Last week I read about the longing for resonance. At least this was my interpretation, we long for resonance and for whatever we choose and how we use it, to resonate with others.
This idea made an impression.
Told me to write about the sky, the tiny roses, the way the baby laughs over a shared popsicle time.
God doesn’t want us to feel small, simply know we are smaller than Him.
me
You are loved.
You are seen.
You are not finished.
Yesterday morning, I woke with a longing to understand the “stuck in the middle” me.
So, I prayed about it, scribbled a sleepy question in my journal.
What is a calling and how do you know?
Me
It felt serious, the question like risk analysis of quitting or resuming. It was a question about why ideas feel so tangibly possible only to be set aside because of fear.
I’m thinking art again, and I’m thinking manuscripts. I’m asking God is this calling or is it just something good I love to do?
There seems to be (at least to me) a whole lot of pressure to call out to the world our callings.
Maybe, the calling is simply to be attentive to the call towards God and to keep getting closer.
Perhaps any other pursuit of calling can’t help but be tainted by selfish endeavor.
Maybe the call is to continue and I suppose see what develops. Crazy we can’t be content with that, we need to feel pressure in our pursuit I guess.
Unexpectedly, I received a request to contribute to a writing community. Out of the blue it would seem.
But, I know better.
Something about my Instagram resonated and this leader of the community sent an invitation.
The sky last evening told me stories, the sort of story I told long ago and had stopped sharing.
The quest for bigger calling made my sky stories seem odd and irrelevant.
The sky with the heart shaped window, the brilliant moon that saw me growing and the bend in the road that said, God is calling.
Continue.
Continue and believe.
A new question today, a prayer.
God, how can I resonate with others? Help me to see the calling as a calling towards you.
me
“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” Jesus Matthew 7:7 ESV
I think it’s what is thought in the processing that may be more distracting than the noise of distractions.
I kept my earphones in although no sound came through. I’m still the one walking with the long white cord swinging. I’m way out of the loop, no cordless audio and nothing on my wrist to ding an alarm, message or celebration of steps. I just keep walking, occasionally I run.
“Bethesda’s Water” detail
Walking is an escape, an unraveling, a reconfiguring of my intentions gone astray by thinking.
The sound in my ear is not distracting. It typically is a guide for my thoughts, songs and the words in them that help me believe. Lyrics like this:
“And, oh as you run, what hindered love will only become a part of your story.” Out of Hiding
Yesterday, I thought of the man who laid beside the pool of water that was known for healing, Bethesda. He watched others bathing, hoping for health benefits but stayed at a distance on his mat for 38 years.
When Jesus asked if he wanted to be well he didn’t seem sure. He pointed out the crowded water, how from where he was lying he’d surely get trampled trying to get in.
I wondered if his thoughts were what kept him from going. Was the water truly healing water and what if it wasn’t, would he be better “as is“?
“Bethesda’s Waters”
I wondered if it was mental torture for him, his own thoughts distracting him from possibility.
“When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had already been there a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to be healed?” The sick man answered him, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am going another steps down before me.” Jesus said to him, “Get up, take up your bed, and walk.” And at once the man was healed, and he took up his bed and walked. Now that day was the Sabbath.” John 5:6-9 ESV
Jesus was there and then he was not. The man was left with wondering over his very own miracle.
Maybe wondering, will it last? Then Jesus finds him or he finds Jesus. Either way, it was confirmation, your healing is true, carry on now, keep on running.
It’s that way with me, maybe you. Thoughts cause me to be distracted by the reality of my redemption. This crazy world feeds into the natural and leaves little space for the miraculous.
We know we’ve been healed by mercy’s water but some things make it feel less than enough.
This is when we remember our very own Bethesda moment, we remember we are one soul in a crowd of others all sweetly welcomed into the fold.
“Bethesda’s Water”, detail
We remember our soul is aligned to that love. We see Jesus in the sky, the words of a song, the gaze of a child or the worrisome situation that we surrendered that has led to easy breathing.
We hear Jesus. A more serious tone in His voice and yet, we’re not offended, we’re simply reminded of who we were and who we are becoming.
