bravery

You Can

Abuse Survivor, Art, bravery, courage, Faith, hope, mixed media painting, painting, Redemption, sons, Vulnerability, wonder
Sunday Works

I cried on the back road to Target.

I cried because the mean old thing called fear has been catching up, wrapping its arms around me like a stranglehold suffocating and silencing my wildest, most wonderful hopes.

I cried a little on the trip to find shelves to organize my paint (again).

Tears that said “not again”.

I’ve been hoping I was wrong about what I giddily decided was just right for right now.

I cried because my jaded conclusions drawn because of past hurts, harms, manipulative grooming and demands is putting me in the corner again.

I’ve been hoping I’ll hear they decided it was not right for me to paint and speak after all.

Then, I can sigh and sit quietly hidden in the identity that is me after all.

Alone and isolated, but safe on my own terms.

So, once the quiet tears stopped on their own, I reread the invitation to be photographed and have my artwork possibly featured with others in a future exhibit.

I reread, researched and respected the questioner, trusted it and him.

I said yes because my tears were not from fear, instead from fear that I may again be trapped in my decision to hide and that would mean

I wouldn’t go on.

Again.

It would mean ignoring how far God has brought me and that would be dishonorable.

Dishonoring myself and the one who made me to walk through doors I didn’t even knock on,

“You were not made to cower. You were made to create and to share what you make. You were made to be authentically brave.” me

Why do I write about such things, things like declining invitations because trauma triggers say “stay safe, stay humble, stay nothing, be nothing other than afraid and small”?

Because tears on the way to Target may be sweeter than you think, might be a tender gift.

Good tears, friends, very good.

I write because it helps me see the tears on the way to Target were not sad tears at all, rather than were cleansing, clarity, another swash of the trauma residual slate washed clean.

Tears that say okay, now

Take a breath, check your mascara, dab a little color on your lips.

Take a breath, say a secret prayer.

Go on.

You can.

I assembled the shelves from Target remembering the time I felt so excited. I put the bed frame together for my newly relocated to Colorado son. He’d gone to run some sort of errands, returned to realize I’d done it all wrong.

This son of mine who invited his mama to accompany him cross country, the gift of this will not, does not, has not escaped me.

I lined all my pastels, pencils, watercolor acrylic and oil tubes of paint in their own places and threw the dried up paint away.

Then, I painted.

Not as planned or expected, but I painted.

I’ll paint tomorrow.

I’ll keep on.

“For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.”
‭‭Romans‬ ‭8:15‬ ‭KJV

Glad In Them

Angels, bravery, Children, contentment, daughters, family, grandchildren, hope, memoir, Trust, Vulnerability, wonder

I didn’t expect to be emotional.

I thought, I think… this is good, no surprise, exciting, you get a break to paint or to do whatever.

But, that’s okay. Last days are good, are meant to be noticed and honored.

Remembered.

Honored with the grace of two breezy morning walks, odd finds, two morning glory flowers, yellow leaves and some important to remember instructions about songs.

Today had me thinking of last days, last things.

Odd, some may say, but I miss the meetings when I offered up my space and the mothers, fathers, friends and others who introduced themselves with the story of the loved one who chose suicide.

I don’t miss the stories, I miss the significance of their sharing. I miss being invited to join them. I miss showing up.

I don’t miss the trying to turn left from Aiken Middle School’s exit to take my son home, but I miss my on the cusp of manhood son and his four or five tightly knit rascally buddies with baseball on their minds and ambition on their fearless shoulders.

I don’t miss walking into my daughter’s room and discovering the clothes explosion covering the floor hasn’t given me a path that’s clear, but I miss her just down the hall, I miss climbing into her tiny bed to talk.

I don’t miss the DFCS court days and the half-hearted or no show biological parents intent on being defended just for the happenstance chance of maybe the judge will give us a fourth chance. But, I surely miss the children, the ones I advocated for and often buckled into my car if “on call”.

I don’t miss the home visits that scared me s**tless, but I treasure the eyes that met mine and saw concern, an unspoken love and hope that life could be better.

I don’t miss board of directors meetings or foreboding financials, but I do miss the allegiance and commitment together to mental health.

I still get the “seriously?” looks when I retell the reason I retired, a child welfare and nonprofit leader, at 58 years old.

I made a promise to my daughter. My mama did the same. I’ll share the responsibilities with my “tag team” other grandmother (“Gamma”) and I will help care for my daughter’s daughter.

By the way, do you know the importance of the first three years of a child as far as strong love and bonding?

