Several days ago, someone purchased a tiny angel painting. This collector was a little girl with a tiny little coin purse. Her mom suggested she choose between two and she looked over decidedly at me saying, “This one.” Her mom smiled and announced to her, “You’ve just begun your very own art collection!”
I’m recalling her precious smile as I pause to see the title of a painting unintentionally changed from “All in All” to “Texas Angel”. The caption included in the email from the printer has now become the name of this painting and I couldn’t be more pleased.
Like many of you, I’ve been moved to tears by the floods in Texas, the images of sweet faces and the devastation. I decided to create an angel, one created with torn paper pieces, layered on colors of earthen green mixed with vibrant tones. I decided to offer this painting in collaboration with The Scouted Studio, an online studio for which I’m grateful to be represented by. We decided to donate 100% of the proceeds to flood relief efforts and support. As a former nonprofit director, I reached out to Community Foundation of the Texas Hill Country. All proceeds will be donated to this Foundation.
Here’s how you can be involved in this support.
Visit the link to The Scouted Studio purchase an 11×14 print, signed and numbered by me. The availability of the print is limited to 75 and the time range is 7 (just four days now) The print is priced at just $70.
Thank you joining hands and hearts with Hayley Price White, owner of The Scouted Studio and I in this endeavor to help in some small way. We recognize that this contribution is so very small a response to such enormous physical and emotional need. Still, we know that to do “small things with great love” leads to impacts we will never know.
Thank you for being here.
Lisa (Anne)
P.S. I’m juggling Substack, Squarespace, a second children’s book idea, a book proposal for nonfiction combined with art and hoping to be loyal to those of you here. (Not mention aging, grandmothering and well, life)
I’m grateful for the grace of you still being here.
Yesterday, I chose the butterfly cup. As I daily do I considered which cup to set the tone for the day.
Lovingly Torn
Groggy from fitfully sleeping at first and then sort of languishing, I had been still and quiet
waiting for the sunlight to come.
The butterfly mug was the choice and I waited for the coffee, frothed it with vanilla, checked on the dog and sat in my spot.
“Metamorphosis”, I thought.
I remembered the realization of why I loved a recent read.
What I thought was honesty and authenticity was something different, something I felt more clearly.
It was her “loving tone” and I decided quickly I want to be a writer with such a tone.
I want to be a woman whose tone is loving.
I realized it’s life that decides this for us. We just embrace the gift and most importantly be satisfied in it as enough.
I finished another collection of angels yesterday. The surprise of them being so intriguing to others at first surprised me.
I thought and debated on their titles, “Flourishing 1-7”.
Then I wrote down the reason for this name. I reflected on the process of their creation.
I paint paper.
I tear paper into pieces and I manipulate the shape.
I add colors in right places, I use what might have been thrown away to create a new thing.
Flourishing I , the hem
These pieces, this process all happened sweetly accidental.
My granddaughter and I decided to make butterflies from pieces of some of my old and packed away papers.
And it simply began. This process that resulted in and continues to evolve into stories on canvas.
Happenstance has been the gift of this silent metamorphosis.
Sort of natural and more than sort of unforced.
Like the butterfly, beauty resulted from waiting quietly and still for it to ease from within
Spread gently its wings and fly.
Yesterday after church, my granddaughter held tightly a piece of white paper, folded and creased many times by her little hand.
Her mama held onto it like a prize as Elizabeth fluttered off to run circles with her brother.
I came home and added the final layer to the “Flourishing” collection, photographed them and added descriptions.
“Richly layered with color, these pieces represent flourishing to me. We think less about flourishing in the Winter months. We’re more likely to feel a bit “neutral” if we were to describe ourselves as a color palette. What if we leaned into the confidence that in what may seem to be a dormant season is actually a time of great internal growth? The truth is that whatever feels hidden or delayed is leading to our growth in lasting ways.”