“But afterward Jesus found him in the Temple and told him, “Now you are well; so stop sinning, or something even worse may happen to you.” John 5:14 NLT
Grace and truth.
Continue and believe.
Believe and continue.
This painting is mixed media on reclaimed wood and is available as original or prints. Comment to inquire.
Worth caring for. Cared for. Worth resets of neglected places and grace in the rearranging. Worth “beginnings again”.
Sitting in my studio (there, I said it!) that I call a “sanctuary”, the room that was Heather’s, the room with every momento of my children or creative inspiration on the walls before, I feel renewed.
Today, I cleared the walls of unnecessary (almost every space was push pinned with something!) and only left a little. I left the cow Heather painted, an empty frame to get me thinking, and a color wheel Austin must have done in a school assignment. Other things on tables, just a very few to keep my focus on what matters.
I exchanged a pretty chair for an old one and added a forgotten pillow. I repositioned the desk to the window, no longer facing the wall. I cleaned up my messy painting desk, layers and layers of dust, pencil shavings and paint. I felt a little embarrassed by all the paint tubes without lids, how I’d been so careless. I let it pass and I kept at it. Because, I knew the result would be fresh, it would be a “begin again”.
I woke with that thought today, begin again. I wake with it often. Today, just maybe it’s sticking.
My space had gotten totally out of hand. It had a vibe of disrespect. It did not represent the love I have for writing and art and it was a glaring contradiction of a “sanctuary”. Nothing but claustrophobic info overload was its loud unmotivated voice.
On Friday, a friend purchased three paintings. We talked for a bit in the center of my room and I saw my “sanctuary” from her perspective. An outsider seeing in would never know that these things in my room are my treasures.
She certainly didn’t say it. And she didn’t make me feel it, I felt it because I knew it.
I guess in this pandemic season I just let things go, lots of things, thinking well does anything matter anymore? It can be easy to think that way, to let things go, when all around you are questions about life going on and if and how and when it will.
So, begin again, I am, Yay!
Reluctant for sure, tomorrow morning I’ll step on the scales. I haven’t since October. October told me to eat sandwiches again and I have been since then and it is showing, the excess “uncaringness” of it all.
I’ll accept the number and I’ll acknowledge its causes and I’ll begin again in this body God says is His temple. Begin again. We matter to God, every little thing about us does. We matter.
Treasured we are, treasured spaces for God’s use.
“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.” 2 Corinthians 4:7 ESV
I caught a glimpse of one of the last pink camellias. The bushes that border our home and the ones along the driveway had been spectacularly brilliant.
Then with the temperatures and rain were suddenly bloom-less. The grass wore a skirt of decaying flowers, their edges rusty with color and the petals limp and fading.
I paused when returning from walking and a glint of pink popped out from the deep green. One camellia was tucked away. I picked it.
I brought the flower inside and filled the vase with water. This was three days ago. The color remains and the bloom is strong on the stem. I can’t decide what I love the most about looking over to see the simple flower.
From every perspective.
Up close, the underlayer of petals are changing from pink to shriveled golden brown. Standing over it, I am drawn to the fragile innards, the bright yellow heart of it. From a distance, I love the contrast in color against our brick.
Why this one camellia caught my eye feels like a sweet secret, something God knew I needed.
I see beauty.
Lately, I’ve thought of how distinctly different every individual’s perspective is in this coronavirus crisis. It is based on their views, their experiences, their current emotional and physical as well as spiritual state.
I’m reminded of a long held truth. No one truly knows how another feels.
Secrets are our truth.
They are tender. They are hard. They are transparent.
I like the definition of perspective that is synonymous with “outlook”. I believe this.
Before we see, we feel and what we feel inwardly leads to our outward view, our perspective.
I asked myself this morning, How can I be more intentional and sure of the way God wants to use me, to continue rather than decide, oh, you must’ve been wrong?
It all begins with and comes back to belief.
“I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living!” Psalm 27:13 ESV
Believing is the perspective changer, the perspective keeper, the level ground during doubtful times, confusing ones like these.
