eighteen-month-old grandson Walter, his father, and I were out for a drive when his father decided it was time to have the car washed. Those automatic car washes can be a bit scary on the first run-through, even for an adult.

I watched Walter's face as the car was drawn into the dark tunnel. The water suddenly began to roar down over all four sides of the car, and his big blue eyes got bigger--but went immediately from the windows to the face of his father.

He was too small to understand what it was all about, and he'd had no explanation beforehand. What he did know was that Daddy would take care of him. Then the giant brushes began to close in around us, whirling and sloshing and making a tremendous racket. It grew even darker inside the car.

The boy had no way of knowing whether we'd get out of this alive. His eyes darted again from the brushes to the face of his father. I could see he was afraid, but he didn't cry.

Then the rubber wheel came banging down on the windshield, and hot air began to blast us. It must have seemed to the child that this tunnel had no end. What further terrors awaited us? He clung to only one thing; he knew his father. His father had never given him any reason not to trust him, but still....

When the car finally broke out into sunshine, the little boy's face broke into a big smile. Everything was okay; Daddy knew what he was doing after all.

Like Walter, I have been through some dark tunnels. Although they were frightening, in the end I've found my Heavenly Father always knows the way out.

Thirty years ago I was standing beside a shortwave radio in a house on the Atun Yacu, one of the principal headwaters of the Amazon, when I learned that my husband, Jim Elliot, was one of the five missionaries missing. They had gone into the territory of the Auca Indians, a people who had never heard even the name of Jesus Christ. What did I do? I suppose I said out loud, "O Lord!"

And he answered me. Not with an audible voice (I've never heard him speak that way in my life). But God brought to mind an ancient promise from the Book of Isaiah: "I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and through the rivers, they will not overwhelm you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned....For I am the Lord your God" (Isaiah 43:1, 2).

l am the Lord your God. Think of it! The One who engineered this incredible universe with such exquisite precision that astronomers can predict exactly where and when Halley's comet will appear--this God is my Lord.

Evelyn Underhill said, "If God were small enough to be understood, He would not be big enough to be worshiped."

Can we imagine that God, who is concerned with so many stupendous things, can possibly be concerned about us? We do imagine it. We hope he is. That is why we turn to him in desperation and cry out, as I did, "O Lord!" Where else can we possibly turn when we have come to the end of our resources?

Does God love us? Karl Barth, the great theologian, was once asked if he could condense all the theology he had ever written into one simple sentence.

"Yes," he said. "I can. 'Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.'"

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Parable in a Car Wash - Page 2

Think about the account of the Crucifixion in Mark 15. Jesus was fastened to a cross. It was a man-made cross, and man-made nails were hammered through his hands--the hands that had formed the galaxies. Wicked men put him up there. Then they flung at him a bold and insolent challenge: "If you're the Son of God, come down! Then we'll believe."

Did he come down? No. He stayed there. He could have summoned an army of angels to rescue him, but he stayed there. Why? Because he loved us with a love that gives everything.

Because of the love of the father for us, he gave his son. Because of the love of the son for his father, he was willing to die, "so that by God's gracious will, in tasting death, he should stand for us all" (Hebrews 2:9).

When I heard Jim was missing, my first response was "O Lord!" God answered by giving me a promise: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you."

Was that enough for me? Was that all I wanted? No, I wanted Jim back alive. I didn't want to go through that deep river, that dark tunnel. Five days later I got another radio message: Jim was dead. All five of the men were dead.

God hadn't worked any magic. He is not a talisman, a magic charm to carry in our pocket and stroke to get whatever we want. He could have sent a rescue squad of angels to save Jim and the others, but he didn't. Why not? Didn't he love us?

Fourteen years later God brought another man into my life. I thought it was a miracle I'd gotten married the first time! Now, once again, I was a wife.

However, Addison Leitch and I had not yet reached our fourth anniversary when we learned he had cancer. O Lord, I thought, another dark tunnel. The medical verdict was grim, but we prayed for healing. We did not know positively what the outcome would be, but like little Walter, we knew our Father. We had to keep turning our eyes from the frightening things to him, knowing him to be utterly faithful.

