31 days of good things

Abuse Survivor, aging, bravery, contentment, courage, Faith, hope, memoir, painting, Prayer, Redemption, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing

Day 22 – Joy Found and Remembered

I saw the copper color on the carpet and thought, “penny on heads, yay!”

Instead, it was a piece of cereal, a circle shaped flake.

When I read the parable of the lost coin, I can see myself as the widow. She’s searching every corner, maybe like me had to find her glasses or maybe she resorted to rubbing her hand along the floors, the corners, the spaces where the coin may have landed.

“Or what woman, having ten silver coins, if she loses one coin, does not light a lamp and sweep the house and seek diligently until she finds it? And when she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there is joy before the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”

‭‭Luke‬ ‭15‬:‭8‬-‭10‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I’ve lost many things. I’m sad because a pair of earrings disappeared (twice, one time I found them) and I can’t find the one charm for my bracelet. It’s long lost.

More than those treasures though is the mystery that many events and interactions in my life, I have no recall.

No memory.

Someone told me after all these years, willing myself to remember, sitting in silence trying to recalibrate my brain,

That complex PTSD often results in memory loss. A chronology of hurt has this result.

Now, you may think this is heavy, sad, upsetting, even depressing.

No, it’s a gift, a joy to know that life is an invitation to simply cling to the joyful and to make more joy, if you can.

So, what is joy?

What is found treasure?

It’s found in listening.

Acceptance of every tiny moment.

It’s found in observing. It’s the evidence that who you are now is so much more important than who you were or what hard things happened to steal chunks of remembering.

The widow in the parable rejoiced.

Was it because she was poor?

Was it because she simply celebrated her not giving up her search?

Or even more, because she realized the essence of the truth of Jesus.

She mattered.

She was not one who’d ever be given up on.

Nor am I.

Nor are you.

I know the parable is about Jesus caring about every single lost soul.

To me it’s about joy.

About never giving up on being found by it and by it finding you.

I’m 63 years old with a timeline of trauma. But, not until today did someone say to me, the memory loss is because of what happened to you, it’s really just brain chemistry, neuroscience.

And the truth of that felt like a coin I’d been crawling around on my knees, scouring the floor to see

For a very long time.

Trying to squeeze the memories from the layers of my brain and all for naught.

Except the realization of the present and the chance to add to memories.

God is so good to me.

I surely don’t deserve it.

There are countless things I’ve agonized over not being able to remember.

I’ll never find those memories.

Maybe, though I can feel deeply the way those crises and celebrations made me feel and I can honor those times and myself by feeling all the feelings now.

Found, not lost at all.

31 days of good things

Abuse Survivor, aging, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, doubt, Faith, family, kindness, love, memoir, Redemption, rest, testimony, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder, writing

Day 20 – Being Seen

There wasn’t time for a deeper conversation. There wasn’t the space nor would the talk about the state of my heart, my mind have been able to find space in all the other chatter.

Someone I love and who loves me and is wise, told me later on the phone…

“You looked so tired that day.”

And I did my best to decide whether to say that I was in fact tired, to share with her all the reasons of how I had just been pushing through

or to wait and see if her observation may have invited

a more beautiful conversation.

If she might have time to listen, if I might be brave to clarify. If she might be courageous enough to share her own heart.

Being honest is risky.

I try to recall that day. Was I exhausted or was I just me at 63?

Likely a combination.

But, wouldn’t it be beneficial in a loving way, I thought if she’d have said,

“How’s your soul, what’s on your mind, what’s causing you to feel unwell, what’s brewing underneath that’s about to boil over and you’re trying to keep it under wraps?”

“What’s the thing under the thing”

Then, I would have sensed an offer of hope.

This morning, before I threw off the covers, responded blurry eyed to a ding on my phone, I thought of this longing…to be seen,

to have a sweet conversation about why she thought I “looked so tired”.

I thought of Martha.

I thought of what Jesus told her and how women especially, decide even if in secret, “Mary was his favorite.”

And we know that Jesus was simple telling her to see her sister’s choice to rest as a better choice and still, I wonder…

Could he have elaborated, could he have spoken with more clarity and could Martha have used different language?

“And she went up to him and said, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.”
‭‭Luke‬ ‭10‬:‭40‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Could Martha have been more vulnerable?

Could she have simply asked the question that prompted warm tears on my cheeks today?

“Jesus, do you see me?”

We likely don’t know the entire conversation, Jesus beckoning her from the kitchen to sit beside her sister.

What if what he meant was simply…you seem so tired, I know your gifts are serving, working, preparing and fixing…

So, come and rest with your sister and I and if you’d like to tell me more I’ll listen.

