• I’vestartedstitchingand can’t

    seem to STOP!

    I am obsessed! No fabric in my house with a blank space on it is safe from my little needle. I don’t know what it is? I’ve been smocking, but THIS is so freeing. So much more room for creativity and crazy colors. So much less OCD, since I don’t have those crisply even smocking pleats looking up at me, warning that each stitch better be perfect. I love this new embroidery whim so much, that I want to make one for one of you! A pajama shirt, or napkin set, or outfit for your wee-un. I guess it will depend on who you are 🙂
    Here’s what I want you to do. Comment on this post (cut off time will be Monday night–since I feel the need to give people some time to check the blog, considering you never know how long it will be between these postings). Just say hi–come out of the old stalking closet. Be sure to leave an email address so that I can get in touch with you. On Tuesday morning, I’ll draw a winner and start my fingers working on some unsuspecting piece of fabric, just for you!



  • I like to read…a lot. I just finished a book (Villette by Charlotte Bronte) with one of the worst heroines I’ve ever encountered. She was resigned to the fact that her life was going to be crap. Nobody loved her, and never could, she was insignificant and would remain that way. No will to fight, just a cool acceptance of the portion (she thought) God was serving her. Who the heck could live like that?! What about that inalienable right to at least PURSUE happiness. Anyway, while I have no trouble with wanting to emulate Lucy Snowe (that was the character’s name), I do struggle a lot with what kind of heroine–woman really (are we old enough to call ourselves that :))–I want to be. To simplify it, there are two main types that seem always to be cropping up in the books I read.

    Type A: The strong woman. She’s intelligent, opinionated, capable of running a farm–or an entire country for that matter. She may fall madly and passionately in love, but it is with her intellectual equal (or her better so that she can respect him), and she may love him but you would never say she NEEDED him. Her husband and community respect her for her strength and will to fight whatever hardship may come.

    Type B: The loving spirit. She’s beautiful and blushes easily. She may be intelligent, but she knows how to hold her tongue until her opinion is requested–rendering the little gems that do fall from her lips, priceless. She loves deeply and passionately not only her hero, but the women and children that surely fill her life. There is no doubt she can sew, cook, and do handwork–especially for the needy–but she requires the care of a man to provide for her. She is not ashamed of being the “weaker sex,” in fact part of her allure is that she embraces this concept and makes a man her champion.

    So which one are you? Which one do you even want to be? I know I wax and wane from one book to the next, holding one on a pedestal and then the other. But Abby, aren’t you asking the wrong question? Shouldn’t we be wondering what kind of woman GOD would have us to be, not your silly books? Yes, you are right we should. But I am afraid God seems just as ambiguous on the subject.

    Type A: The Proverbs 31 woman. “The Wife of Noble Character” Her husband has full confidence in her. She farms the food before she cooks it. She makes the wool before she sews it into clothes AND sells it in the market. “She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks.” “She speaks with wisdom and faithful instruction is on her tongue.” Really there is not one weak or frilly thing about this woman.

    Type B: Peters words to wives in 1 Peter 3:4 “Instead, it [your beauty] should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight…They were submissive to their own husbands, like Sarah who obeyed Abraham and called him her master.”

    I’m sorry, but I have a hard time imagining Type A woman calling anybody her master…And not a whole lot about her seems gentle and quiet. How are we supposed to reconcile the two? What standard are we to strive for as women? I don’t know. I do know that every time Jeremiah and I have an argument, he tells me I turn into a man…and I know what he means. I have my point, my opinion (which I am always utterly convinced is right), and my strong will, and I don’t bend. I feel like I square off and look him in the eye and often times halfway through the struggle I become disgusted with my manly self and realize that I no longer even know what point I’m making–only that I am winning the argument. The last time this happened Jeremiah looked at me and said, “What are you aiming for here Abby? Do you want me to cower, because I am not going to cower?” That really hit me, because NO I don’t want him ever to cower to me. That’s why I married him, because he’s strong and a leader, and I respect him. Then what end do I hope for in our battles? If I refuse to lose, but I don’t want him to be meek either? Would you say I need a little more of that Type B woman? 🙂

    I do have a softer side as well. I am especially helpless and Type B when it comes to yard work 😉 If I did not have a husband our grass would most assuredly never be mowed. I like myself better when I am soft. I like to feel cared for and protected. I have always longed to be a fainter–a swooner. The thought of having a weak constitution that falls dramatically to the floor in times of crisis (only to be carried off in strong arms and have your eyes flutter open to some deeply concerned, manly eyes). I know that fainting is not what Peter was referring to when he described a “gentle and quiet spirit,” but it’s what comes to my mind anyway.

