Writing and Striving

aging, Art, bravery, confidence, creativity, doubt, Faith, hope, memoir, mercy, Prayer, Redemption, Truth, Vulnerability, walking, wisdom, writing

After about an hour, I stopped.

I decided it will be better, be okay if I do this some other time, some other day.

A savvy and successful young advisor has been advising on many new ways to “get my art in front of people”.

I was honest with her, attributed it to my age,

“I can’t keep up with all of “the things.” She suggests a schedule, the better use of and acceptance of AI.

I tell myself and others and her,

I don’t want it done for me without “me”. Plus, I don’t want to become so automated that I lose not just my voice but my ability to write in my very own honest voice.

Last night, seemingly out of the blue, a blog post was commented on. The post was nearly seven years old. I felt nostalgic. I felt the feelings back then, a story about a bird on a porch.

I also noticed I don’t write nearly as freely as before. I believe it’s the pressure. It’s the distractions, it’s the chasing after people to convince them to visit my artist website, it’s a subtle cojoling of readers to buy my art so that I will feel good enough.

Here’s the post that represents who I want to get back to:

https://lisaannetindal.com/2017/11/30/flying-parallel/

I can be hard of myself, I know.

It’s true I’m older, more busy, have grown as an artist and so am otherwise engaged.

Still, I want to find that sweet and wise voice again. I believe I will.

I also believe I’ll have to do some deciding of what to keep and what to let go, decide whether to let the stories I carry be too important to be used as fodder for my “growth”.

Deciding doing all the things is less important than doing the genuine things.

I ramble.

I stopped striving earlier today, technology causing me to fret. I stopped striving even though I wanted to share my art.

Paintings on paper inspired by old hymns. They’re a little bit abstract, the colors of coal and indigo with just a hint of coral against angular figures.

I want others to be affected by them the way my emotions softened as the end result came through.

Still, I stopped frantically forcing a reel.

Told myself once and again.

Cease striving.

I joined the Substack bandwagon and I’m on the fence as to whether to stay on board.

I hope to resume writing here. It’s always felt like home.

Time will tell. I’ll wait and see.

For now, here’s my voice on Substack. I’d love to know what you think.

https://open.substack.com/pub/lisaannetindal2/p/seeing-more-clearly?r=1eavkz&utm_medium=ios

Thanks for following along on this circuitous trip of my life and my art, both redemptive stories.

Secret Things

aging, birthday, bravery, Children, contentment, courage, daughters, Faith, family, hope, love, memoir, Motherhood, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

There’s a verse I love that helps me make sense of both tragedy and unanswered questions…of longings for different.

“The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things that are revealed belong to us and to our children forever…”
‭‭Deuteronomy‬ ‭29‬:‭29‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I’m standing in my kitchen remembering a verse I read earlier about “secrets”. A verse about the Lord hearing the cries of his children and also knowing the secret sorrows.

I pulled the big Bible from the shelf.

The one I gave my mama, New King James Version with hardly an underline or turned down corner or bookmark.

I’ve often wondered if she ever opened it or if she just accepted my gift because she knew I needed to give it, a gesture from a daughter hoping to help, to mend, to say something unexpressed.

I looked for the verse and then others I love to compare.

We all carry secret sorrows, longings too long expressed, spoken of so much we’ve exhausted the listeners.

Questions, emotions we cover because we “shouldn’t feel that way after so long or she’s just a dreamer”.

Today, if my mama were here she’d be eighty-six years old. She’s been gone for fifteen years.

I thought to watch the DVD given to us all from the funeral home and then put it back on the shelf.

I can’t really say why. It just felt best.

I have a roast cooking slowly in the oven, green beans very buttery and soon creamy mashed potatoes flavored with mayonnaise.

My husband will wake from overnight working to be met by this gesture.

That’s what I decided felt right on the day of mama’s birth.

That, and not rushing my day but opening again the burgundy large print Bible to the place where the Lord appeared to the amazement of Moses and assured him.

“…For I know their sufferings…” Exodus 3:7 NKJV

Closing the big Bible and deciding to leave it in a place beside me, a slip of paper fell out.