It’s important. They’re important.

The one I call, “Morning Glory”, the one who told me today,

“Grandma, you and the baby can find morning glories and you can’t sing “Rise and Shine”, that’s Gamma’s song.

Yours is “Jesus loves Me”!’”

The grandbaby I retired early for begins pre-school on Thursday.

Today was my last 5:15 a.m. alarm to arrive and send off to work my Literacy Coach daughter.

It was special.

Today and Monday.

Who knew, Elizabeth, God or had they talked already?

She added wings to an angel drawn with a stick in the sand. We decided dragonflies and butterflies are cousins. She told me my hair is long, long like her mama. She asked me to braid her hair and she told me she had a “happy” dream, a slide went into heaven and there were children there and it was beautiful.

She told me “Jesus, is up, up, up and way, way up there.”

And when I asked, she was smart enough to know my crazy hoping for the reply so spectacular,

“Have you seen Jesus?”

“Well, no,” she answered. “He isn’t down here, he’s up there…the rocks haven’t been moved again.”

Yeah, I had no words.

I listened. Again, listened.

I pushed her in the swing too small, sized for the baby because she wanted to be little.

Then, we got all gussied up and had salad for lunch and frozen strawberry slushy ice cream.

Oh, and we got shoes, red ones for school.

No matter the mood, red shoes can change it, right?

Today was my last “grandma day”, not for long, just a break or as needed.

I told Elizabeth I wanted it to be special.

This last day of 5:30 rising and driving out to the country, the place I named “pretty”.

Walking with a tiny baby close to my chest to racing with a toddler in a princess dress, seeing who can find a feather, a rock, a weed that’s a flower and pausing in the shadow of “That’s your favorite tree, right, Grandma”?

She said, “Memories, Grandma.”

Yes. I said “Yes.”

Morning glories I’ll never let go.

“Never go backward, only forward.” Grandma Bette aka my mama

Elizabeth Lettie goes to preschool, excited and

I will be.

So will I.

In a book there are flowers, a feather, a seed pod we call gumdrop and a plan to print photos, put them in a book called “Morning Glories”

Stories, songs, smiles, schedules and little things that are still secrets between E., God and I.

These are days the Lord made. We have rejoiced and we have been glad in them.

This baby has changed me forever. They say it’s that way. No need to wonder. I’ll hold fast to what I believe.

Babies are God’s answer, saying

Life continues and life is good.

You’ll never pass this way again.

Continue and believe.

More Stories

Abuse Survivor, bravery, confidence, courage, Faith, Forgiveness, memoir, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder

Once, I found my father’s name in the Bible. An unusual name, “Ruel”, spelled Reuel in the Bible, was my daddy’s middle name. I read of this man whose daughters were saved from danger by Moses and I felt a sort of joy.

The paternal grandmother I never knew must’ve read her Bible.

My daddy had five brothers and a sister who died as a child. Daddy was the baby. The brothers’ names were simply normal.

I’m reading the Old Testament book of I Chronicles. Chapters, thus far are verses and verses of lineage, names interspersed with sister, brother, mother, father.

Until the fourth. A boy named Jabez was named because of his mother’s pain. I suppose she must’ve told him because when he got to praying age, he embraced his name’s baggage (born in pain) and he asked God to change it.

Doesn’t seem like he blamed his mama, brothers, daddy or God.

He just asked God to bless his life.

“Jabez was more honorable than his brothers; and his mother called his name Jabez, saying, “Because I bore him in pain.” Jabez called upon the God of Israel, saying, “Oh that you would bless me and enlarge my border, and that your hand might be with me, and that you would keep me from harm so that it might not bring me pain!”

And God granted what he asked.”
‭‭1 Chronicles‬ ‭4:9-10‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Not long ago, I heard something that surprised me. I heard that forgiveness relieves the torment of trauma.

This wasn’t new. I’ve made my list and I can see evidence of this truth.

But, then I heard that we’re supposed to accept that some of the wrongs done to us were intentional.

Words, fists, cruelty and all.

Crazy, I thought. The right thing to do is to see their trauma, their pain, their unrest, their unintentionally harmful behaviors as them being damaged and “doing their best”.

No, this person said. You gotta acknowledge that they were intent on harming you when they did.

Only then is forgiveness truly forgiveness.

Maybe Jabez wondered why his mama had to name him that, it’s bad enough you tell everyone how much pain I caused you.

Did you really have to make me be reminded every time my name was spoken?

