The Brilliant, the Blind, and the Believer

On an interview with 60 Minutes last night, genomic pioneer Craig Venter said he didn’t believe in God, because he thinks “the universe is far more wonderful than just assuming it was made by some higher power.”   

Hmm. Random chance explosions are pretty clever. 

But he also admitted, in the same breath, that cells “are software-driven machines and that software is DNA, and that truly the secret of life is writing software is pretty miraculous.” (Italics mine) Perhaps miraculous wasn’t what he meant to say, or perhaps, he simply couldn’t stop himself from using a word typically meant to describe something that transcends the laws of nature, something that often involves a supernatural power or agency.

In either case, I find it mind-boggling that brilliant people like Venter can look at the spectacular wonders of the universe, be they cell or supernova, and put more confidence in some unknown, unseen, and undiscovered natural act rather than in a Creator. Way before the telescope, the naked-eye psalmist couldn’t help but sing, “The heavens declare Thy glory, O God.”

Ever since fourth grade when I received a Wonder Book of the universe, I have been fascinated with space. And so it was with great anticipation that I finally went to the local planetarium for one of its Friday night shows. After viewing Jupiter through the observatory telescope, we entered the science center. Expecting to see walls lined with photos of nebula, or planets, or solar flares, or something celestial, we were astounded to be greeted with displays of Star Wars scenes and science fiction movies. 

Not a NASA photo in sight. Not a lunar landing. Not a bit of wondrous reality.

How are our kids going to know the difference between a Hollywood set and reality? The ensuing light show was equally drab. As if aware of this, the presenter ended the show by treating us to a roller coaster ride through the universe. This consisted of a graphic spiral twirling at a dizzying speed through black space. And all the previously bored kids oohed and ahhed.

My interpretation of the whole experience was that kids weren’t expected to appreciate the marvels of creation for what they are; that they needed to be entertained rather than taught. I say rubbish. We need nothing more to dazzle them with than the truth. And that truth points to the miraculous, even if you are a brilliant, atheistic scientist.

Maybe we all could benefit from a refresher in wonder. How about buying a book of NASA photos for Christmas or bundling up in a lawn chair some night and soaking in the celestial marvel, and wonder, and awe that is intended for our great pleasure of the One who made it.

But now ask the beasts and let them teach you; and the birds of the heavens, and let them tell you. Or speak to the earth, and let it teach you; and let the fish of the sea declare to you. Who among all these does not know that the hand of the LORD has done this, in whose hand is the life of every living thing and the breath of all mankind?—Job 12: 7-10

Don't Mess With Fun--Fly Quantas, Trust God

Have you ever noticed how a situation can actually remain unchanged but seem entirely different in an instant because of an attitude adjustment?

While I was making arrangements for our vacation to NZ years ago, a Quantas rep suggested we take advantage of their "Nipper Tripper" promo and take in a few days in Australia. (nipper referencing kids/family rather than libation!) We began our journey in NY, then flew to LA to catch the midnight flight overseas. By the time we boarded our jet, stuffed our bags, and settled in our seats, we were exhausted, and I suspect, a bit kvetchy.

The Quantas crew, on the other hand, would have none of it. They smiled. They laughed. They brought warm wash cloths, juice and kids' toys as soon as we each settled, not waiting til after the whole jumbo liner was ready. Their attitude was infectious. But what kicked me out of my it's-been-a-long-day complaining was the attendant's exhortation: "Hey, you're all on vacation. This is supposed to be fun!"

A timely word hits its mark. She was absolutely right. We had nothing to whine about but everything to be thankful for. And not only thankful in our minds but in our actions. Instantly, we laughed and entered into the enjoyment of our situation.

I thought about a conversation with an agnostic Hannah Whitall Smith wrote about. He told her the "Christians he knew seemed to be the most uncomfortable people. They carried their religion around as a man carries a headache. He does not want to get rid of his head, but at the same time is uncomfortable to have it."

Often we get in a tizzy striving for more of this, and more of that, and even more of God. We worry we don't know Him, hear Him, aren't going to make right decisions and on and on. We act as if the chances of His answering our prayers are about as good as winning the lottery. I like what Oswald Chambers says about his--"our problems arise when we refuse to place our trust in the reality of His presence."

Just do it.

