Angels

Maybe An Angel

Abuse Survivor, Angels, birds, birthday, bravery, Children, Christmas, contentment, curiousity, Faith, hope, memoir, Prayer, Redemption, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

The corner of my eye caught the flash of what I decided was red.

A red bird it wasn’t.

A sparrow bounced about on our porch. I watched wondering why I was so certain of the red.

Hope, I guess. It was hope and then acceptance over the tiny bird who made me smile, brown not red.

All the Christmas was put away and the boxes tissued the ornaments, lids taped together.

The baby Jesus, solitary without the ceramic lamb, camel, wise men, Mary or Joseph. It rested on the old chair.

Baby Jesus was all alone this year.

Partly intentional because I had no space, Christmas was minimal this year.

The little baby Jesus nativity piece was just in the middle of the shelf under all the stockings and a centered pinecone wreath.

I don’t think anyone noticed.

Or they kept it personal.

The message,

Christmas is about Jesus.

I didn’t tell them, not my children, other family or friends.

Gatherings were crowded, food and gifts.

Baby Jesus was among us.

“What is the price of five sparrows—two copper coins? Yet God does not forget a single one of them.”

‭‭Luke‬ ‭12:6‬ ‭NLT‬‬

Faith is a personal thing, its sharing should be softly serious.

The name Jesus conjures different thoughts for everyone.

Mostly, kept to ourselves, faith growing at our own pace.

The baby all alone, my decision over Jesus.

Not lost on me.

Maybe they knew, said us too.

Remembered what to remember.

I drove later to the busy side of town. The highway widens on the way to support the growth and is bordered for a little bit by fields of pines.

A corner lot had a cluster with a bright golden light in the middle. From a distance I noticed the flash of bright yellow and up close in my passing I saw the most luscious yellow and full of leaves maple.

It seemed not a leaf had been lost so far.

The thought of it lingered and I imagined if I’d had passengers with me, would I have said “Oh, y’all look at that tree!” ?

Or kept it to me because well, it wasn’t lost on me, me intersecting with a beautiful tree; but, if I shared it with others, would the beauty be lessened?

I wonder.

happy birthday to a rare bird

This sentiment was for me on my last birthday.

Yes, birds and me.

Rare!

I’m known by my children.

Their acceptance of me,

It is not at all lost on me.

Errands complete except for one and the roar is not letting up in my ear, not debilitating, just annoying.

Reminding me I’m human and aging.

Remember you’re not invincible. Your physical is affected by your mental, Lisa. Slow the rush, calm the hurry.

Then I choose the “go to” prescription.

I go to Panera for a sandwich.

Something about a sandwich still makes the most sense.

In the parking lot of the office supply place, I devour the roasted turkey, the bacon, the bread. I arrange the soft avocado so as each bite makes a pattern.

Sandwich joy, again.

Indulgence becoming belly fat.

Not lost on me.

I want to be alone with my sandwich.

A little beat up truck pulls into the spot directly in front of me.

Faded white, weathered and dented old Chevy S-10 (my daddy drove a forest green one about the same year model. I try not to remember.) The truck is so small, like a toy and on the bumper is rigged up a gold and green wreath, faded red ribbon and the big word dangling, “Noel”.

Curious. Now I’m curious.

They talk for a minute, both look up to see me eating.

Then the passenger, a beautiful woman in either church or funeral dress steps out. Her hair is coiffed in a side bun, her flowing dress a cobalt blue and her pearls are perfection at the collar.

I watch as she beats on the window and then the man dressed more casually emerges with her cane.

Distinguished in his “dungarees” he is.

His skin the color of a Hershey bar and his strong jaw bordered in perfect grey, he follows his female companion and glances into my passenger window.

He nods. I smile and he smiles back.

He saw me watching them and it was all good and I decide since he decided to drive around with “Noel” on the front of his truck that he loves Christmas.

That he loves Jesus too.

Not lost on me, the little things of yesterday.

The satisfaction of seeing a sparrow instead of a cardinal.

The flash of brilliance amongst the predictable.

The “Christmas man”, simple and stoic companion to a beautiful woman.

He watched me eating yet another sandwich and with a nod told me.

It’ll all be okay.

Noticing God, I sometimes call it.

Maybe it’s really noticing everything.

And I can’t help remember now my little boy son’s response one day…

What if he’s Jesus? JAS at age 7 or so.

Maybe an angel, maybe there are some here.