I sure would like to talk to Jabez. I’d love to hear more of his story.

I’d love to know the benefits he saw of facing his handicap and asking God directly to change it. No pouting, no dwelling on old wounds, no triggers of trauma, only a life that was full because he had the courage to say.

Yes, this is bad.

God help me turn it around.

Daughter, you are healed, no longer bound to a yoke a slavery.

Words like these are for me.

Just as they were for so many who were both confronted and comforted when it was all on the table.

All the hurt, all the harm, all the hindrances to good.

All changed for better.

“Now there are also many other things that Jesus did. Were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.”
‭‭John‬ ‭21:25‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Their dilemma became their deliverance.

It’s the same with me.

I pray you as well.

A Faithful Hope

anxiety, Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, hope, Peace, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, wonder

Hold on.

This wilted one bloom rose met me as I waited patiently.

A remnant.

Were they coming? Was I wrong?

Did they decide against meeting?

Would I be wounded by naivety again?

Not a soul in sight, I spotted this rose and I knew all was well.

All will be well.

Trust.

Hold on.

A wilted and woeful rose, dry from drought.

I call it “noticing God” because that’s what it is.

I notice.

I’m noticed by God.

Trust is near. Patience is the way.

Peace is God’s purpose.

The peace found in waiting, artwork exchanged, words of faith shared, eyes met in conversation, bright in our individual and yet the very same hope.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

‭‭Jeremiah‬ ‭29:11‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Continue and believe.

Our God is faithful.

Won’t Stop Believing

Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, painting, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Stillness, testimony, Trust, Truth, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

“And we know that the Son of God has come and has given us understanding, so that we may know him who is true; and we are in him who is true, in his Son Jesus Christ. He is the true God and eternal life.”
‭‭1 John‬ ‭5:20‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Pink Sky Pause

Last night, I sat poolside as the distant sky settled down in a display of pink. I’d walked a long way again, trying not to let the old body with achy joints catch up. Is it humidity or is it age and wear and tear, lack of good habits catching up?

My body is, has been changing.

I stopped social media scrolling when the sky grew more splendid. Stopped reading what researchers are sharing, what believers are noticing, what culture is trying to correct.

People, mostly young ones are conflicted about their faith. Believers are sharing commentaries and YouTubes that resemble apocalyptic horror films. Culture is confusing me about what to follow, have I been following wrong for so long?

Have I not loved well, loved like Jesus?

I returned to the practice of Bible reading today that directs me to an OT passage, Psalms, and a NT passage.

My Bible

II Kings, author unknown, follows the first book called Kings and details “the saga of disobedience” according to my Book Introductions in the back. (My Bible was a gift in 2015. You may know the story. It’s the first one I’ve ever felt the freedom to get honest with, have its honesty lead to my return to art. If you’re curious, it is a Crossway, ESV Journaling Bible)

II Kings, Chapter 9 is a violent one. I won’t pretend to understand it all, the prophesy, the lineage, the murders, the deciding who should be king.

But, I noticed one thing, a revelation type read.

They were looking for peace.

I believe they’d been looking a long time and probably long into the next books and chapters I read, I’ll discover that the people who were far from God kept looking.

Looking for peace.

Before the murders and executions recorded here, seven times there was a question of “Where is peace?” and a proclamation by King Jehu that there’d be no peace until Jezebel was dead.

What do you have to do with peace? Is it peace? Two questions asked repeatedly in five verses. (II Kings 9:17-22)

Jezebel died violently, her remains devoured by dogs and many others were massacred.

More warnings, more rulers, more seeking of peace.

I’m not a Bible scholar. I seek to understand what God is saying to me to clarify my confusion, to comfort my dismay, to guide me into Christlikeness.

So that I can be at peace.

So that I can emanate peace through my believing, toward others and I hope, through art.

Little Churches

The back of my Bible guide led to Psalm 141 and then the books of John just before the tiny Book of Jude.

“But my eyes are toward you, O God, my Lord; in you I seek refuge; leave me not defenseless!”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭141:8‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Second John is a letter written to a lady and her children (likely, a congregation). I found this to have a sweetness in tone, the offering of grace, mercy and peace, along with a gentle warning of what not to let in my house.

“Everyone who goes on ahead and does not abide in the teaching of Christ, does not have God. Whoever abides in the teaching has both the Father and the Son. If anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching, do not receive him into your house or give him any greeting,”
‭‭2 John‬ ‭1:9-10‬ ‭ESV‬‬

The wolf at the door, the author of confusion, the purveyor of doubt, the stirrer up of strife and trauma triggers.