God’s perspective of us, His creation?
He believes we are able.
He made us this way.
But, what about your secrets that tell you otherwise, ones that say to your soul, don’t try, don’t be sure, don’t step out in faith…you never know, you may discover you were wrong?
What if deep down you’re afraid you will learn, you were wrong about God’s believing in you, you were wrong about trying?
What a shameful secret this is. The one that hinders, the one that feels safer to be the same not take any more steps believing.
I may be wrong, I don’t think I’m alone in this occasional and yet, so overwhelming feeling.
This is why I own it, call it out, really look closely at its defeatist agenda! I speak to it! I tell it otherwise.
“God created me to be creative. God believes in me.”
Believe.
Continue and believe. Your heart will find truth when you confront your secrets. You perspective will follow.
Linking up with others on the prompt, “perspective”
I thought the craziest thought the other day. Leaving the grocery store again after having to pep talk myself into going, I notice all of our differences. I sit and watch the other shoppers’ arrivals and departures. I inventory the wearers of masks in comparison to the full faces.
“Return, O Lord! How long? Have pity on your servants!” Psalm 90:13 ESV
I notice the efficiency adapted by the store. I am grateful for the smile of the one who wipes down my cart. But, I notice it is ambivalent, the welcome that ushers me to be the next shopper in.
The same expression, same as my thought,
“How long? How long?”
I wear my mask although I don’t like it. I feel it is the respectful of others thing to do.
But, it makes me feel horrible, makes my chest ache in the way that only sparks worry and imagination of diagnosis. The grocery store is symbolic, I decide.
Symbolic of our differences as expressed on masked and unmasked faces.
I imagine God looking down, all of us scattered and separate and still learning this “togethering”.
I notice an older man dressed casually in shorts because our weather is splendid. His eyes meet mine as if me being female reminds him of his promise to his wife. He reluctant huffs as he pulls up his mask. Another older gentleman and the most crisply dressed older woman walk in separately, heads held high, maskless.
They make eye contact with me and their reaction is a mixture of life lived wisdom and pity. I wonder what they think of me.
This may not be a popular noticing of mine I am sharing here.
The people who are wearing the masks, including me, appear to be so much more afraid than the ones whose faces are free.
I’m very fond of a word that describes our expressions. It is the best word I know of as the gauge of feelings, outward indications that bubble up from our souls.
It is countenance. I consider it a tool. Stand all alone and face your bathroom mirror. What do your eyes tell you?
The curve of the lines that border your mouth? The rise of your cheeks towards the meeting of your lashes?
What do you see that cannot be hidden? Often, I’d use this assessment when I worked with troubled women. I knew it was truthful and easy to do. I’d tell them, look in the mirror, you’ll be able to see the truth of how you’re doing, what you’re believing, what you’re trying to disguise.
I know this to be true.
I drive home with my groceries feeling more curious. Curious over the choices of some to go without masks. Were they confident or just stubborn? Are they more brave than the rest of us or do they just feel the masks do no good, what’ll happen will happen anyway.
And the ones like me who wore the masks, are we afraid or are we respectfully cautionary? Are we just a “follow alonger”?
I don’t know. Once home, I’m better. I flicked the mask from my face before I even put my cart away. I know it has a purpose; but, I despise the fear it represents to me.
I wake and I open my journal and I think of how scattered my days have been feeling. How some days I see calm as my countenance in the mirror, others a questioning blank gaze.
I ask God to keep me gentle, to keep me observant, to keep me intrigued by the expressions of others.
I ask God to keep me noticing, to be my teacher, to turn me towards the mirror in my car when I’m afraid to get out, to show me my countenance and help me fix it before entering. To allow the light to be shown through my eyes when there’s nothing else uncovered.
I ask God to preserve the gentleness of me, to keep me meek not distressed and bitterly questioning.
These things we do until we realize they don’t serve us well and that we really are together even when we are “un-together” here.
To help me consider the countenance of others although not fully seen. To acknowledge we all struggle differently, many of us numb by now to the fearful pandemic, many of us walking around in what feels like armor. We do what we can and we tell ourselves to stay in our bubble, ignore the statistics and predictions and hope tomorrow will be different.