I’m not sure others will see this on the canvas. It’s what I feel in the process and it’s my hope that love, that tone comes through.
My artwork, when unforced comes from within not without.
The postures, the colors, the movement and strokes so very often mimic wings.
I changed a piece yesterday afternoon late. It had been abstract, it had been soft and yet bold but only an idea of what I hoped it would say.
Becoming
My brush found the lines, the curves that I know.
The tilt of the head in prayer, the waiting posture of one in the wings.
The patient figures believing, along with me, in the process, the secret one.
Calmly waiting to see what might develop, might say what’s needing to be said both clearly and lovingly.
And mostly to know that the process that both comforts and guides may offer hope to others.
This morning, after resting well, I chose the simple ivory mug.
The day is unfolding.
So is the love. Wait slowly.
Stay with it, the tone. Always hope.
We may know who we are.
We surely know who we’ve been.
But, we don’t know fully who we are becoming.
We should surrender to the art of us, not resist.
“The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.” Lamentations 3: 25-26 ESV
I’m standing in the kitchen remembering my call to my aunt last night.
My uncle answered the phone. His voice was sweet as he told his wife, “It’s Lisa.”
I heard her sweet “oh” in the background and even heard the shuffling of her slippers.
She began. I listened. We talked for an hour. We caught up on our Christmas Days and recalled the gathering, crazy and loud she’d opened her home for the week before.
Aunt Boo’s Tree
It was New Year’s Day and she told me through tears that she’d been thinking about her daughter, about New Year’s Day decades ago being the last time she saw her.
I told her I think of the weight of her loss so very often even though it is a loss I do not know.
Then she shifted and said, “Lisa, that ornament…” in her long slow and sweet drawl.
There were 25 (I think) of us gift exchangers that day in a crazy loud game we call “white elephant”.
The week before in an antique store, I spotted the same bejeweled ornaments my grandmother made long ago. I chose one from the three to be my Georgia “White Elephant” gift.
The game began, the grownups crowded and noisy in the living room. I believe my aunt’s number was 8 of 25.
She chose the nondescript paper bag with ribbon. I watched.
I smiled.
I called my granddaughter over and whispered in her ear…
“She’s got the special one.”
She smiled knowingly.
I watched across the room and my eyes met the gentle expression of my aunt.
“I can’t believe you chose that one, I can’t believe. I can’t.” I said.
Later she told me “that was God, Lisa.”
I said, “I know.”
Miracle : an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs
The two of us stunned and a little bit oblivious to anything else in the room.
Last night, she told me she’d taken down her fabulous tree, carefully packed her ornaments away.
Except for bejeweled one.
This one, she said will be displayed with other treasures in her cabinet all year.
“We’re the same, Lisa.” she said. “We know about prayer and we know about patience.”
No one else understood or paused that day to see the gift as a “God thing”, a miracle.
Just Aunt Boo and I did.
As I stood in my kitchen this morning, the surest thought came.
We don’t see the miracles because somehow we’ve decided to not be amazed.
Amazed like my aunt and I were that day and in the days to follow.
Deciding it was a miracle, the last minute gift chosen by the one who’d most sweetly be excited.
When I tweaked the words on the About page of my Artist website, I had really no idea of the reason.
I knew I wanted to “offer hope” to others through my paintings.
I also knew it wasn’t really within my power to produce hope for others.
Especially when I’d been in a season of waning hope.
Still, I embraced it as a brand, ordered stickers to use on my packaging and even put a sticker on the back window of my car.
I envisioned people passing by and in some small way, a little circle sticker might lead to a belief in the power of hope.
Sure, “Lisa Anne Tindal – Fine Art” is under the two words; but, my name is in the tiniest of fonts.
How do you feel about hope?
Is it just a fluttery little word like a tender feather or do you understand the weight of deciding its importance.
I’m beginning to see it more as a choice we can make, an outreached hand of goodness for the taking.