Hope and Strength 2020

2020 Calendar, Angels, Art, Christmas, Faith, hope, mercy, Redemption, rest, Vulnerability

It has been a happy exchange.

Not handing over a calendar or two in exchange for $25 each.

No, the happy exchange or the occurrence, I should say is to see the pages turn.

To see the faces meet the drawing of the faces of the images I’ve drawn.

To sign the backs of them

Because of mercy, LT

And to say, wanna hear something crazy…I hadn’t intended to sign them that way.

I changed my mind from the more formal “to God be all glory”.

Later, I discovered the theme for my birthday month, August, is “mercy”.

Every detail, He knows.

If you’d like to purchase a calendar, just visit my shop and order through PayPal. If you can afford it, add shipping of about $7.

Thanks so much!

Breakfast with Daddy and Mama

Angels, bravery, Christmas, confidence, contentment, daughters, grace, grief, memoir, mercy, Peace, Stillness, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

Not intentionally, I sat in the section where the older men gather for breakfast.

I didn’t want to sit next to the windows, not cold just chilly.

I’m out with a list of errands, early and sans makeup or shower.

I longed for my daddy as one came and then another.

Comparing ailments, discussing Georgia football, reading the wrong day’s paper they discovered.

I listened.

I had been thinking about Christmases of before, about hard memories, about what Christmas sometimes does to people.

Still, I missed my daddy, he left me too young.

So, I finish my meal and then sip on strong coffee.

I’m listening to their commentary and their kindness as the biscuit maker from the kitchen’s early shift rounds the corner to join them.

They catch up with one another.

The tone is pleasant.

The biscuit maker and I, we belong.

I miss my mama and my daddy at Christmas.

I’ll be attentive to who they may have been had they been allowed to be here still.

My daddy would be talking with the biscuit maker, mama too.

She’d be joining in.

She’d know right away why the biscuits were “too flaky”, what the chef had done wrong with the dough.

The gentlemen are talking behind me now,

I’ll gather my tray and go.

Give them a nod, have a good day.

They’ll wish me the same I believe.

Now I go, I go in peace towards Christmas.

Very Sure

Abuse Survivor, Angels, contentment, courage, Faith, grace, heaven, memoir, mercy, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, rest, Truth, Vulnerability, wonder

The sky this morning makes me certain.

Certain of God.

The sky, barely sunlit, so soft this morning makes me certain that God is intentional.

Look up, Lisa. Refer to me for the day’s instruction.

A soft beckoning, a reminder of grace.

Yes, I’ve decided, the way of creation is intentional.

The decay of old underfoot making what God’s nature intends for new.

The sky so big, so wide, so deeply open to interpret.

So soft this morning

On purpose.

Look. Look again.

And then again.

Grace is still for you.

Be hopeful today.

Look forward to the turning, the next bend in your road that’s not lonely at all.

Rather, open to optimal reflection.

Ease your mind, there’s still time.

The way of your steps bordered by steady and unrelenting grace.

Continue.

Continue and believe.

I made heaven and earth. I’ve got you covered, nurtured, safe and hemmed in by mercy. I’m everywhere. Don’t forget to notice.

God

Hope and Strength 2020

Angels, Art, courage, curiousity, hope, love, mercy, obedience, painting, Peace, Redemption, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I sometimes wish I didn’t love both.

Art and words.

I paint what I call “female forms”.

Some call them angels.

I’ve designed a 2020 calendar. Each month has a thought, a little nudge and a Bible verse.

11×17 on ivory, images large enough for framing.

More photos later and I’ll add to my shop.

For now….just writing about it here.

I’ve done something new.

Feels like a whim.

Is a whim a leap of faith?

Maybe.

Maybe.

More info on ordering this week!

Wonder, Full

Abuse Survivor, Angels, bravery, Children, confidence, contentment, courage, doubt, Faith, family, Forgiveness, hope, memoir, Peace, Redemption, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

Before he’d be going one way for the evening, I was preparing to go the other.

Walking the puppy, I noticed a feather.

We had a slight disagreement, nothing major. I reversed my car, felt the thump thump of something under.

I looked over and saw him, the look on his face saying, I’ll never fully understand her.

I had run over the garden hose.

He turned and I took off writing stories in my mind over the way God made me, makes us all.

“For we all stumble in many ways. And if anyone does not stumble in what he says, he is a perfect man, able also to bridle his whole body.”

‭‭James‬ ‭3:2‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I found myself teetering on the edge of despair, emotional discontentment.

He listened and tried to understand, to an extent he did; but, when he came to my defense it only added to my frustration.