What are we that He is mindful of us? We are His creation and we matter. To God, to each other.
Our eyes cast down, our chests heavy with question. He knows. Or our confidence in pushing onward moment by moment til this storm has subsided or at least become more understandable.
“Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance.” Psalms 42:5 KJV
We turn our attention towards the hope and the laments, the questions without answer, the admission of troubled mental struggles and errant behaviors, the book called Psalms.
It is there we find relatable stories, honest words of David, of singers and psalmists, that we find our countenance changers, our togetherness with others and with God.
“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name! Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, who satisfies you with good so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.” Psalm 103:1-5 ESV
We are together even in our un-togetherness. We are covered although scattered in our thoughts and souls.
We are all together in God’s strong hold. We are together with both masked and unmasked faces God sees fit to have intersect us. I hope my eyes contain just a bit of Him, the one who sees us all, unmasked, scattered and yet, together souls.
I’m a stickler for continuing things I begin. Oh, wait that’s not true. I’m scared to death to get back at rewriting that manuscript, the one that felt too honest and now not honest enough. A wise friend named Ray reminded me this idea was born eight years ago!
For now, here’s the link to my April Newsletter, a much easier write and read.
A friend commented that I followed through on a painting idea, a still life with pears, an avocado and an orange.
I delivered this painting, acrylic on old wood, to a young buyer today.
No Stones
She said she loved the way the rocks were all around her body but, not a one caused her harm.
I smiled.
Me too.
We talked about “The Scarlet Letter” and I told this young woman who could be my daughter, that this is when in college, oh my goodness decades ago, that I finally knew others had felt called out and misfit.
Then, now, and even tomorrow the red letter novel will be important to me. Now, the account of the woman caught in adultery and facing them all, standing tall, her would be stoners, this story matters even more.
“Yes”, I told the young woman, I had to paint her gown red.
“The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery.” John 8:3-4 NIV
I love that part too. The boldness of her brave acknowledgement of wrong. She never expected to walk away unpelted.
I love the way we face the ones who’d have reason to stone us and Jesus tells them, tells us all…if you’re without sin, go ahead, you get the first throw.
And nothing. No stones.
Yet another redemption story waiting to be told.
I’ll be faithful to the telling of mine as well as the ones I treasure.
“No Stones” prints are available. Comment to inquire.
My art/writing room/sanctuary has canvas and paper creations stacked up on all my old stools, tables, shelves.
Come July, I’m set to have an exhibit at our Regional Airport, I’m planning on calling it “Southern Colors”.
In September, Lord willing, I’ll have pieces with two other artists in an exhibition in Greenville,SC…more of the same, angelic and strong female figures, landscapes, abstract florals.
Currently, the gallery has my four pieces discounted with my permission. These four paintings can be seen with details of dimensions, etc. by visiting : https://www.melangeartstudiogallery.com/ and finding me by searching the “Artist” page.
“Come the Morning” “By Grace Amazed” “Mama’s Birthday Bird” “Much to Dare”
I’m so happy to share that a portion of all sales will be donated to the Salvation Army.
All pieces can be purchased online and shipped to your home. My joy is knowing that others find comfort through my art. For this reason, I love it when they find a home. Read more about my process and my heart in my bio on the gallery website.
Visit Melange Arts online and support artists like me while supporting and encouraging others!
Be well. Do something today that feels bravely and uniquely you. Be creative! Take a chance. Act “as if” your work will be in a gallery one day, on a shelf, on a stage or just in a little frame by your bed.
What have you lost that might have seemed silly but made you hopeful until you decided well… even that makes no difference now at all? What represents hope or an idea of God knowing and knowing you?
Today I found something and I almost told my husband. But, I realized the joy of my finding would be lost on him and I needed to keep that joy, I’d gotten a little low. I needed to start a new reserve.
I was determined to find it. I fully expected to see the flash of blue in the very same spot. I walked yesterday and saw the lifeless bright blue bird in the thick green grass.
It bothered me so. I kept walking and self-talking.