I’m beginning to understand that to “defer” hope doesn’t mean you decide “oh,well…maybe not”.
It means deciding to give up.
Morning Mercy
It’s so very easy to focus inward on all the secret longings and doubts, an inventory of inwardness. When I focus upward and outward, I notice things other than myself.
It’s a practice that seems small but makes a big difference.
What have you stopped hoping for?
God keeps bringing me to the phrase “deferred hope”.
Is there a secret you’re keeping? Are you doubtful and desperate but doing your best for others not to know?
Because God is a God of hope, if we postpone or decide there’s no hope, we’re essentially “deferring” our belief in God.
Hope today.
Decide to be intentionally hopeful that God is near, loves us and is only good.
“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.” Proverbs 13:12 ESV
For a woman who recalls little girl church being a place more of unbelonging than one of welcoming invitation, more of shouting than speaking…some words and concepts have always felt too special for me.
Being “consecrated” or living a life that can be defined as consecrated seems way too high and mighty and too out of my timid and torridly lived life to believe.
It was never taught that it was good to be strong, only honorable to be tiny and weak.
Last Saturday morning the house was quiet.
Ornaments I’d reimagined and repainted were laid out and tied with gold ribbon.
The morning light was pretty. I photographed them one by one on a white backdrop of poster board.
Carefully edited them and added to my website. Then I settled on the floor and moved to lie down, my face resting on the carpet.
The Angels
I prayed an honest prayer:
“Lord, I consecrate these ornaments to you. I consecrate my art to you.
I don’t know what that means, Lord. It feels too out of my realm, too out of my reach. Still, I consecrate my life to you…even if it feels too special for me, too much for me to understand.”
I rose from the floor, gathered up all the pretty ornaments and moved to the next thing of the day.
Then the collection of Angel Ornaments, numbered 1-7 sold out in an hour.
I am beginning to understand the simplicity of simply giving something to God and going on with an internal hope.
To believe such pretty words could be mine to trust in.
Because deciding not to hope or deciding a life in rhythm with God is just too special and unattainable is deciding to live in scarcity
rather than abundance.
And it’s a choice we’re invited to make, never one made as the result of a harsh or heavy-handed or demanding God.
That’s the truth.
The truth we can believe.
“The consecrated life is a life let go of …a life that opens its heart and hands to the Sovereign God’s knowledge of me completely. The consecrated life trusts that the Maker of me knows me best and knows best.”
Maybe you’re still that little girl with the ingrained rants in your head that you’re just too impure, too damaged, too from the wrong side of the tracks, too destined to repeat the things genetics and environment said you would…
And maybe you have.
And maybe you survived it all.
The reason is that hope and that tiny flicker of purpose, the light that may have dimmed.
But never has and never will go out.
Let yourself let it shine.
Hope always.
Always hope.
Not a single one of us is unfit for being drawn closer to that consecrated life.
It’s a choice without exclusions or preselected expectations.
If hope “deferred” (decided against) makes our hearts sick, how much more well will we be if we believe in hope
In the asking of brave questions, faith is given power to grow.
To give ourselves and others permission to hope. To look up and outward from wise or sorrowful inward reflection to be ignited by newness in thought.
Light Transcends
I have a friend who suggested an exercise she’d had suggested to her. As soon as you wake each morning, make a list of all the things you like about yourself (and I suppose, your life).
It’s an exercise akin to my intentional looking for color, for small glimpses of God in nature, a centerpiece on a table.
Yesterday, I thought of all the babies and children and kept circling around the question of how this world now will be then for them.
Then, upstairs with the baby, the song “What a Wonderful World” popped up.
I recognized that there will be wonder still in the world for them to discover. Wonder like plants considered “invasive” that I find spectacular.
A Wonderful Place
I haven’t done the wake up and like things about me thing yet.
I’m still thinking about our conversation that day and all the others I’ve been an invited listener to be changed by.