Many beautiful conversations have been had with the one who pointed out what she saw as my exhaustion.

I know she sees and saw me.

We’ll talk about it soon.

So, today’s good thing?

Being seen.

Who can I truly see today and in an honest exchange allow them to truly see me and then in a conversation that offers hope.

Then, we go on our way

seen, known and loved.

Continuing to believe.

You are loved (more than you’ve been told).

31 days of good things

Abuse Survivor, aging, bravery, contentment, courage, Faith, family, hope, memoir, Vulnerability, wisdom

Day 18 – Wisdom Found and Acquiring

What a difference two days makes!

On Monday, baby Henry was a tiny bit heartbreaking. He’s getting new teeth. He wanted me, wanted to be held.

Our morning walk required holding.

Today, he bounced his little feet and nodded his head. He was very happy in the stroller.

The news broke through regular shows because the President was about to speak in Israel.

I didn’t want Henry to hear it, sense it, see it.

I turned the television off.

Baby settled, we took off strolling.

And he was so very content, I began to filter recent conversations, a wide and varied assortment.

A strange thought came, I embraced it, a question…

If I were to talk as in TedTalk fashion, what could I contribute?

I made a mental list. You should too.

I could talk about:

How to supervise employees with helpful attention and kindness

How not to because you work best alone

How to forgive those who harmed you even though forgetting the wrong is not possible

How to recover from disordered eating and why the recovery is a constant decision not to seek comfort or self-destruction through food. Why it’s complex and invites patience with oneself

Why it’s important to be brave in your conversations with your children, adults or babies or teenagers. Why it’s good to be silent, allow them to throw their words like darts towards you as you sit still,

bravely listening, receiving.

How to look in the mirror, full on when suddenly your eyes are tiny and your body is dramatically shifting

Why rest is golden, why it’s okay to lie down in the middle of the day, why it’s peace

What children have taught me about prayer, always thank you’s, never give me now and hurry

Why I believe in Jesus and how I wonder why others are afraid to just believe.

How I know God is acquainted with every facet of me and the true occurrences that surprised me to say “See, I see.”

How to be brave.

How childhood poverty always makes you feel like you’re dressed in old dresses or too tight pants, inappropriate shoes

I’ve spoken in public on occasion. Honestly, without notes…only my heart for the cause for which I spoke.

It would seem I might be able to speak for and of myself.

Instead, I choose writing and I pray writing keeps choosing me.

What would your TedTalk share?

31 days of good

Abuse Survivor, aging, anxiety, bravery, Children, courage, Faith, hope, memoir, Peace, Redemption, Stillness, Vulnerability, wonder

Day 16 – Hard Things (to me)

I wrote in my journal, “Ask for help.”

“Do hard things.” a long time ago.

What feels hard to you?

Hard to acknowledge, a secret reluctance for you?

It’s hard for me to drive in the dark, mostly the early morning darkness on back roads.

There’s no reason other than me deciding this is hard.

The congested four lane before the interstate, the winding two lane road to the country

Me, traveling out to the wide open space and all the others “goin’ to town” for work.

The headlights that approach, the obnoxious ones, I decide don’t care enough about me to change to dim.

It makes no sense to feel sort of stalked, sort of threatened, sort of unable to be sure of being safe; headlights coming in a way that feels like force always scares me, tells me I’m in danger.

The place that marks the “almost there” this morning beckoned me to glance forward.

A fence with overgrown weeds as borders made the perfect shape of a cross in one section.

My headlights landed there.

I’d never noticed before.

The grey blue sky showing no sign of morning until it suddenly, surprisingly did.

And there I was, safely cradling a baby safely as we stood steady on the porch with lingering love you’s to sister and mama.

And I thought, how sweetly I’ve been guided all my life.

I can do hard things.

I can ask my God for help.

31 days of good

Abuse Survivor, Art, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, Faith, grace, hope, jubilee, memoir, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, rest, Salvation, self-portrait, testimony, Trust, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing

Day 12 – Doodling

Most of my life I’ve been nurtured by the pencil in hand, a piece of paper, a margin that invites.

Art sustains me.

A wise Dr. and author, Curt Thompson reminds often of attachment that we as children needed to be “seen, safe, soothed and secure” and that need is innate. We will always be in pursuit.

Interestingly, adding color to paper and hinting at an emotion are when I feel these needs are known most and met.

How about you?

Is it art?

Music?

Prayer?

or something else.

I hope you know this “withness with God” often.

You are loved.

Even if the child in you lacked one of the “s”’s.