Whatever dark tunnel we may be called upon to travel through, God has been there. Whatever deep waters seem about to drown us, he has traversed. Faith is not merely "feeling good about God" but a conscious choice, even in the utter absence of feelings or external encouragements, to obey his Word when he says, "Trust Me." This choice has nothing to do with mood but is a deliberate act of laying hold on the character of God whom circumstances never change.

Does he love us? No, no, no is what our circumstances seem to say. We cannot deduce the fact of his unchanging love from the evidence we see around us. Things are a mess. Yet to turn our eyes back to the Cross of Calvary is to see the irrefutable proof that has stood all the tests of the ages: "It is by this that we know what love is: that Christ laid down his life for us" (John 3:16 NEB).

We are all little Walters to God. He knows the necessity of the "car wash," the dark passages of every human life, but he is in the car! The outcome will be most glorious.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: On Asking God Why
Scripture:
The Path of Lonliness

Two Marriageable People - Page 1

What Holly thought would be an ordinary Sunday evening turned into an enchanted evening. She met Scott.

"I'd seen him around church a few times, but it's a big church and we had never spoken. During the social hour following the service we got into conversation. He offered to drive me home, and--well, you know the story. He started calling me, we'd talk for hours on the phone. He decided to join the singles group, hung around afterward and we'd talk, and finally he actually asked me out. Sometimes he picked up the tab, but usually I paid my own way. I didn't want to feel obligated to him.

"Once when we had dinner together he prayed,'' Holly confided to me, "thanking God for our friendship and for the fact that the singles group could witness a man and a woman who could be good friends without falling in love."

Without falling in love. Uh-huh. I've heard that story from both men and women, perhaps hundreds of times.

Who did Scott think he was kidding? Had it not crossed his mind that one of them might fall? One of the two always does. Poor Holly had fallen flat. She was in her early twenties and attractive, yet she told me she "had a problem." She did--her heart was on hold.

When one's heart is on hold, you do what Holly did--a lot of praying and crying and hoping for the telephone to ring. Scott kept her hopes up. He invited her to a big family wedding, even to the reception meant only for family and close friends. Surely he must be getting on toward serious. Would he put words to his feelings? Well, almost. He talked about marriage, telling Holly he often dreamed of having a wife and how he hoped to find one. He told her how much he wanted children, offering her his ideas on raising them. The time came when Holly could stand it no longer.

They were eating pizza by the fire in her living room. Scott always accepted her invitations. Once or twice he had brought flowers or a bottle of wine.

Tonight he was enjoying the pizza, chattering away about a game he'd been to. But Holly's mind wasn't on the game.

"Scott," she said hesitantly, "we need to talk about something."

"Yeah?"

"I mean--like, we've been, you know, friends long enough."

The man was startled. He took a huge bite of pizza and said nothing.

''This is really hard for me to say, but, Scott, if you don't have any intentions of, well, a real relationship, I can't spend any more time alone with you. I've felt so comfortable with you. I can be myself, you know? My real self, I mean. I've told you a lot of--well, of my heart. But if it doesn't--if you aren't, you know...." Her voice trailed off.

The silence was thundering. Holly looked at Scott. Scott looked at the fire. After another bite and another gulp he said he couldn't see himself married to her. The truth was, of course, that for months Holly had been seeing herself married to him. To her, a "real relationship" meant engagement, although she didn't use that word. In fact, she told me, she had never voiced any desire whatsoever to be married to him. Hadn't she? Scott might be a little obtuse, but he knew what a "real relationship" had to mean. He thought he was forestalling any such complication by telling Holly about his hopes. Didn't she catch on that she wasn't what he was looking for?

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Two Marriageable People - Page 2

So here are two marriageable people who would like to be married, though not in both cases to each other. What's wrong? Both the why and the how, it seems to me, are wrong.

Note that Scott took no risks, as far as he knew. Talked to a girl after church, drove her home--pretty innocuous, spur-of-the moment gestures. Nobody would make anything out of that. She was nice and let him talk about what interested him. So he started going to the singles group, talked to a few others, phoned Holly now and then, went to dinner and let her pay her half (didn't want her to "think anything," didn't want to put her down by turning down her offer to pay). Then, because once or twice he thought maybe he caught a little glimmer in her eyes, he put across an important message--in a prayer. She couldn't suspect any nefarious designs here, could she? When he took her to the family wedding she should have known she was just a sister to him.