I won’t let him in my house.

“And behold, I am coming soon. Blessed is the one who keeps the words of the prophecy of this book.” Jesus
‭‭Revelation‬ ‭22:7‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I won’t stop believing.

Believing in the creator of pink sunsets, precious babies, quiet oceans, and people like me who almost gave up on themselves.

I won’t stop believing.

I pray you don’t either.

Dear God, return us as we wander from you, caught in the tension of what others say of you and our embrace of who you’ve shown us you are. May we remember and return to the notice of you all around us. Help us to pause from the noise of culture to seek you, the path to peace. Because of mercy, Amen

Childlike

Abuse Survivor, Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, happy, hope, love, painting, Peace, Redemption, self-portrait, Vulnerability, wisdom
Lisa Anne

I keep staring at the girl inside the woman. Many will see somber.

I see solid.

Most will question the stare, wonder why so angry.

I see strength, surrender and a commitment to be very sweet to myself.

Little girl bangs was the style or I guess, just easy.

No fussing over Lisa Anne trying to keep up with bows or barrettes.

No ponytails, no braids.

Just a border of brown above two pools of blue

And a pool of freckles

Now age spots and crinkles.

Acceptance

Believing in the child within

Loving the woman she became.

I keep staring into this face.

I’d call it grace or something else.

Can’t decide.

Must be because it’s love.

The Way We Were and Are

Abuse Survivor, bravery, grandchildren, hope, memoir, Redemption, testimony, Vulnerability, wonder, writing

Warning, this post is maybe “too much Lisa”.

Leslie and I

I’ve been thinking about this photo all day. My college roommate and friend from the early 80’s sent this with a note, “found this today”. I was eating lunch with my granddaughter. We were talking about yummy bread and tomatoes.

I see I loved bracelets even back then and I remember how much she loved her VW. She was pink, khaki and green preppy. I see I must’ve been a little artsy. I notice the perm. I see my resemblance to both my mama and my sister, my daughter and son.

I see the tiny waist. I remember how little I ate, how much I ran twice a day.

I think of us, separately and together, how we both struggled, grew distant; but, she bravely began our new conversation.

I see me so tiny and remember I had such hatred for myself. I see her so bubbly and know only a tiny bit of not so bubbly days.

I see women now in their 60’s who know healing comes from forgiveness and more than forgiving others, it’s about forgiving ourselves.

So, skinny me no longer, maybe it’s time to stop rushing past the mirror and stand still for just a bit to consider, look where time, loss, grief, babies, defeat, trying again, fear met by bravery that said “continue” has brought you here…

Grace thus far has been the grace you’ve decided you can finally give yourself.

I never thought a thrown away art scholarship because of uninvited trauma (I still don’t like the “R” word) and eating disorder would have been so mercifully generous to say it’s not too late, paint.

You’re an artist.

I never thought a friend I haven’t seen since 1980 or so would keep a photo marking our bond.

Believe it, redemption is never ending and there’s nothing our loving God can’t make new.

Today, I met an artist in her home. She grew up in the landscapes of my favorite artist, Andrew Wyeth. She lives alone. Her husband is not well.

She invited me in.

I accepted.

Old me wouldn’t have.

But, tea time was at 3:00 and so, she, my granddaughter and I had tea and cream cheese pound cake.

And an almost three year old sat between two artists, two women who might’ve given up on themselves, but we’re not…and never ever on our art.

And she was listening.

To our encouragement of each other

Create, keep creating.

You’re not finished, only just beginning.

By faith and grace.

Redemption is a thing.

Noticed on Tuesday

bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, happy, hope, memoir, painting, patience, Peace, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing

Isn’t it predictable that I’d love the phrase “noticing God”, incorporate it into bios and hashtags and yet, catch myself off guard when a phrase of truth and clarity comes

And I decide to hold on to it?

“God is always paying attention (to me).”

Followers and collectors, listeners, potential buyers of my art and my words

Caused me to be weary over compiling them, the not yet thousands enough.

So, I left that little compilation of numbers alone

And continued to go on

On my own.

Noticing highlighter colored rye fields and yellow flowers becoming fluffy dandelions.

I noticed and celebrated the simplicity of a simple notice.

“Thank you, Lisa Anne Tindal!

I appreciate all your inspiration and insight!” M.H. (a brilliant author)

A gift given to me on her birthday.

“Isn’t it ironic?” A.M.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it’s God.