She’s still there, self-aware, surrendered and seeking solace in the sweet places she’s found herself

Seen, soothed, safe and secure.

Continue and believe.

31 days of good

Abuse Survivor, Angels, Art, Faith, grandchildren, heaven, mixed media painting, painting, Peace, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

Day 7 – Sovereignty

Baby Henry slept over last night.

Sweet boy startled for some reason around 8 and began to cry.

Really cry.

Upset.

Grandma tried to let him have the infant resolve to resolve his fear or big emotion.

I caved.

We sat together after the sweetness of a sway that became a firm embrace and he was awake and it seemed thinking until I laid his little body back down.

Sleep continued until 6:13.

He woke happy, ready for the day.

Still dark outside, we walked about the house, down the hall, to the kitchen and with one hand clutching coffee and the other balancing baby, we decided to say good morning to the day.

I walked into the twilight, looked up and said, “Look, Henry, a morning moon just for us.”

Soft peaks of clouds broken and scattered and in the center filtered through the shifting, a very bright little moon.

And I was awed in a sort of tiny way when I thought about the serendipity type occurrence.

Sovereign God knows me so very well.

Knew the baby and I would walk into the dark of a Saturday morning and I would glance up and stand still until my glancing became a soul tending gaze.

Henry mirroring my face towards heaven.

This 31 days of good is I’m afraid not keeping its promise for light and “less, Lisa”.

Still, today very, very early, there was this moon and because I believe in a God who is very near, not at all far away.

My good thing today is the miraculously unable to comprehend, only celebrate.

Sovereignty,

the God who designed the riddle of me, being sovereign over me.

Singing like a whisper.

I painted today, covered over another abstract and just let it be and not be until it told the story I was holding.

Singing over me, singing over you.

God is.

Continue and believe.

Hope On

Abuse Survivor, bravery, contentment, courage, creativity, doubt, Faith, grace, grief, hope, memoir, mercy, Peace, Redemption, rest, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder

“…Be careful, be quiet, do not fear, and do not let your heart be faint…
‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭7‬:‭4‬ ‭ESV

Of all the seasons, Fall feels most like either a resistance to or a gentle walk with open hearts and hands into new.

Fresh wind, fresh chances to let things die (finally) and wait for new after the coming Winter, uncertainty of hard and cold.

Waiting requires hope and hope never disappoints. An open heart, hands opened to let God handle what you’ve been clenching way too long.

The leaves are loosened from the trees, their dance is light and free, letting go with glee. There’s a metaphor here, a message for me maybe you, indeed.

Open hands, open heart, thriving souls.

I plant tiny and tender violas, the most fragile of petals and yet they survive the change, the wind, the cooler and brittle air.

Precious flowers, every year planted to sort of honor my grandmother and to tangibly decide to believe,

Hope won’t put me to shame.

Hope never disappoints.

Hope is soft, a demeanor of belief, whereas as dread, fear, speculation or defeat offer nothing at all,

only take and tie up our precious souls, leave us to decide we’re worthless, discarded, without hope.

Choose to hope.

“Surely there is a future, and your hope will not be cut off.”
‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭23‬:‭18‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Seen and Seeing, Compassionately

Abuse Survivor, aging, bravery, confidence, courage, depression, doubt, eating disorder, Faith, grace, grandchildren, hope, marriage, memoir, Peace, Redemption, self-portrait, traumatriggers, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing

I had a dream that felt sort of silly. The blip of remembering was simple, I looked in the mirror and saw myself having a day of “good hair”.

My hair is super thin and greying. My hair and I have always had an unhappy relationship.

What an odd dream, likely birthed from two conversations.

The first, a fun exchange, the second an honest answer.

I arrived early for my appointment with the doctor. I had my information and privacy forms completed in advance. The receptionist sort of celebrated that and smiled.

“I need an insurance card and her I.D.” she added. I provided both and she said…

“Tell her to have a seat and we’ll call in a few minutes.” One last question,

“Does she have an emergency contact, is it you?”

I answered yes and sat back down.

In a minute or two, I went back to the counter and in a sort of hushed tone I said…

“I’m Lisa.” And she was clearly puzzled.

I added quietly still, “You said “she” and “her” and I’m just curious why…is this a new protocol?”

And then to my surprise, she raised her eyebrows and mouthed an “Oh”.

She didn’t think I was the patient, she did not think I was 63 years old.

We both smiled and continued to chat about age and wrinkles and I told her so excitedly, she had “made my day”.

To know that I had been seen in a different way was the sweetest thing.

The kindest conversation.

Not like one that questions your age in a flattering way; no, one with sincere surprise that I was the patient, not the companion to an elderly parent.