After spending three days at the Great Barrier Reef, we caught our morning flight to Sydney where we were to make our connecting flight to NZ. Before we landed, the Quantas attendant asked the following people to meet her at the gate: " the Moston party."  She told us our flight had been canceled, but that Quantas had put us up for the day at the (Hilton, I think it was) and would be flying out that night. "Have a good day." she said with the cheeriness of someone expecting this delay in plans to be viewed as a great bonus.

For a fleeting moment I worried about all our other reservations and plans, but not being able to change a thing, we let go and let Quantas rearrange our vacation. We went to the zoo and saw echidnas, and wombats, and platypuses; we lounged in our luxurious hotel, and we delighted in our good fortune.

Granted, there's a difference between trusting Quantas with my vacation and trusting God with my life. But today, in the daily little things, I can choose to believe that God is able to will, and to work all His good pleasure in my life. And I can choose to act as if I truly believed it by enjoying Him.

P.S. The title refers to our vacation and not to the airlines recent troubles

Having a Go at it Down Under

We get pretty used to safety measures in the US. Mind you, I am fond of guardrails on sharp curves, seat belts that jam rigid at the slightest sudden stop, and car bells that ding if grandma is about to back over the family cat. (To say nothing about my pride in having a son in Homeland Security, whose card with the shiny badge I keep right behind my driver's license.) But I have discovered such a dependence on things to keep my world secure can actually soften the nerves.

One of the things I enjoy about traveling to another country is the opportunity to see, when all the familiar is removed,  just how much I trust God with my life. We've had the good fortune to visit Australia once and New Zealand twice. (I was going to tell you why I love Quantas airlines, but since they're having a bit of engine trouble presently, I'll wait a day or two.)

 The New Zealanders, in particular, are an adventurous sort. They first convinced the rest of us what fun it was to wrap an elastic around our ankles and get thrown off high places with their bungee-jumping prototype; they roll down hillsides inside padded balls, and scale glaciers. So when we signed up for a plane ride across the 12,000 foot mountain range to get to Milford Sound we expected a bit of an adventure, but when we arrived at the "airport" in the middle of a field, my sense of fun turned to fear. Didn't they know tourists expected something a little more officail looking?

My first concern was that I was taller than the plane. The pilot cheerfully herded all six of us inside, warned us it would be a bit noisy, and cleared the dirt runway. Within minutes, we were skimming glacier-topped mountains as far as the eye could see. I kept one eye glued to the pilot and the other fixed on the potential crash sites. Even though the plane coughed and sputtered , the pilot reamained unpertubed. Gaining confidence in his calm, I finally relaxed and enjoyed the spectacular ride.

I wasn't, however, expecting any adventure when we boarded our "real" airplne for our trip home. We departed from the south island for Aukland in the north where we would catch our overseas flight. In between the two points is the city of Wellington. The flight really wasn't scheduled to land there, but if the weather was good, apparently the pilots accomodated the passengers for Wellington by stopping on the fly-over rather than taking them all the way north and having them backtrack on the regularly scheduled run. A thoughtful gesture.

But the weather was terrible. We were socked in storm clouds which only seemed to quicken our pilot's sense of adventure. He announced in his sporting Kiwi accent,"Ladies and gentlemen, the visibiltiy is quite poor and they are having radar problems at the Wellington airport, but we are going to have a go at it and see what we can do." Bob and I looked at each other in disbelief as the plane banked, revved, and plowed through the dark clouds. After forever, it turned and began to ascend. My relief was short-lived as our undaunted pilot again came over the intercom with the news, "Ladies and gentlemen, as you could see we didn't make it, but we are going to have one more go at it. It may be a bit bumpy, so buckle up."

By now, I'm certain my next adventure will be experiencing my spirit depart from my body to meet the Lord. But after a noble effort, our pilot gave up and headed on. We returned home without incident only to discover we had won a trip back to New Zealand.

What is it about the human spirit that loves a thrill? Fears forgotten, I eagerly got out my travel guides and began to plan our next go at it.

Perseverence and Apple Pie

Ah, a nip in the air reminds her of apple pie—but after four increasingly frantic attempts at a previously tried and true crust, she left the dog lapping the mess and went in search of Mrs. Pillsbury.

  

Sometimes you just have to know when let go and move on. As F. Scott Fitzgerald put it, “Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over.” The question is, just what is that point of knowing the difference between perseverance and obstinacy, of winning or quitting?