The sweetest thing, a little Sunday School coupon filled out by my daughter.

She’d printed the words and her name and then scratched both out to change her writing to cursive. 😊

It was a note telling me that along with other chores, she would “wash the dishes to honor God and me”.

And I began to feel the truth of being seen by her, the tender recollection of days as a mama that were both tired and trying.

They say the things we long for most that begin very early are

To be seen

To be soothed

To be secure.

Where do you feel you’re lacking? What is the secret ache you’re carrying?

What hurt needs soothing?

God sees you.

God offers a healing balm.

For me it was a note from my daughter that my mama kept tucked away,

the realization that my daughter’s a mama with just as kind and observant a daughter of her own.

Don’t look for answers, just know you are fully known and wait tender hearted and at rest for the evidences of love that will catch you by surprise.

God is everywhere. Don’t forget to notice.

Always

Remember, love lives on.

Under God’s Heaven

Abuse Survivor, bravery, courage, curiousity, Faith, family, hope, love, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Stillness, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

“Should I do more?” I asked myself and then my husband.

I turned onto the road to my home and saw a clump of something ahead on the side of the road.

A figure, not a pile of wood, I realized as I got closer.

A young woman with hair the same color as mine, dressed in flannel with black and red and sitting staring straight ahead, her knees drawn into her chest.

In front of our home is a wide empty field with freely growing trees once cut down and now growing.

The high grass is gold and it bends and straightens with the wind.

This young woman sat still.

I turned and turned off my car in the driveway, deciding I’d check on her.

I’m not proud to tell you I thought about putting my purse safely inside the front door, tucking my keys and phone in my pocket. I thought for a second she might be violent.

I knew she’d been struggling, been seen roaming and had been hospitalized for addiction before.

And I knew and know what addictions can do for someone who needs what they need.

So, I thought she might be aggressive.

Then, thank you Lord, I decided differently. I walked to end of the drive, the wind like ice on my face. Quietly, almost like I was sneaking,

I asked, “Are you okay?” and she picked up her body slowly and she walked away.

Slowly, like a crawl, her steps kept on until I could no longer see her as I peered through the window in our garage.

“Should I do more?” I wondered again. Then decided I would simply pray. I could pray.

Pray without her knowing, without me needing her to know.

Because once, a very, very long time ago, I drove my little blue Celica all the way to Tybee Island in the cold.

I sat on the hard empty shore.

I sat and stared toward the ocean for I don’t know how long.

And then, I suppose emptied of some of my thoughts, my sorrows, my questions…I drove back to my imperfect life, my imperfect home, my still present struggles.

I’m remembering that day today.

Knowing it was bravery for me to sit oddly on the beach alone.

It was resourceful. It was deciding I could in fact, go on.

And no one told me so, other than myself.

I hope I get to see the young woman again. I hope God gives me a way to help her see her I’m pulling for her…

Pulling for her to decide she can go on knowing there is meaning and purpose she has not yet known.

That she may recall moments of feeling purposeless and searching for what seems too far to reach.

Maybe God will make a time for me to tell her, this young woman staring into the open and broken down field.

“For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.”
‭‭Ecclesiastes‬ ‭3‬:‭1‬ ‭NLT‬‬

Becoming, With Love

Angels, Art, bravery, contentment, courage, creativity, Faith, grace, grandchildren, hope, love, mixed media painting, painting, patience, Peace, Redemption, testimony, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder, writing

Yesterday, I chose the butterfly cup. As I daily do I considered which cup to set the tone for the day.

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.

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.

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

Always hope.

You are loved.

And becoming.

2025 Word

bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, hope, memoir, painting, patience, Redemption, testimony, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing

Polished – My 2025 Word

I’ve been kinda cuddling my “word of the year” for a couple of weeks.

Because it’s surprising, the way it came to mind and then enlightened me.

Someone commented on instagram several weeks ago. Their words about my art were kind and I simply added that I wanted to continue to grow.

And that I hoped to continue to be authentic in 2025 and also to become more “polished” in my brand and my presence.

A goal, a motivation of sorts.