    Surely we should be striving for both Type A and Type B. Some glorious hybrid of the two. I know I don’t need to be so dogmatic and opinionated that I become abrasive. I also feel like God gives us intelligence He expects us to use. I know I don’t need to be so meek that I can’t step out of myself to care for others and my family. However, I do need to have a gentle spirit that is an attribute to the peace that comes from Him…Sounds pretty impossible. If any of you have it figured out let me know!


  • Have I mentioned on here before that I love Jesus? No, like really, I LOVE him–want to wrap my arms around Him, press my cheek against his chest, and squeeze as hard as I can–kind of love Him?

    At church this past Sunday, our choir did a song sequence with a video playing behind them. I personally do not tend to get overly excited about the audio-visual aids and “tracts” at church–leaning more towards the the traditional. Has anybody else noticed that I was, perhaps, born in the wrong time period :)? But anyway, our choir performed BEAUTIFULLY on Easter. They were filled with joy and passion…you could tell that the words they were singing were resounding in their hearts. But then, there was this video, with little clips of Jesus walking through the streets, greeting the Marys or talking and laughing with his disciples, and I don’t know who this actor was, but he captured who I believe Jesus is more than any other movie or picture or painting I’ve ever seen. I had to fight tears every time his face came on the screen. I think it was because he was not stoic, and looking off into the heavens, or staring off in the distance like He is trying to bear the cursed sin he’s surrounded by. I just don’t think Jesus was like that. He “got us”–we humans–got us enough that he willingly DIED for us. Died because he wanted us to come back to His house for the rest of eternity. With a love like that, if you met Him on the road, do you think he would smile sweetly, nod in your direction, and then open his downstretched arms–like “Believe it or not, I accept you.” That’s what most Jesus pictures look like to me. But I don’t think he was like that. I think if (WHEN) I meet him on the road one day, He’s going to throw his arms open so wide that they’re going to stretch slightly above his head, he’s going to break into a huge grin and we’re both going to run so hard into each other’s arms that the collision would knock us out if we didn’t both have our immortal bodies. He’s going to smell like sunshine, and he is going to be solid and real and loving and laughing. Lots of laughing, because that’s what you do when you finally see somebody you love that you’ve been missing dreadfully. I can’t wait to see his face…Can you?

    One more thing about the choir on Sunday. There was this one man who–like all the choir, including me, in the past– was looking the part of the serious, worshipful Christian up there in the choir loft. Then, they reached a particularly powerful chorus, and I saw him throw his head back, close his eyes, and open his mouth wide. He forgot himself, was just letting it out, and I wanted to cheer because I was feeling the same way. Looking at the “real” Jesus up there on the screen, I felt like my joy was swelling so big in my chest that I could have clambered up some invisible curtains, all the way into God’s presence. So there we are, me and the man from the choir, ready to head on up, when suddenly, he remembered. He remembered he was in front of the whole congregation in church and not standing in the midst of a heavenly host with Jesus standing right in front of him receiving his praises. His head snapped forward, his eyes opened and his whole head turned cherry red. It made me sad, but I understood. Even in my quiet little pew where nobody could see anything but the back of my head, I was embarrassed to let so much as a tear fall–much less raise my hands in the air and squeal at the top of my lungs like I wanted to. Aren’t you ready for heaven? When these stupid worldly insecurities will melt away and we’ll be able to praise him, all together, just like our hearts are longing to know how to do properly now? I am.

    Can I just note, in all my worldliness–like any of you noticed or cared, that Mary Aplin outgrew her Sunday shoes when she woke up on Easter Sunday. Fit just fine last week, but that morning, when I put on the sweet little dresses with all their months of smocking and (Grandma) putting them together, those darned shoes wouldn’t even go halfway on her foot. So there she is, in the pink squeaky shoes that I COULD shove on to that fat little foot.