“Lisa” they called and I was escorted to the scales. I slipped my shoes off, had to step off and on twice, the nurse said the scales were “being difficult”.

I acknowledged the seemingly unchangeable number was the same at home and casually said, “Good to know.”

And I had my check-up, scheduled another and went on with my day.

I bought a new bathing suit, one size smaller but seemed it may fit, lined in lavender and covered with painterly abstract flowers.

It was a bargain, really pretty.

Bought groceries, caught up with a friend and her husband who are grandparents to their second, a two-week old.

Then home to cook supper.

Decided to ask my husband a question, a sort of curiously brave wondering.

Not sure why, he’s super late to the game and needed a little education, but he decided to create a Facebook profile.

Now, he’s all in.

I warned him, it’ll draw you in. It seems he’s reviewed as far back as a few years ago, all of my posts, all of my content.

No worries, he’s often read this blog and he knows I can be a little deep, sometimes pitiful and I hope, always honest.

He mentioned a particular post of him recording a little song for one of our granddaughters on her little karaoke toy.

It was sweet. It was a few years ago.

Knowing he was familiar with my Facebook presence, I asked

“I post a lot about my faith, my struggles, my hopes, my learning to trust…The things I post are mostly about faith.

When you read those things, do you say to yourself, they don’t know the real Lisa, or she’s not really that way?”

Brave, right?

He answered, “No, not at all. It’s good that you’re that way. It’s good.”

Grace, right?

Just last night, I complained about something trivial and apologized for being “hateful” right away.

And last week, I came clean about my in general self-centeredness. The me that had become miserable and often, mean.

I’m learning to catch it quickly, see it for what it is, the enemy trying to taint the essence of me so that my light is too dim for others to see,

my story fading back to grim rather than walking towards the brilliance of light and living water worth sharing.

Healing from old mindsets is not a snap of the finger,

(I hope you know that)

It is a choice to choose the work of being a participant in healing, not a parader of our trauma as a reason to be hopeless or an excuse to be hateful, the darker side of you enveloping you.

When I bought groceries on the day my age was mistaken, I had in mind a gesture.

I cooked a meal for my daughter’s family, the meal (one of them) my mama was famous for.

My grandson and I sampled it.

It was lovely.

It was a small thing.

It came from that reservoir of grace God placed in my soul, the bubbling brook of mercy I don’t deserve, and the meandering path of my beautiful inheritance through salvation that I sometimes veer from because I get caught up in the before of me rather than the moment, the day.

And I find myself by the slightest ugly little pull, questioning the details of my life and I focus on what I don’t want to accept, the dark days of me and I’m prone to plop down in that dark dank place of not remembering good, only horrific

until I pray and count the gifts of today.

And I walk in the light, the place where my story, the lightness of it may give a little light to others on my way. And I notice and cherish unexpected light that came my way.

I felt old, a stranger blessed my day.

I felt hopelessly overweight, I was met by my own acceptance and a bathing suit that fit.

I felt ashamed of my self-centeredness. I apologized quickly and I cooked a meal with a nine-month old playing “drums” with a spoon at my feet.

All of my life, I have been loved.

I’ve often slipped and come close to falling.

I’ve been kept.

This is my story.

“The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭121‬:‭5‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Continue and believe.

The Lord is your keeper.

Growing Pains

Abuse Survivor, aging, Art, bravery, contentment, Faith, grandchildren, grief, memoir, Peace, Redemption, rest, Trust, Vulnerability, walking, wisdom, wonder

“The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭90‬:‭10‬ ‭ESV‬‬

In the night, I’m awakened by deep pain in the upper right arm. I turn to the other side, feed my arm though the pillow, let my hand rest against the headboard.

For a few moments, who knows how long since sleeping either feels like a long long time or only just a minute.

The ache returns. I shift. I reposition.

I sleep.

My trainer says it’s likely the tendon that has some tearing. So I choose a lighter weight.

I don’t stop lifting.

She adds it’s likely the baby carrying and pauses and with no regard for my emotions, concludes…

Also, the painting, the steady and repetitive motion of the brushing of paint on a canvas.

And I’m startled in a serious way.

“Ohhhh…” I say.

Meaning, “Oh no!” but keeping that tinge of grief to myself.

Then the advisors advise.

“Rotator cuff”, “tough surgery”

“You don’t want to mess with that.”

“A supplement is what you need, CoQ10 is wonderful.”

So, yes. I’m now a supplement(s) consumer.

Because I’m painting still and I’m still holding the baby.

I’m growing. I’m aging. My arms are past sixty years of good and meaningful use.

