The ceiling fan is whirring, kitten calm and purring. Sounds from down the hall tell me my husband is stirring.
I’ve just been reading about hope and twirling my feet in circles, a quiet quirky habit.
Stopping by a friend’s home last week, she mentioned her husband’s in the bedroom watching the news. I stopped myself before saying, “Tell him to stop watching the news.”
Seconds later he came down the hallway, disheveled and dazed. I thought, “See, told ya so.”
I didn’t.
Maybe he was actually napping, lulled into drowsiness by the incessant woeful, panicked argumentative banter.
How, I can’t imagine.
“Return, O my soul, to your rest; for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you.” Psalm 116:7 ESV
Because there’s a stirring up all around us, a critical chatter and a dull humming dread.
It’s a choice to decide on different.
To know our souls must rest.
“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.” Romans 15:13 ESV
I hope you rest today, tomorrow and the next.
I hope you care for your soul.
Linking up with other writers, prompted by the word “stir”.
There are four words I treasure and a couple of other phrases too.
“Continue and believe.”
“It wasn’t God’s intention.” and “Keep on.”
The first I came up with to remind myself not to give up on life, myself or my God. The second, wisdom from a friend, helps to make sense of horrific happenings that make no sense at all.
Helps to reconcile what shouldn’t have happened, what went wrong, how you were wronged or what damage went unattended.
Trauma is not God’s intention for us. We move and breathe in a world that’s mean as hell.
When we choose to keep on, we’re deciding whatever “it”’ is or was, was not God’s intention.
There’s solace in this decision, sort of heavenly.
The third, from my mama, mostly unspoken but demonstrated by her tenacity
and stubborn resolve.
I put geraniums in clay pots every summer because I decided they are “mama’s flowers”.
I feel she sees me and sometimes I know that she does.
Mama’s last car was a green Chevy Geo, I think. It was small like a Nova or a Corolla.
She commanded the road, striking out on her own for a couple years, driving as fast as she wanted.
Get in the car and go seemed to be her philosophy.
Yesterday, I got steadily closer to a Chevy Impala driving too slowly. The construction ahead told us to move over. The Chevy just kept on creeping, the shape of the driver was either short, small or leaning in a relaxing swagger I noticed as I came close.
I passed and looked over and in a flash, I saw my mama. The woman with the short hair and the handicap card on the visor had one hand on the wheel and the other lifted to wave a “Hey, girl.” to me.
I wondered where she was going, all alone on a Friday morning. Maybe to get a breakfast biscuit, maybe just gettin’ out for no reason.
I saw her independence.
I saw my mama.
I pulled into the station for gas and as I turned the gas lid to lock, the Impala strangely pulled in behind me.
The woman with the happy cheeks and the knowing eyes waved again and nodded as she smiled, laughing alone in her car.
Just for me.
God was with her and somehow she knew I needed my mama.
The woman in the Chevy saying,
“Keep on, Lisa Anne. Keep on.”
Continue and believe. This is God’s intention.
“Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will live in the house of the Lord forever.” Psalms 23:6 NLT
My husband watches the news, I do not. So, I asked him why the police didn’t charge in. He had no answer.
As a little girl who cowered and a woman who devoted most of her life’s work to trying to make life better for children, I cared and care deeply. My first “real” job had an essay about what children need as an unnecessary attachment.
I cared and care about children.
Still, my counselor suggested I not look too much or as needed look away.
Does that seem uncaring?
I wondered.
If I share a photo of blackberries or art or me enjoying a precious book, does that mean I’ve forgotten the horrors of this place?
“I can care without caring too much.” Me
The thought came as I carried on towards today.
I can care deeply; but my caring can’t be so much that I can’t care for myself or those who love me.
I’m waiting for the blackberry bushes to be overgrown with deep grape colors. I’ve promised my granddaughter we’ll pick them together.
Small things, great love in the place God has me and from a distance,
continual prayers for those I can’t touch.
“casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you.” 1 Peter 5:7 ESV
When she’s older I’ll tell her that I love the thick branches, the way it’s so old but still strong and I’ll tell her that its green leaves against the ash colored limbs just bring me comfort. I love the way it leans as if resting.
I’ve not misplaced my faith nor have I given up on prayer.
I wrote about helplessness yesterday, about how it feels as if we’ve got no other choice.
I don’t regret my thoughts becoming words and landing here.
It’s my blog after all and all along I’ve only written honestly.
I thought about prayer today, what it is to me and what it does.
A simple prayer was spoken on my knees in the shower last week.