   

As a Christian, I can get my mind in quite a tangle by over-spiritualizing my every move. Saturday’s scenario was simple: company coming for dessert, apples in season, make a pie.

 

The sun was shining, the music playing. I cheerfully gathered my supplies only to discover there wasn’t a pie pan in the house. Undaunted, I ran down to the local five and dime, purchased a pan and hurried home.

   

I had two types of flour on hand, one an all-purpose light, the other, an all-purpose unbleached. Not anticipating any problems, I mixed the light flour according to the recipe. The sticky mound clung to the bowl like wet mud. I threw in more flour, but pasty wads twirled around the roller and left gaping holes in the stuff stuck to the board. Thinking maybe it wouldn’t adhere to the smooth surface of the granite countertop, I dumped the mess on it, but my superglue dough clung in defiance.

 

Deciding the light flour no good, I tried the all-purpose unbleached. This batch sucked up the water and shortening like cement in a mixer.

 

Now I am frustrated and begin to wonder why, why my very pleasant enterprise is making me feel like throwing balls of pastry at the wall. Maybe the devil doesn’t want me to make a pie because it will bless my company, or conversely, maybe God doesn’t want me to make a pie because they hate pie, or are allergic to apples. Should I persevere and get the victory over the dough, make something else, find a bakery? By this time I’m beginning to wonder why I ever invited people for dessert.

   

Which brought me back to the important. It’s all about the company, not the pie. Defying the devil, I once again hurried off to the store for the ready-made crust, and heeding God (just in case He actually was warning me), grabbed a bag of berries and an angel food cake.

   

Several hours later, the mess is cleaned, the puppy walked (because she ate so much spilled flour) the candles lit, and my attitude readjusted.  

   

“Which would you prefer?” I ask my guests. Ignorant of the drama that preceded this presentation of perfectly mounded pie and the berries and cake, they choose. 

 

“Both,” they said.

How many is a billion?

Probably not a good idea to start with a disclaimer, but being a person who understands words, not numbers, I thought this quite startling. I hope I don't lose any of my 1. foreign, 2. liberal 3. women 4. political followers! I can't give credit to the source because I received it from my accountant. For what it's worth:

The next time you hear a politician use the word 'billion' in a casual manner, think about whether you want the 'politicians' spending YOUR tax money.

 A billion is a difficult number to comprehend, but one advertising agency did a good job of putting that figure into some perspective in one of it's releases.

 A. A billion seconds ago it was 1959.
 B. A billion minutes ago Jesus was alive.
 C.A billion hours ago our ancestors were living in the Stone Age.
 D.A billion days ago no-one walked on the earth on two feet.
 E. A billion dollars ago was only 8 hours and 20 minutes, at the rate our government is spending.

While this thought is still fresh in our brain, let's take a look at New Orleans. It's amazing what you can learn with some simple division.
 

 Louisiana Senator, Mary Landrieu (D)  is presently asking Congress for 250 BILLION DOLLARS to rebuild New Orleans.  Interesting number. What does it mean?

A. Well, If you are one of the 484,674 residents of New Orleans (every man, woman, and child) You each get $516,528. 

 B. Or... If you have one of the 188,251 homes in New Orleans, your home gets $1,329,787.
C. Or... If you are a family of four, your family gets $2,066,012. 

 Washington, D. C. HELLO! Are all your calculators broken??
 

 Building Permit Tax, CDL License Tax, Cigarette Tax, Corporate Income Tax ,Dog License Tax, Federal Income Tax (Fed), Federal Unemployment Tax (FU TA), Fishing License Tax, Food License Tax, Fuel Permit Tax, Gasoline Tax, Hunting License Tax, Inheritance Tax, Inventory Tax, IRS Interest Charges (tax on top of tax), IRS Penalties (tax on top of tax), Liquor Tax, Luxury Tax ,Marriage License Tax, Medicare Tax, Property Tax, Real Estate Tax, Service charge taxes, Social Security Tax, Road Usage Tax (Truckers), Sales Tax, Recreational Vehicle Tax, School Tax, State Income Tax, State Unemployment Tax (SUTA), Telephone Federal Excise Tax, Telephone Federal Universal Service Fee Tax, Telephone Federal, State and Local Surcharge Tax, Telephone Minimum Usage Surcharge Tax, Telephone Recurring and Non-recurring Charges Tax, Telephone State and Local Tax, Telephone Usage Charge Tax, Utility Tax, Vehicle License Registration Tax, Vehicle Sales Tax, Watercraft Registration Tax, Well Permit Tax, Workers Compensation Tax

(And to think, we left British Rule to avoid so many taxes)

 Not one of these taxes existed 100 years ago.....And our nation was the most prosperous in the world. We had absolutely no national debt. We had the largest middle class in the world, and Mom stayed home to raise the kids.