She didn't. It was quite out of the question for her not to think of marriage. Any smallest sign of a man's interest was a big thing. She tried to deny it, tried to tell herself not to "think anything," but she couldn't refrain.

The man didn't mean to put her heart on hold. How did it happen? Had he wronged her? Was he being dishonest, unfair? What was he supposed to do--take 'em all out, give 'em equal time? He was no Casanova, just an ordinary guy. He meant well. He'd tried to play it cool. The trouble is you can't play it cool with a powder keg.

I wonder if it isn't time for Christian young people to discard the currently accepted methods of mate-finding, which haven't scored higher in marital success than the ancient matchmaker method. I offer the following as humble suggestions for the why and the how of finding a mate. They don't constitute the Law of Sinai, but I ask you to think soberly, even to pray, about them.

You men are the ones on whom God originally laid the burden of responsibility as head, initiator, provider. Why do you want to marry? If Scott had given sufficient thought and prayer to that one, perhaps he would not have been the bull in the china shop of Holly's heart. God ordained marriage. God provided the equipment needed for reproduction. But it is not his plan for every man to marry. How about getting down to business, when you reach the age of responsibility, and specifically asking God whether marriage is, in fact, a part of his plan for you? In order to listen to him without distraction you will need to:

1. Stop everything--intimacy, dating, any "special relationship."
2. Be silent before God. Lay your life before him, willing to accept the path he shows you. If you get no answer, do nothing in that direction now. Wait.
3. If it seems the answer is yes, go to a spiritual mother or father (someone older in the faith than you are, someone with wisdom and common sense who knows how to pray) and ask them to pray with you and for you about a wife. Listen to their counsel. If they know somebody they think suitable, take them seriously.
4. Study the story of Abraham's servant who was sent to find a wife for Isaac (Genesis 24). He went to the logical place where he might find women. He prayed silently, watched quietly. The story is rich in lessons. Find them.
5. Keep your eyes open--in your own "garden." You don't have to survey all the roses before you pick the one for your bud vase. When you spot the sort of woman you think you're looking for, watch her from a respectful distance. Much can be learned without conversation, let alone "relationship." Ask about her of others who know her and whom you can trust to keep their mouths shut. Does she give evidence of being a godly woman? A womanly one? Expect God to lead. "Let the one to whom I shall say…Iet her be the one whom thou hast appointed" (Genesis 24:14 RSV).
6. Proceed with extreme caution, praying over every move. By this I do not mean mumbling prayers while you're charging across the church campus to ask her for a date. I mean giving yourself whatever it takes, whether weeks or years, to take his yoke and learn of him. It is "good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth.''
7. Talk to her in a casual setting. You will be able to discover if she is a woman of serious purpose. Do not mention "relationships," marriage, feelings.
8. Give yourself time to think. Go back to your spiritual mother or father. (In our family, our own parents were our spiritual parents as well, and they prayed for four specific people to marry four of their children. It happened.)

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Two Marriageable People - Page 3

I'm not going to outline the chronology of dating. I would only suggest that you start small--a simple lunch somewhere rather than a gala dinner. You pick up the tab. Treat her like a lady, act like a gentleman. (See my book The Mark of a Man for more guidelines.)

If you find yourself falling for a girl who offers you only casual friendship, or worse, the cold shoulder, first get it settled with God that she is the one to pursue. Even if a woman tells a man to "get lost" but he knows in his heart she's the right one, he can still wait and pray for God's timing. I know of many married couples whose courtship began this way.

The time will come when your conversations have revealed, without direct inquiry, whether this woman would be prepared to accept your destiny and your headship; whether she is maternal, a homeworker--in short, whether she is what you've been praying for.

It is a great mistake to put too much stock in physical beauty or in thrills and chills. Neither has anything to do with a sound foundation for a marriage. Remember that the love of 1 Corinthians 13 is action, not a glandular condition. The love that makes a marriage is basically a deep respect and an unselfish kindness. That's pleasant to live with.