The same God who provided water to a slave girl trying to escape and a woman enslaved by her patterns with men.

Same God who notices my need to be noticed and says “I see, see with me.”

“Then God opened Hagar’s eyes, and she saw a well full of water. She quickly filled her water container and gave the boy a drink.”
‭‭Genesis‬ ‭21:19‬ ‭NLT‬

“But sir, you don’t have a rope or a bucket,” she said, “and this well is very deep. Where would you get this living water?”
‭‭John‬ ‭4:11‬ ‭NLT‬‬

It’s not popular to be weary over popularity.

I wonder who else feels the exhaustion of self-promotion and longs to simply keep finding, sharing and creating…

To be thirsty not for notice.

Being light.

Because

God is paying attention to you.

In the sweet spot of knowing you’re noticed so that you’re not thirsting for notice of others and more often than before not as thirsty.

Fill my cup, Lord.

I lift it up to your pink sky Tuesday morning telling me I’m seen loved and known.

Noticed on Tuesday morning,

The Shepherd’s Way

bravery, confidence, courage, curiousity, Faith, hope, patience, Peace, Redemption, Stillness, Trust, waiting, wisdom, wonder

“7:00, not 6:30”, she reminded me on that particular night before morning.

The difference meant daylight, farm trucks and people headed in from the country.

Tops of the fields green with grass before becoming hay glistening like gold.

Cats creeping from their tentative sleeping place, homes lit by just one light.

The difference meant driving straight into the rising sun, so spectacular I refused to blind it with my visor.

And so, for a stretch of road I couldn’t bear to look away, only to creep ahead slowly by memory.

Day unfolding to not sure what, only that I had been sweetly awakened to life yet again.

To take hold and keep it, the difference in the day in the morning a little later.

And hoping to hold that awakened state of my soul a little longer.

7:00 not 6:30, sun not moon, seeing only what I can, not around the curve ahead.

Sometimes forgetting the way, lost in my own directions, returning like David or the questioning one, Thomas, to the way safely and surely forward.

The shepherd’s way.

“He renews my strength. He guides me along right paths, bringing honor to his name.”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭23:3‬ ‭NLT‬‬

Father, help me to follow your lead.

Like Children Walking

bravery, Children, contentment, courage, Faith, fear, hope, memoir, mercy, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Stillness, Trust, Vulnerability, walking, wisdom, wonder

When the peace of Jesus finds us, it is a gentle collision. “Gentle collision” is how my morning words began, hurried and half asleep.

I wrote that faith meeting fear is and will always be a gentle collision.

Never Walking Alone

Loosely but never unraveled is the tether that connects us to believing.

Never dragging us along.

Nor yanking us into attention in a sort of frantic wake up call.

A walk that’s never perilous, always patient.

Like a walk together when one is the older or younger one.

Not at all like my walks alone, the walk of a stubborn and wide stride stepping, a walk either going hard and proud or walking hard and fast away from something that keeps catching up.

This is not the walk of a child who wonders. Wonders not where or how we’ll go, only wonders as she wanders.

Before Jesus spoke of the gentle way of walking, of carrying the good things or junk we’ve taken as our own, he talked about little children, about their wisdom and their understanding.

Children who have a greater grasp on the divine, a more tangible understanding.

An understanding not garnered by incessant questioning.

The wind blew our hair yesterday. The sky was periwinkle blue and the warmth of Spring landed on bare arms and freckled our faces.

“Thank you, Lord, for the breeze.” she said.

We walked together. Me, occasionally pointing out of the hills of ants and noticing the ground as we went, scanning for baby snakes that might scurry close to our toes.

She, close beside or freely ahead, “let’s dance”.

Together, gently. I fell into the rhythm of a child with steps slow with going and then resting.

Waiting and then walking.

Going and then resting.

No rush, no worry.

“At that time Jesus declared, “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to little children;”
‭‭Matthew‬ ‭11:25‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I handed her the yellow flowers and lifted her from behind to my back.

Shifting the weight until she laid her cheek on my back, her tiny legs belting my waist.

Then we walked together, her weight pushing me forward.

Together, we walked back home.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.

For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
‭‭Matthew‬ ‭11:28-30‬ ‭ESV‬‬

A gentle collision it is, the meeting of faith and fear, of melded together walking, of simply saying yes to the soft beckon not to walk alone.

I stepped over the circled place in the sand where we’d stopped to dance.

“Ring around the rosies, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes…

We all fall down”.

We all fall down.

We do.

Then lifted up gently, we walk again.