What happened? Can you spell 'POLITICIANS!' 

 And I still have to press '1' for English.  

 

The Dare (Part Two)

If God had a Fed Ex employer mentality, He’d have fired me long ago for failure to deliver His packages. Gracious God that He is, He has given me yet another look at what a miracle-bearing messenger should do.

A book by Bruce Wilkinson, You Were Born for This, provided some key reminders for a lesson on Miracle-Delivery 101. Dr. Wilkinson contends we were born to be conveyors of God’s love, but that we often fail to do so out of fear or lack of expectation.

This isn’t a book review, but two points that hit home for me were 1. I go about my day without a sense of expectation of seeing God work or of being a part of His purpose. 2. The thought that He might put me in a situation that involves a risk of faith, a situation in which I might have to say or do something I’m unsure of thus incurring someone’s derision, drives a shaft of fear in me reminiscent of a thumb-sucking toddler left with a babysitter for the first time.

I realized my biggest fear is that I would say the wrong thing, or give some terrible advice or be totally inadequate. The point Dr. Wilkinson brought out that triggered a release for me was that It Wasn’t About Me! If God arranged an intersection of my life with someone in need of something from Him, then He would provide it—whether a word of wisdom from my mouth or a twenty dollar bill from my pocket—whatever; He just wants me to be the messenger.

In my mind’s eye, I saw the image of culvert clogged with twigs and debris suddenly swept away allowing the torrent of water to flow through to the other side.
So, I woke up on the second morning of my first major writers conference with the desire to be a miracle-bearer that day. I was giddy with the feeling I was exactly where I was supposed to be in life, and decided to skip the morning sessions and spend time with God. As the morning sun broke the mist that had hung over our retreat in the Blue Ridge Mountains, I remembered there was a prayer garden somewhere out in the woods. I decided to find it (in spite of the warnings about bears).

I followed the signs to a woodland grotto. A plank bridge covered a small stream; shafts of sunlight and songs of birds complemented my spot for a God encounter. I was so full of the nearness of the Lord, I asked him to send someone who needed a touch from Him. But knowing everyone else was at the workshops (where all good students should have been) and seeing the remoteness of the place, I realized my request was unlikely to be answered.
Just as I was about to leave, I saw a woman coming toward me. She was upset. We met on the bridge in the middle of the woods. There was no getting around it; in spite of my feeling of inadequacy God had set up a divine appointment.

We talked, cried, laughed, prayed and parted wiser in the knowledge of the Living One Who Sees Us. I skipped all the way back to the conference center.

I want more of my days to be like that –to be lived in the expectation of being God’s Fed Ex messenger. How about you? Do you dare to believe God wants to use you today to deliver a miracle?

The Dare (Part One)

Many of our responses revolve around three sets of three words: I love you; I hate you; I dare you. A fourth set would solve a lot of problems initiated by the previous three: I believe you.

My husband is one of those persons who, with eyes glittering in delight, steps as close to an edge as possible, pushes buttons and flicks switches to see what they do (once shutting our friends' detached garage door as the startled kids scrambled away), and tests warnings to see if they are justified. He likes a dare.

One time when we were snorkeling off the coast of Australia, I watched him dive down and stick his hand in the open mouth of a giant clam. He wanted to see how fast it closed. He kept his fingers that time, but it was when he dared the trigger fish that he almost lost his pointer tip. We bought an outrageously beautiful  picasso trigger fish for our salt water tank. It was a mighty fish, strong and feisty. At night, it popped up a stiff fin on its back and locked itself into a parking place in the rocks. We knew it had powerful jaws and sharp teeth, and preyed on other fish, but Bob wanted to see if it would attack his finger if he dangled it in the tank.