Honesty that’s been opening doors of my heart.
I’m remembering one offering in particular, an admission of messes made in life, wild times likely at least a part of causing.
Romans 8:28-29 is a passage sort of laid in our laps often in hard times by well-meaning friends or acquaintances.
Or it’s a subtle warning to know God is in control, better not question!
Just accept that bad happens and square your shoulders, pick up your head and carry on towards the good that’s promised.
Often, scripture is offered up and ordered to be accepted, no question.
Maybe not intentional, still there’s no healing in that.
There’s no hope, really.
Noticing Beauty
It must be quietly absorbed and eventually understood personally and deeply and with sweet humility.
This morning, I read this passage again.
“And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them. For God knew his people in advance, and he chose them to become like his Son, so that his Son would be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters.” Romans 8:28-29 NLT
I let my thoughts land on the pages of my journal.
Redemption in Process
God doesn’t cause but sometimes allows. God allows so that we will know He is still with us. He saw.
He sees.
He was and is with us. It’s impossible for Him not to be.
His Sovereign intent is one of persistent and patient pursuit.
He is still with us as we wrestle with the allowance of the crisis, the trauma, the grief, the ugly outcome.
He is still with us and if we will learn to lean into and on Him
we will changed by this leaning.
We will be changed by the hard.
We will, in the leaning, absorb His wisdom and strength.
So that we are changed (made stronger) and that change will better us and make us better carriers of faith to those we encounter.
You must ask yourself bravely what’s so hard to fathom about a God you know as love…
God, did you see, did you allow ___________?
And then you do what’s even more brave.
You look at the allowance of bad and you honestly consider how you in your woundedness, innocence, or ill-equipped for life humanity may have contributed to the eventual disaster or despair.
Then you begin to live more freely as you move closer with transparency to the redemption meant to change you, to offer new hope,
so that your hope and redemptive honesty may be influential in the lives of others.
Maybe, that’s what faith is for.
To be shared in vulnerable and unexpected conversations that change the trajectory of another’s journey.
Often, by surprise.
Just for Joy
Yes, I believe that’s what faith is for.
To bring all things together for good and for us to be more like the one who formed us with certain intention that our likeness to Him will beckon others toward a life of hope, a life of influential love and faith.
Continue and believe.
He’s got the whole world in His hands, always has, always will.
A couple of weeks ago, a gallery employee commented on what she loved about a painting. She gave a detailed and thoughtful expression of why and I agreed with her, that I loved the same detail in the piece, in the colors.
I thanked her for going a little bit farther than necessary. Rather than just saying, “I like that one or that piece is nice.” she articulated in a way that gave power to the painting, even peace.
I told her I believe that’s a treasure, when a person notices something and expresses in words the evidence that you have been truly “seen and known”.
That’s a true gift to me. Something that sticks.
Just telling someone the truth you’ve observed.
“Angel Girl”
Yesterday, after the most beautiful walk with the music of Andrew Peterson to add to the mellow of me, I paused in the yard. I moved the withered pansies from the statue and I noticed the weathering of the cement, the spots brown from age and the places cracked by icy days or maybe summer heat.
I put the birds together, the dove and the cardinal, thinking stoic and a little unpredictable, a story I kinda love.
A Menagerie
As January invites, there are inventories I’m taking. Quietly considering where this journey should go, art and writing, writing and art.
For the life of me, I can’t bear to let one go.
More importantly, I don’t think God is telling me so.
Instead, I feel a different pull toward a different audience. So far, really just a handful of people who relate to what I feel is courageously honest in my painting and in my essays or posts.
I created an Instagram post to determine “my ideal client”. I asked a couple of questions as a way to go forward.
What would you like to see more of ?
I added photos of each, women/angels, landscapes and abstracts?
And this:
the most valuable question
I left it all there and the algorithm based traffic and responses were a bit of a tiny ripple.