Jesus, please comfort her where she needs it.
Hurtful words had been shared and repeated. Like a pinch on a soft part of your arm that the bully won’t let go, it left a sting.
And I didn’t respond. I thought it better to let it go. I considered what may have caused the harsh words.
I remembered I just can’t know.
When I asked God to comfort, I was comforted. I left it with Him and I no longer felt hurt.
Because I just can’t know.
Tonight, I’m thinking of the Texas families. I’m deficient in understanding and only know from experience with those grieving, this is a long and winding and without navigation road, the death of a child.
So, I ask God to comfort.
I accept my place in this offering of prayer.
I join the chorus of others who pray.
And I have faith in the God who is comforting. Who is mighty, strong, unwaveringly there.
If me deciding against anger and instead inviting God’s comfort to a tiny trivial thing can bring such sweet peace.
I know the angels and armies are stretched wide and locking arms in an answer.
“Let’s go on a walk! Get your shoes!” she called out and off we go in a burst of unbridled energy, her heels in the air.
And we walk on the roads bordered by shiny wheat tops and we stay in the “middle….middle, middle, middle”, a song we made up because of country roads, high grass, deep ditches and crawling critters.
We walk a long way.
We’re looking for morning glories.
We spotted one last week.
We caught a butterfly once.
She was tiny then, barely toddling. Her face was a mixture of elation and question. She held that blue edged creature and then we let it go.
Her feet slowed to a pause. “A butterfly!” she spotted and I saw that its bottom wings were torn, sort of shredded.
I picked it up and it sat as if glued to her small finger. Five minutes or more, we talked about it, the broken wing somehow and how I wasn’t sure if it could fly.
Rust colored wings, more moth than butterfly and small, very tiny. It seemed as if my granddaughter was comfort, was safety, was in a way, angelic.
It was mysterious.
It rested, not as if helpless, more assured.
I’ve been thinking about a feeling of vague dread, of inability to put three thoughts together, of being numb to possibility.
When possibility has been so very true for me.
I thought “learned helplessness” and reminded myself of the meaning.
There, that’s it. That’s the feeling, the lack of mental, physical and emotional resources to believe in good again.
Learned helplessness, lulled into a state of whatever I can do or should…
Would it even make a difference?
I wonder if we’re all learning that we’re helpless, that we’re not difference making people after all.
We laid the butterfly down gently and unsure whether it would go to heaven or fly, we told the broken creature goodbye.
Learned helplessness, the two words that made sense to my processing all that’s gone wrong.
The remedy? Recognize it, journal about it, pray, accept what you cannot control.
Therapy, and medication in difficult to treat with self-care because of significant trauma.
This afternoon, I bought apple juice boxes, a book about travel and a flamingo towel for a toddler.
Checked my phone to see notifications on FB and saw “Pray for Texas”, looked further to read the news, the horror, the inconsolable tragic event.
And began to feel sick. Began to think of the innocence of children, the way our world is and has completely set its intention on stealing it.
I can’t adequately add to this conversation. I really can’t.
These are times that words like peace in times of trouble, hope enduring or all things being made new and made sense of by God
Just don’t seem sufficient.
Seem more “who am I to say these things?”
After all, I had a three year old wrap her arms around my neck today and say “It’s a secret, I love you. I love to the moon.” and then say it again, and again.
I felt God near. I felt it was His idea, maybe she saw her grandma feeling slightly broken and held me close.
“I love you.”, not a reply, totally unsolicited.
No words for the Texas tragedy.
I love the Psalms and I treasure the words in red, but just one thought remains.
Pray.
“pray without ceasing,” 1 Thessalonians 5:17 ESV
Pray. It’s “all you can do” and it is everything you can do.
I’ve been thinking about this photo all day. My college roommate and friend from the early 80’s sent this with a note, “found this today”. I was eating lunch with my granddaughter. We were talking about yummy bread and tomatoes.
I see I loved bracelets even back then and I remember how much she loved her VW. She was pink, khaki and green preppy. I see I must’ve been a little artsy. I notice the perm. I see my resemblance to both my mama and my sister, my daughter and son.
I see the tiny waist. I remember how little I ate, how much I ran twice a day.
I think of us, separately and together, how we both struggled, grew distant; but, she bravely began our new conversation.
I see me so tiny and remember I had such hatred for myself. I see her so bubbly and know only a tiny bit of not so bubbly days.
I see women now in their 60’s who know healing comes from forgiveness and more than forgiving others, it’s about forgiving ourselves.