Only God knows me fully.

The soul he created, His beautiful anticipation of me.

“Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.

You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb.

You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.”

‭‭Psalms‬ ‭139:14-16‬ ‭NLT‬‬

I’ve barely and inconsistently scratched the surface that might give a glimpse of the me that God sees and knows.

I find it hard to believe.

I practice intention and notice, otherwise I get sullen over the lack of notice by all the others.

I’m digging deeper, understanding a child that’s not validated will strive the rest of their days for someone to tell them they matter.

It helps to know the reason.

I found a feather, pristine and soft. I left it beside his phone before leaving. The music serenaded my husband as he watered the lawn. Like a peace offering for what I’d done he saw as wrong.

I envisioned him finding it, knowing it was an unspoken apology.

I walked alone later, the cool air sending leaves a flutter. It was good, good to walk alone.

A tiny feather I found for me, white and edged with brown, I slipped it in my pocket.

I’d been researching angels, read that finding a white feather, some believe is the presence of an angel near.

I couldn’t help but think of my mama and her love of Willie Nelson.

The line from a song about a sad soul, too far from heaven, about to lose her way or not belonging in the place she’d landed.

Too far from heaven, too close to the dirty earth and ground, the feather I found.

Angel flying too close to the ground…Willie Nelson

Back home, I saw my husband had left on the counter, a pear or an apple?

I couldn’t be sure.

I washed the tiny feather, laid it on top of the brown fruit to dry.

I can’t be certain if it’s an apple or a pear, I’ll just wonder.

Not slice it.

The beauty of it on my kitchen counter is enough.

The message of simple things, forgiveness, offerings of peace, images and objects that cause for me, remembrance of God.

Remembering with wonder.

Full of wonder over all I don’t yet see.

I am made for so much more than what I present on the outside.

I’m more significant in the eyes of God because of the me only He sees.

When God made me.

He decided my significance.

Enough.

Validated me in a way no words, acceptance, praise or accomplishment can get close to in measure.

The measure of my worth?

That God made me.

There’s a million reasons to trust Him. He knows me fully and yet, loves me still.

“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”

‭‭Psalms‬ ‭91:4‬ ‭NIV‬‬

May my soul find your nearness and stay near, God. May I be ever aware of what’s unseen, the spirit of you, nearer, nearer in my natural realm.

Too wonderful to know, too wonderful not to believe in the possibility of.

Believe.

Continue and believe.

So Small

Abuse Survivor, Angels, Art, confidence, contentment, courage, doubt, hope, kindness, memoir, Peace, praise, Redemption, Stillness, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, waiting, writing

Out walking, I prayed.

Lord, I’m in need of some sort of confirmation, small something to say, keep waiting for it or keep writing or no.

Big things attempted, proposal and query, how embarrassing to walk away…

Decide it’s okay to stop or to persist?

A story came through scripture about the little boy with the little bit of bread and what Jesus told the disciples to tell the thousands.

“Jesus said, “Have the people sit down.”

‭‭John‬ ‭6:10‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Then he multiplied the loaf, a miraculous sight.

The people were well fed.

Before the panic began, Jesus assured their need was met.

I’ve stopped tracking my followers and I’ve stopped asking for subscribers to my newsletter.

I’ve never been great at asking for things, I’m content with slipping back into my safe place.

The place that says find me if you need something, I’m always willing to listen and to help if I’m able.

I can pray.

This is not effective according to many in the community called writing. Not effective or conducive to being published, to being read.

To being valid, being noticed.

I get that. I understand and yet, small feels safe now.

Being okay with small seems a significant decision for me.

If one person reads a blogpost or an early morning relatable “sermon to self” that I share and feels more at peace or intrigued.

Isn’t that ministry?

Isn’t that me?

Wherever your life touches another life, there you have opportunity. George S. Merriam

Out of the blue, a friend asked for prayer, said she feels dismissed, sort of lost and empty.

I sent her a message back, a prayer.

We long for significance.

We look to outsiders and we long to belong somewhere, to be amongst the fancy others we decide have more purpose, are fulfilling theirs.

I’m thinking now about a woman in the Bible who has no name.

She is a widow.

She walks through the crowd to deposit two copper coins, amounted to a penny.

I’m thinking the others all around were comparing their donations and maybe some were humble or all were haughty.

They probably didn’t hear the coins as they fell from her hand into the place called the treasury.

I imagine the widow quietly turning to go her way, back to her solitary home.

Jesus saw her.

He saw that she gave what she could.