On my walk, I thought about it all. About my tendency to only go just so far in connecting because of fear of not connecting, fear of rejection.
Fear of showing up and showing up prepared and yet, not being seen.
I thought of the wisdom of my children who are keen observers (often honest).
One saying “show up confident” and the other saying “don’t be negative when you talk about your art”.
Thought of the morsels of truth they add to the big barrel of not so true, just always realities of this work, this calling to “offer hope”.
I woke with clarity this morning as the sun gave my window a welcome glow.
I slept well and there was a redemptive arc forming in the story I’ve been telling myself.
I discovered more beauty in the words of others.
Words prompted by my IG question:
“You know what keeps me coming back? Your honesty! I enjoyed our brief talk at the She Speaks conference this summer. You have a very open and transparent way that makes it easy to relate and connect with you! I enjoy seeing the artwork (all different kinds) but I’m not a passionate lover of art. As someone who is struggling to find my own way in my own areas, I can however relate to the highs and lows that you openly share! I followed then out of curiosity about the work which you spoke about, but now I follow because I’ve really enjoyed seeing the winding road that is your journey. It is interesting to see your processes. As well as where the Lord might be moving in you next.”
Other comments were just as kind. An equal mix of people who like the mix of subjects I paint.
Interesting, so very.
The landscapes were referred to as “soulscapes”.
One comment suggested whatever I paint, continue to paint from the soul of me.
A couple more commented on the honesty in my sharing of my honest thoughts stemming from times I hear from God.
So Blue
Yesterday, I saw a friend at church, a fairly new one. We connected and hugged and she paused mid-sentence.
“Your eyes are so blue.” She said sweetly.
I smiled, told her I used to believe that, adding it’s been a while since I loved the blue.
She smiled.
I painted into the hours of dusk. A piece I put to the side, entitled “The Offering” was lacking a story I noticed.
It was dull.
I changed the position and posture of the figure, had her cradle the vase more gently and on a whim, her gown went from ivory to blue.
More confident and still quiet.
Still herself despite the critics or the questions of her own.
Strangely, I’ve never given the name “Quiet Confidence” to a painting.
She may be the one.
And while he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over his head. There were some who said to themselves indignantly, “Why was the ointment wasted like that? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.”
And they scolded her.
For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me.
She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for burial. And truly, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the whole world,
what she has done will be told in memory of her.” Mark 14:3-5, 7-9 ESV
Maybe…no, surely that’s a word for us all.
Do confidently what you can. These choices and gifts will be told in memory of you.
And now, about the possible change. I’m motivated to write with more intention. I’ve gotten a bit lazy in all things purposeful as far as writing.
I’d love to have a more thoughtful and strategic way of connecting with those who relate to my voice, my story, my content.
Writing or blogging friends…thinking of moving my writing from WordPress to Substack. Any advice or experience? Also, has anyone saved their WordPress blogposts as a document to keep or possibly use for future publishing?
I need to make a choice very soon…renew here or start new on Substack.
I barely missed a couple of deer. Now that morning is coming sooner, I was less observant, less cautious.
Less expectant.
The couple ran together to my left in the harvested corn field. Flying through the air it seemed.
Yes, like dusty brown doves, not deer.
When the timing was right, they danced over the road in front of me just as the curve turned right to my daughter’s home.
Then, I watched expectantly for them to run back the other way, to cross the lane to the more wooded field.
But, they didn’t. They must’ve decided to continue to a better place, maybe one that felt safer.
Possibly down in the corner, the valley near the creek.
The spot I’ve set my gaze on from the kitchen window.
The place where just one tall tree in the mix of many beckons me to be still.
To notice the vivid gold.
When I understand the meaning of hope without knowing, simply hoping.
I can live expectantly.
Not expectant of celebratory good nor of sorrowful negative or even tragic.
I can understand hope as being a promise that will be kept because the Spirit of God knows.
Knows my longings. Knows me.