So, skinny me no longer, maybe it’s time to stop rushing past the mirror and stand still for just a bit to consider, look where time, loss, grief, babies, defeat, trying again, fear met by bravery that said “continue” has brought you here…
Grace thus far has been the grace you’ve decided you can finally give yourself.
I never thought a thrown away art scholarship because of uninvited trauma (I still don’t like the “R” word) and eating disorder would have been so mercifully generous to say it’s not too late, paint.
You’re an artist.
I never thought a friend I haven’t seen since 1980 or so would keep a photo marking our bond.
Believe it, redemption is never ending and there’s nothing our loving God can’t make new.
Today, I met an artist in her home. She grew up in the landscapes of my favorite artist, Andrew Wyeth. She lives alone. Her husband is not well.
She invited me in.
I accepted.
Old me wouldn’t have.
But, tea time was at 3:00 and so, she, my granddaughter and I had tea and cream cheese pound cake.
And an almost three year old sat between two artists, two women who might’ve given up on themselves, but we’re not…and never ever on our art.
Rain is swooshing, sloshy sideways. The dark cloud wasn’t far away or pretending.
All of a sudden it’s pouring.
I leave my frantic cleaning for the back porch.
This world, our country is really getting worse, I decided loading my groceries.
$9.00 for granola bars and $10 for Kuerig coffee. Big deal money men are making formula and if I read this right, telling mothers who had CoVid not to breastfeed.
Pulled out of Food Lion and told myself to stop listening, stop listening to the fear, the invitation to join the dismal conversations.
Stop listening again.
Listen to a toddler napping, snoring, breathing after a make believe train ride followed by a walk so free her shoe flew into the air!
And she said, “doggone it” and “let it be” and we left them in the dirt and I sang and she echoed
“Don’t worry about a thing…every little thing is gonna be alright.”
Because I stumped my toe in the kitchen fixin’ lunch and she paused her singing to comfort me
“It’s okay.” ELB
So, I let the Windex wait because the knockout roses are catching puddles and leaning into the not yet summer rain.
“For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ, in them that are saved, and in them that perish:” 2 Corinthians 2:15 KJV
People watching must be a generational thing. Gift or curse?
It can go either way.
My granddaughter loves to sit on the front steps, at the foot of the walking trail, on every bench on the sidewalk of every busy street or tiny town square.
She’s watching.
Cars, people, birds, puppies or any thing that captures her curious attention.
My grandmother was the same.
Plus, she’d strike up a conversation with any stranger she’d catch in a pause. They’d be trapped into listening. She might talk about us, or she might talk about her two daughters or she might just go on and on about embroidery or fabric or her support pantyhose the doctor prescribed.
Yesterday, I complained to others and myself about a woman who invited herself to my lunch table. She reeled me in talking about painting. My voice joined in. We compared our stories about creativity.
But, then she kept on.
And on and my information overload anxiety coupled with my not so sweet fatigue of “too much peopling” likely began to show on my face.
Soon, their lunch was done and her husband introduced himself to a lone diner, an older gentleman in plaid shirt and old black glasses, shoes worn down from shuffling.
I noticed.
He was thrilled when the woman began talking. There was no disdain over too much peopling as they lingered at the bar.
Later, my daughter and I shared similar but separate stories. Two women in two different grocery stores we concluded were wealthy because of their attire and because of the cash in hand. But, both wore signs of something wrong in their expression, something that said wealth or whatever couldn’t fix it.
I wondered.
I remembered the lunch counter talker, the way she’d comforted her husband as she shared just enough information for me to know that he’s a cancer patient. I remembered her caress of his bandaged and blood dried arm. I thought of her whispering something as she looked closely at the bend near his elbow.
The grocery store women, the waitress with the earrings in her cheeks for dimples, the woman who talked too much in the restaurant.
All made in the image of God.
Sheep like me in need of the shepherd.
In need of someone to talk to ‘cause we’re lonely, in need of grace as provision when what we own isn’t enough, in need of acceptance when we long to be accepted.
Myself, in need of a sweet repentance when my conclusions about others are tainted by anything other than love.
A love that loves to notice, invites conversation and a love that is patient and tolerant, curious authentically even
When “peopling” feels too much.
Lord, help my noticing of others always have the aroma of love.
And help me continue this “generational love of peopling ” that my Grandma started.
we run away from our discomfort... but it doesn't leave us. to heal we need to turn around and face it, experience it and once we truly do we are out of it. We heal and we grow.
2 Timothy 1:7-8 For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline. This blog is about my Christian walk. Join me for the adventure.
Lisa Anne Tindal 