All she had.

“Jesus looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the offering box, and he saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. And he said, “Truly, I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them. For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.”

‭‭Luke‬ ‭21:1-4‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I’m more emotional now.

My throat is tight inside as I type and think of the worth of these words, the gift of what Jesus did.

We don’t know her name. We only know what she gave.

So small.

Yet, so significant.

I will check in with my friend later, hope she’s found some rest from her seeking to fill the emptiness.

Because I pondered whether we’re even supposed to believe we’re significant. I mean aren’t we supposed to be servants, meek and lowly

Humble?

I learned a while back, a young preacher who called me a hero called out my idea of staying humble, staying hidden, not drawing attention.

Told me that was false humility, not God’s idea.

And I didn’t tell him then because it has taken me a while to believe it.

Just like the widow with only two cents,

I am significant.

So are you.

The Intersecting of You

Abuse Survivor, Angels, birds, confidence, contentment, curiousity, depression, Faith, grace, hope, memoir, mercy, Peace, Prayer, Stillness, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

I got away from it.

Decided it was silly.

Began to discount its value, my fascination with feathers.

I’d been letting them lay, walking right past or looking closely to consider gathering up only to find them invaluable.

Worse yet, taking cute pictures and posting them.

I was faking.

It was a slow descent into believing that was crazy, finding a feather and proclaiming it prophetic or memorable in some way.

Worse yet, believing a feather on the ground meant God was watching and that He knew my steps would be passing this way, that my rapid walk would slow and my glance go sideways to find the loosened from goose, hawk, sparrow or bluebird, feathers.

I had become unaffected by discovery.

I could not seem to find God for a bit.

Thickly guarded and girded in old dark leather, my heart felt imprisoned by invalid disdain.

But, the softening would not let up, the grace of God wouldn’t relent.

I walked after skipping two days due to fatigue and suffocating heat. There had been a shower, the breeze was back.

I trudged on for the sake of the good it does me, wards off depression, affords time alone.

The white was glistening in the grass, a feather like the wing of an angel in the same spot as three days ago.

I had found it, held it for a second and then decided to let it land as I wistfully blew it loose from my fingers attempting a cinematic floating away of it towards heaven.

Instead it just fell and I walked on.

See, told you, I thought to myself.

What has happened? You don’t care anymore.

Until yesterday I saw it and I asked myself.

What’s happening with you? Why have you stopped being open to noticing, to deciding God is near?

I held the feather, turned it over to see the beauty of strong striated brown, ivory, black all perfectly curving upward from the sturdy white spine like unbreakable bone.

I walked on, holding it in my free hand. Passed another walker, phone in her hand, noise in our ears.

We nod and continue.

Good, no casual conversation required. Relief.

I think for a second. I wish I was more of a “peopler”.

And then I am surprised, this longing for people; this is new.

God is doing something, making me less okay with lonely.

I continue walking and I decide I’ll not keep the feather, I have so very many.

But, something else, maybe.

I walk towards the end of the trail. In the center is a short pole that keeps cars from entering.

I position the feather there and I leave it, uncertain if it will stay, if the breeze will catch it, if it will simply fall to the hard ground of trail or if someone will come along behind me walking and find it, to say.

Oh, wow, a feather. Wow, this seems significant, my finding.

I imagine them feeling a peace.

I believe it will make a difference for the discoverer and this has me hopeful again.

“You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness,”

‭‭Psalms‬ ‭30:11‬ ‭ESV‬‬

This return to my sure noticing, this return to my embrace of God, of lying my head on his shoulder, being held by His grace, wonderfully.

And wonderment, again.

To return to a simple joy that few speak of but find it too.

I believe.

Lord, may I remain pliable, may I welcome the breaking of my hard places to be approachable and to never grow so thickly guarded or burdened that I don’t welcome the intersecting of you.

With me.

And with others.

Inspired

Abuse Survivor, Angels, Art, bravery, courage, curiousity, Faith, freedom, memoir, mercy, Redemption, rest, Stillness, Vulnerability, wonder

A call for artists’ submissions to illustrate a poem entitled “Exhale” caused me to sit with paper, pencil, water and color.

Especially the part about

…after waiting so long. Maggie Swofford

I was moved by the image of a jubilant one fleeing.

My illustration was selected by Fathom Magazine. Click here to read the poem and view the other images

Exhale

It’s not wasted on me that the poet and I connected and that our creativity and maybe similar experiences have been ours.

Flee freely,

Continue and believe.