Moving towards 70.

Contemplatively beginning to number my days.

“So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭90‬:‭12‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I’m walking with my grandson in the same morning way I walked with my four year old granddaughter. She loved and loves talking.

He likes music.

Soon, he’ll be running.

I’ll be teaching him about the “stay in the middle, middle, middle, middle.”

To keep his eyes on the road, to distinguish between a root and a snake.

Soon, he’ll be sprinting.

My legs will need to be able to keep up.

So, I keep moving.

I keep using what I got.

And I’ll keep growing.

I’ll make sure the soil of my soul is fertile.

My arms connected like branches to the nourishment of the vine, my Savior.

Because like the worn out tendons, the much used bones, the hands and fingers used to hold and to create and to cherish the objects I’ve been gifted to make.

I must care for them.

I must nurture my growth.

Wisdom comes in knowing.

In knowing, God’s not finished with me yet.

I’m still growing.

The majestic oak that cushions the curve is shedding its bark. Brownish grey paper size pieces of bark are scattered in the weeds. The thick and arm like branches from the hefty trunk are now a pristine color.

I told myself last week

“Your branches are brittle, your reaching has distanced you from the vine.”

I’m less than seven years from seventy.

My mama was buried the day before her 70th.

Hers and my health are not close to the same but our stories are marked by similar trauma, a similar tenacity and I believe, a comparable hope and a love for living.

I thought of her in the fog of today’s morning. I have things I want to say.

“It’s unfair”, I said to no one within hearing.

“Yes, it is.” I answered and continued into my day.

Knowing she’d say “Choose life today, Lisa. Choose life. Keep turning the page.”

Keep growing.

Continue being brave.

The pains you’re noticing are proof.

Proof of your choosing life despite pain, despite unfairness and in the midst of necessary change.

Keep returning.

Returning to rest in me.

“This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says: “Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved.

In quietness and confidence is your strength.”
‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭30‬:‭15‬ ‭NLT‬‬

When my children were babies, we walked to the creek, the clay road with deep ditches, one holding my hand or running fast ahead, the other held tightly in my arms…one hand under the booty and the other around the chest.

Holding tightly.

Holding on.

Without limits or conditions.

Love keeps us strong, letting go while embracing new.

Wilderness Words

Abuse Survivor, Art, bravery, courage, creativity, curiousity, Faith, family, Holy Spirit, hope, painting, patience, Peace, Redemption, revival, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing

“Why do you use/love weird words?” one or both of my children.

In some form or fashion, the question often came. And I’d say what was true.

“I love words. If we’ve got ‘em we need to use them.”

I have an old dictionary, 1962 Webster’s. The pages are the color of clay and smelly.

But, I love words. I just do. God woke me with the question again of why I have a pattern of making myself small, why small feels safe. A word came, do I try to “diminish” my worth? Alone and small feels safe. And yet, I am certain there’s only a tiny bit I know of all who might be influenced by my story, by my creative expression.

There’s safety in being diminished. I looked the word up in the old dictionary and it’s just what I thought, “to make less, weaken, impair”.

God led me to Exodus. The people were discontent with the bountiful provision. Most translations say they were “grumbling” and yet, the more appropriate and earlier translated word was “murmuring”.

Again, I go to Webster. To murmur is to “utter complaints in a low doleful sound”. And “doleful” is a sound that someone makes when they are sorrowful or in dismay.

The whole congregation of Israel was “grumbling”. In the ESV version, the word is used eight times in Chapter 16.

I’m the KJV, the word is “murmurings”.

“I have heard the murmurings of the children of Israel: speak unto them, saying, At even ye shall eat flesh, and in the morning ye shall be filled with bread; and ye shall know that I am the LORD your God.”
‭‭Exodus‬ ‭16‬:‭12‬ ‭KJV‬‬

Yesterday, I saw faces of grocery store shoppers. I saw a dullness, an apathy, a less than attentive glance to those around them. I saw “doleful” expressions.

Why does one word matter? Murmuring comes from dismay. Grumbling is well just more of a selfish grouchiness.

It matters because of the invitation to know that God sees you, hears your quiet complaint. God is provision. Your woeful or questioning wilderness is being noticed.

And just as the Lord told the Israelites even in their hopeless state…I cared for you. He is caring for me.

For you.

For the generations that are here and to come because of you.

“And Moses said, This is the thing which the LORD commandeth, Fill an omer of it to be kept for your generations; that they may see the bread wherewith I have fed you in the wilderness, when I brought you forth from the land of Egypt.”
‭‭Exodus‬ ‭16‬:‭32‬ ‭KJV‬‬

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