It means nothing at all, I told myself, likely the bird intersected a passing car and landed there.
But, it was so vibrant in color. I thought of pulling a feather from its completely still frame.
But, I didn’t. Same as two days before. A large hawk or goose feather was laying in the grass along my walking road. I’d normally be excited. I wouldn’t care at all who saw me. I’d walk back home swinging my arms and striding in my fast way. One hand holding my phone, the other clutching a feather as big as my two hands lined up together. I’d bring it inside and I’d stick it in an old bottle.
Instead, I walked on.
Paranoid over something I skimmed about chickens and flu and thinking I’d have all the germs of the feather on my hands and I was only halfway back home. I let it lay.
I regretted it. The next day, I went back looking. The large white edged with brown and grey feather was gone.
So, I thought about it, tried to shake it off, this cynical me I’ve become.
Tried to stop my thinking that God has no notice of me and all of a sudden I’d become unaffected by feathers, I’d become very unseen and afraid.
Two weeks ago, barely steps from our house, a sparrow lay next to the gravel, the tiny brown baby so upset my soul.
So, I thought again. There’s meaning here. Nary a feather have I seen, but a bird on the ground on the side of the road. Is there significance in this for me? Is there a pattern? Is it deadly?
What did it mean? Nothing, I insisted, there is no reason to believe lifeless birds have a message for you.
But, I believed differently. So, I struck out early and I wanted to either see the blue feathers left there or I wanted to see that the bluebird had somehow found strength and flown.
I saw neither. No bird. No feathers. I walked on toward the place with the deep dip, the place where the red birds fly over without exception.
Not this morning. Well. This too?
It’s early, I decided; the birds have an evening path, not morning.
I continued on.
Why the cynic now? Why has my belief in feathers faded? Why had I not seen any? Why was I pretending it didn’t matter?
Steps close to the curb and face towards my feet, I see it and bend down. It’s black and all mottled by rain. You best bet I keep it.
I carry on past the place where the feather was scary and I long to have another chance, see another maybe.
Instead, my steps continue and suddenly a flurry from a paper box delivers! A bluebird so blue it’s nearly blinding and it surprised me!
See! I told you!
it seemed to say, you didn’t see the one you ached to discover but here, it is me!
I am here!
I smiled, smiled and kept walking until I saw it.
A pristine little one nested amongst the leaves, a soft fuzzy tail white feather.
So, I clutch the pair between my fingers and I turn for home.
Thinking every bit of my bird and feather encounter matters. Every bit! The tiny dead sparrow, the hawk wing feather that made me so leery, the precious limp blue winged creature, brilliant although lifeless.
And my longing, it matters, my longing to again long for feathers.
All of it. My confusion, my fear, frustration over not knowing and cynicism over something as simple as a feather.
All my feels. All my feather stories.
“The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.” Zephaniah 3:17 ESV
It all matters. Sadness, sorrow and surprise revelations that say
Continue.
Continue and believe. You have more stories. Stories of life interspersed with symbols of sorrow.
Stories of feathers, of God, of your life and love of birds.
Continue.
Evening now, time for walk number two. I’ll be hoping the place where the trail dips and turns will happily greet me with two flashes of red, the cardinal couple.
I walked because walking is good for me. I thought about my waning faith, my weakened confidence. Mary and Martha came to mind.
Tonight, I walked later than usual and I was frustrated over our internet connection, I only heard part of the communion live stream.
Funny, I usually relate to Martha. But, I thought of Mary who stayed home, didn’t rush to pray that Jesus would bring to life her brother. Had she resigned herself that she’d done all she could do? Meanwhile, Martha tells Jesus “even now” even if you don’t save my brother, I will still believe. “Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.” John 11:21-22 NIV
And that’s exactly how I’m feeling, and it feels like peace. I do not understand any of this pandemic crisis. I do understand my faith in God and my redemption through Jesus. And so, even if, even so, all is good, all is well. One of two times, Jesus wept…was he worried he was late? No, he just saw the sadness and worry on the faces of the sisters, I think. Same with us, with me. He sees.
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 