Now a few words, and only a few, for you women. I know--oh, how well I know--your position. Because we are women we are made to be responders, not initiators (see Let Me Be a Woman). This means that the burden of responsibility of seeking and wooing a mate does not belong to us. To us belongs the waiting.

This does not mean inactivity. It means first of all a positive, active placing of our trust in him who loves us, does all things well, and promises to crown us with everlasting joy. It means next a continued obedience in whatever God has given us to do today, without allowing our longing to "slay the appetite of our living," as Jim Elliot once wrote to me, long before God gave us the green light to marry. It means just what Paul meant when he wrote from prison to the Philippian Christians, "Don't worry over anything whatever; tell God every detail of your needs in earnest and thankful prayer, and the peace of God, which transcends human understanding, will keep constant guard over your hearts and minds as they rest in Christ Jesus."

Often the awkward scenario depicted in Holly and Scott's story is more the woman's fault than the man's. That is because women generally allow too many liberties, make themselves too available, and press for explanations when they should remain quiet. It is foolhardy to stick your neck out that way. When your heart is on hold, it's best quietly to decline any further invitations rather than to try to "preserve the friendship." It can't be done. Better to simply back off.

If our supreme goal is to follow Christ, the rule of our lives will be my life for yours. We will be directing our energies far more toward the will of God and the service of others than to our own heart's longings. And that, believe me, is the best possible training course for marriage.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: John 12:25
The Path of Lonliness

Hour of Glory

The miracle of Lazarus being raised from the grave brought the crowds waving palms to Jesus, proclaiming Him King. Even foreigners (some Greeks) heard of Him and asked his disciple Philip if they might see Him. This, surely, was his hour of glory.

Heaven's definition of glory, however, is a very different thing from earth's. "The hour has come," Jesus said to Philip and Andrew, "for the Son of Man to be glorified" (Jn 12:23 NEB). Then He illustrated his meaning: a grain of wheat is merely a solitary grain until it dies. It is death that brings glory, the glory of the rich harvest. It was not popular acclaim but popular rejection and his own suffering and death that constituted his "hour of glory," and He prayed to be spared that hour.

The one who would serve Him must understand the conditions. He must follow--into death--that is, he must "lose himself." Then, the promise is that he will be "kept safe for eternal life" (Jn 12:25) and honored by the Father. The hour of glory is the hour of suffering--seen from heaven's side.

Lord, be near us in our pain and grant us the clear eye of faith to see it from heaven's perspective. Jesus walked this road. Help us to follow him gladly.

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: A Lamp For My Feet
Scripture: 1 Peter 2:20
The Path of Lonliness

A Fine Thing

Most of us have never been anyone's slave in the literal sense, so we can hardly enter into Peter's meaning when he writes to servants who have suffered under perverse masters. But we know unkindness. We have been pained by someone's lack of consideration or unjust criticism.

Why is this happening to me? is a question most of us occasionally ask. If we ask it petulantly, there is nothing particularly creditable about our attitude. The apostle Peter wrote to those slaves who were at the mercy of abusive masters.

"When you have behaved well and suffer for it, your fortitude is a fine thing in the sight of God. To that you were called, because Christ suffered on your behalf" (1 Pt 2:20 NEB), was his encouragement to them. His answer to the "why" is just this: to that you were called. If we endure merely because we savor the notion of being martyrs, there is nothing fine in that. There is nothing fine in brooding on the pain itself and how sorely we have been put upon. The fine thing is for God so to occupy our thoughts that it is really nothing to us whether others treat us well or ill. Think on Christ: how was He treated? How do your sufferings compare with his? that will give a different perspective, I think.

Let's not be surprised at our difficulties, even if--no, especially if--we encounter them when we are truly seeking to obey the Lord. There are two kingdoms in deadly opposition to each other. If we do anything to further the kingdom of God, we may expect to find what Christ found on that road--abuse, indifference, injustice, misunderstanding, trouble of some kind. Take it. Why not? To that you were called. In Latin America someone who feels sorry for himself is said to look like a donkey in a downpour. If we think of the glorious fact that we are on the same path with Jesus, we might see a rainbow.

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