Knows all.
“But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness.
For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.
And he who searches hearts knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.
And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called
according to his purpose.” Romans 8:25-28 ESV
Often, I’ve remembered the words that instruct, that compel me to believe that no matter what, God brings good from all circumstances.
I’m afraid I’ve embraced this as a sort of consolation prize, a fourth runner up in a pageant who gets no crown or announcement.
A decision that all is always well for others, just not for me.
But, that’s so very distant from the truth.
The truth is, I just do not know it all, all the secrets I’ve been shielded from, all the recalculating of my directions and choices simply because that accurate and oh so loving Spirit inside me
Has said, this is the way.
It may seem wrong or not for you.
It may resemble hurt.
But, keep going.
Keep being you listening to me.
Keep being surprised by me.
In progress, I have 22 paintings commissioned that will be gifted to women, a reminder to me of something I never set out to do.
In 2015, I was given a Bible at Christmas. It was designed with space for thoughts and color in the margin.
This Bible began my journey into being an artist and it started with women from the passages who felt like women like me.
Sketches, simply sketches.
It’s now falling apart, the pages are more thin than makes sense. I should, I suppose put it away for safekeeping, stop using it.
This Bible led to painting angels for people who were grieving or needed encouragement and then to painting other subjects.
Not angels, but landscapes, abstracts, animals and trees.
And figuratively strong women standing, leaning, postured in a position that conveys battles won, grace remembered and mostly, I hope,
A decision to live with expectant hope.
To hope.
Their gazes fixed on hope.
Hope we can’t see; but, fully known because of God’s Spirit in us.
And along with all the nudges and the pauses.
The changes and questions.
I’m seeing the purpose of the visible pain and the invisible questions I’ve carried.
I’m finding my way to be guided by hope and endurance rather than questions of why and a constant looking back to a decision (even if feeble) to live “now” not then.
Knowing I have no idea what is coming only that what comes to me through my Father is always good.
Always has purpose.
We’ve come a far distance, those of us harmed by the uncertainties over why it seemed life chose to hurt us.
Talk is swirling, bad things are coming, violence and threats and better be prepared warnings.
Friday the 13th. A day I used to dread for other reasons, a few of them evidence of crises that in looking back weren’t just on a day with a horror movie predictability.
Horrible things don’t only happen on days called 13.
So, I avoid the warnings.
I pay attention to other occurrences.
The geese just flew over. My mind went to my mama’s voice, no more and no less than a simple acknowledgement to me as a girl and later my children,
“Here they come.”
So, day 13 of the 31 days of taking account of good things is celebrated not with an egg, no bread. Instead, a cranberry orange scone, buttery.
Yesterday, I listened to a conversation about worship music, more about worship than songs.
I learned that worship is not me standing side by side in an auditorium with a stage lit by changing colored lights.
Worship is not necessarily outward celebratory gratitude or praise.
It can be quite the opposite.
Worship is the tears that come when someone shared a kindness or the tears that come when someone is honest about their fears and their eyes begin to glisten, a mirror of mine.
Worship is me sitting in my mamas chair and honoring her and my God by settling my self for barely a few seconds to simply listen.
The geese noticed.
Noticing God.
And worship is me opening my hand, always the right one and saying countless times a day,
I surrender all and all is well.
And worship is the allowance of good things, rather than constant critical condemnation.
A cranberry orange scone for breakfast.
How will you worship in small ways today?
Yesterday, I was surprised by generosity. Someone purchasing art as gifts for others.
Twice in a day this happened.
I gave the giver of gifts a hug, got in my car and she in hers and I sat for a second and I smiled and shook my head in a questioning of such goodness kind of way.
And I said tenderly in a worshipful whisper,
“What a day, all this goodness, thank you, thank you God.
Once again, you’ve surprised me, wow.”
Continue and believe.
“So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him.” 1 John 4:16 ESV
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 