No sooner had his finger broken the surface of the water when the fish surged. We heard the loud snap of its jaws as Bob pulled his hand back milliseconds before it became fish food. Lest you think I'm married to a delayed delinquent, Bob's propensity to take a dare has a positive side: He dares to believe God, and he encourages me to do also.

I've been hanging out with God for quite a while now, certainly long enough to think I believed Him. But long-term relationships can settle into routine expectations, can get tainted with ennui, and lose their fervor. God's been stirring us up lately, nudging us into a deeper level of knowing, daring us to believe He is exactly who He says He is, and that we are exactly who He says we are--His beloved.

Sometimes a book will provide the impetus to jar lose some bit of unbelief and put us back on track. Bruce Wilkinson's You Were Born for This was an inspiration for me to stop worrying about what I wasn't and start believing what God was.

On Friday, I'll share a simple story (do hope I haven't already) of a moment at a writers conference when, inspired by that book's message,  I dared to believe.

Southern Snake, Northern Woman”

A recent encounter with a small snake in the pool (I'll leave it to you to decide how I handled it) reminded me of an article I wrote when we first moved here:

The tie-dyed shirt with the starburst centered over my navel was probably the give-away. I wasn’t totally in step with the Movement. Although I wanted to subscribe to the idea women could do whatever men could, in the depths of my being I suspected my weakness. Years later, I shamelessly admitted it. When it came to finding and removing scary things, I’d call my husband, Bob.

When we moved to the South a few years ago, I was particularly nervous about encountering a southern snake. But after several months, the only snake I saw was at the zoo.

Consequently, I was not overly concerned about the notice the Terminix technician left after a routine inspection. I opened it and read: No sign of termite activity. Saw snake enter vent in crawlspace.

The cold blood pulsing through my veins rivaled that of my adversary.

 I considered sending in the intrepid puppy, but I knew if anything happened to her my daughter would be unforgiving. And since I was approaching the age my children would start having a say about my future, I needed to make sure their most recent memories were favorable.

Other snake-hunting tactics seemed equally implausible. I could hardly imagine enticing it with a mouse tied to a string, a glue-pad, or worse, a pronged stick which I’d have to pin around its slithery neck.

 I didn’t even want to open the basement door. No, there was only one option.

Turning to Bob I asked, “What are we going to do?” knowing full well the answer did not include the plural “we.”

Bob looked into the eyes of the woman he promised to love, honor, and cherish. Too kind to say, “Who are you kidding?” he heaved a deep sigh and smiled. Although hunting snakes in a crawlspace rated alongside chasing bats out of a bedroom, he squared his shoulders and said, “I’ll go in.”

Eager to help, I stomped around upstairs, but to no avail. Ten minutes later, Bob emerged empty-handed and closed the door.

It’s been several months since we last saw a mouse around here—an observation that fuels the disquieting suspicion that I still have a houseguest. But I refuse to live in fear. Granted, I still squint at corners when I enter a room, but I am becoming a Southern woman who can handle such things.

“Besides,” I tell Bob, “I know what to do now if I see one in the house.”

“What?’ he asks.

“Throw a blanket over it,” I respond smugly.

He is curious. “And then what?”

I smile.

“Call you.”

Sibling Rivalry

     The Middle East conflict is ever before us. Peace talks in politics and prayers for the peace of Jerusalem in churches. All one has to do is look at a map and wonder: What but the keeping power of God has enabled 6 million Jews surrounded by 400 million Muslim Arabs to survive?

Book Review by Marcia Moston

 

     Seeds of Turmoil by Bryant Wright is a timely examination of the ever-present conflict in the Middle East. Wright identifies the root of strife as a centuries-old consequence of Abraham’s decision to take matters into his own hands, thus producing two lines, one set on the elimination of the other.

     Following the course of the conflict from the Patriarchs to modern-day, Wright explains the juxtaposed perspectives of the 400 million Arab Muslims and the six million Jews, both of whom claim their ties to the same land are God-given. Humanly speaking, a resolution seems untenable, but Wright reminds his reader of the intervention of a covenant-keeping God.

     Written in a clear, simple manner, Seeds of Turmoil presents an easily understood journey of conflict from both a historical and spiritual perspective. The author does, at times, drift from his historical explanation to contemporary anecdotes and devotional side trips that I found distracting. He also spends a great deal of time paraphrasing long passages of Scripture that I ended up skimming over because I had already gotten his point.

     All in all, this is an informative examination of the current Middle East conflict as well as a reminder that God is, and always was, in control.
    
     I received a complimentary copy of this book from the publisher through Booksneeze.

Running with troops and scaling walls

Most of us like things to work--our cars, appliances, and especially our bodies. When they don't, we often use their malfunctions as excuses for not making a meeting, doing our homework, or stepping out of our comfy corner of the world.

All my body parts are working today, but when they don't, I have a few people who serve as reminders to press on, to fix my focus beyond myself, and to see possibility in place of problem. I know there are many unsung workers dishing out love to the abandoned and abused all over the world, but today, I'd simply like to celebrate two of them. Perhaps you'd like to check out their ministries or follow their blogs and newsletters.

The village of San Andres Sajcajaba is nestled in the highlands of Guatemala. But getting there is not for the faint-of-heart. When we lived there, it took two heart-stopping hours to drive the last twenty miles. The main street into town is paved with stone, which  is rough and uneven at best.

It was here we first met Tim. He was towing a wagon full of squealing kids behind a three-wheeled motorcycle type of vehicle. Later, when he met us at the door of his house in a wheelchair, I was surprised. My stereotype of a "handicapped" person didn't include a hearty, happy man wheeling around  a remote village bringing love, hope and health to abandoned and starving children.

Watching Tim negotiate the rugged terrain, the difficult living conditions made me aware of how much I took for granted about just getting from point A to point B. Yet Tim never complained, never saw an impossibility. And although he believes the Lord will raise him out of that chair one day, he continues to bring hope and the reality of possibilities to so many of the crippled children he works with.

Tim and his wife, Dena, started two ministries for children: The Home of Life in Guatemala and the Home of Life in Costa Rica. Please check them out at http://.www.homesoflife.org

Meanwhile, I have come across another incredible laborer of love in the Sudan--Michele Perry. She lives amidst the bullets and the broken; she herself, having had tens of operations on her leg and hip. Michele is an artist and a lover of the Lord who is willing to go into the brothels and dark places to put a face on love. Her life proclaims, "Jesus brings beauty out of brokenness."

(I'm going to try to link, but since I have to go public with my simple learning tasks, I will also include the address in case the link doesn't work.) http://theunpavedroad.wordpress.com

The telltale wake

 The news a woman killed a 1,000 pound alligator in a SC lake took a bite out of my enthusiasm to go kayaking. I checked the map to see if there were any connecting waterways linking my lake to that one. But the prospect of a warm day bathed in the round yellow light of September triumphed over fears of reptiles. 

We launched our boats and set off paddling. I automatically chose a point in the distance to set my course by. That was how my father taught us to drive a boat. He would show us a landmark and tell us to line up the bow with it. The he would go sit in the stern with my mother. It didn't seem as if he were paying attention to how we were driving, but whenever we started to zig-zag, he would holler,"Point the bow toward the hill." I'd glance back at the S-curves in the telltale wake trailing behind us.

Some weekends we'd sleep on the boat. On one such outing, I woke early before anyone else. I looked out the cabin window and saw we were drifting toward shore. Believing the anchor had come undone, I sat in the pilot's seat, picked a tree on the horizon, and turned the wheel toward it. The boat kept twisting and turning, as I, the only one awake and able to save the ship, sat at the helm with my face fixed on a point in the distance.

After a while my father woke up. He watched me for a few minutes before informing me that although the drift gave the illusion we were nearing shore, we were still secure at anchor. (Although he was kind not to mention my efforts were futile because the engine was off,my siblings were quick to so.)

The memory of that experience helps me appreciate the imagery in Luke 9:53. Jesus "was journeying with His face toward Jerusalem." He wasn't deterred, dismayed,or diverted. He understood both the the suffering and the glory, and set His face toward His purpose.

I wish I could claim to always know exactly what to do. To be able to say with courage and conviction, God told me thus and thus. The truth is, some days I circle around on anchor, others, I'm buffeted by waves and distractions. And then I hear my father say,"Point your bow to the landmark."

And I realign my course toward the One who is faithful and true, because I want my Father to look at my wake and say, "yet with respect to the promise of God,[she] did not [zig-zag] in unbelief, but grew strong in faith, giving glory to God, and being fully assured that what He had promised, He was able also to perform" (Romans 4:20).