Then, as I often do, I wondered what my Bible said about the word.

I typed “polished” into the search block and the verse that resulted has led to exploration.

“He made my mouth like a sharpened sword, in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me into a polished arrow and concealed me in his quiver.”

‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭49‬:‭2‬ ‭NIV‬‬

There was already a sketch in the margin here, a woman in a purple gown with brown hair.

This morning, I found the page in my Bible with all the “words of the year” scribbled and haphazardly jotted.

I made a list, there were nine. The words, in a way predictably yearning.

Breakthrough, Still, Faithful, Endurance, Victorious, Willing, Small Things…

In 2024 I had trouble committing. I started with Limitless and mid-year shifted to Quietly.

“Polished”, I’m believing, is a word that’s different.

2024 was a hard year for me. I won’t weigh you down with why.

There was just a lot of processing what had been held hidden, a lot of smoothing tucked away rough edges, and even more succumbing to acceptance of certain truths that were meant to lead to change.

Closed doors of my heart were allowed the peering in by my Father.

“Polished”.

The scripture (I’ll remind you I’m not theologically educated) speaks of an arrow that has been readied and then safely protected in the quiver.

Polished and protected for the intended target only God knows.

Do I know what 2025 holds for my artwork and my writing?

Not at all.

I only know I’ve been readied.

I’ve been polished.

I’ve been kept in the Lord’s quiver.

The preparations have led to a polished arrow, me available in the timing and destination decided by God.

My word for 2025 found me. I didn’t go searching or choose because of my struggles or my longings.

It came by surprise.

I thought I was talking about my art. I see it was and is me.

Boldly Quiet

aging, Art, bravery, Children, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, curiousity, Faith, family, grace, grandchildren, hope, memoir, mercy, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, rest, Stillness, Trust, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, worship

We left the gathering, an annual one that’s held in a building adjacent to a country home. The barn-like place is love-filled, its walls are covered with memorabilia and photos representing life and the life spans of family.

We arrive and we move from table to table, from people not seen in a year or so and maybe a couple or a few you may have passed in the grocery store.

The conversations are sweet, it’s a catching up and it’s a reunion for the cousins. They love it. They recognize many families neglect this type gathering.

The one who prays acknowledges this. I mostly observe. I join in and say words when it seems to fit.

That’s not because of the “rules” of the get-together. It’s simply my nature.

My mama used to tell us all that her husband, my daddy saw no need to speak unless there was something important to say.

Although, he was a quiet man, one of few words, I cherish the smoothness of his voice.

I remember the way he paused as he spoke. There was a sense of waiting for the hearer to absorb his contribution.

I listened.

A word woke me this morning.

I added it to my list, a list that came from a realization that in life and in Christmas, we often have grandiose expectations.

We expect Christmas be a certain way. Not to mention the comparison of others’ celebrations.

I wondered how my heart would settle if I decided to

“Expect less, acknowledge more.”

A list was formed.

Safety, Food aplenty, Gifts, Smiles, Gatherings, a sense of God’s nearness, Pink Dawns…

Quietude

Google informed me of the meaning, no surprise I loved it.

Another gift came from Google, a sweet surprise. This word has a color named for it.

A shade that’s a blending of grey and blue and green.

“Quietude” is the chosen name for the HGTV 2025 color.

I finished the 3rd of three paintings last night, large 30×40’s.

The first, “Now Found”,

the second, “Light and Momentary”

and the third, “Have Hope”.

Driving home from the cousin gathering, my husband wanted to talk. I told him I was talked out, let’s be quiet.

He insisted and prodded me with a well-thought question…

“Who would you like to talk to that you’d be just so captivated by the conversation, on the edge of your seat and just waiting for every word?”

Stubborn me replied, after a few seconds, “No one, that’s a good question but I can’t think of anyone I want to talk to right now.”

He believed me. He knows me well.

But, he spoke in the long pause of accepting my answer.

“I thought you’d say Jesus.”

“Yes, I just thought of that.” I smiled and answered.

We finished the Christmas Eve country drive home and I sat in my quiet spot with my grown son who is often quiet himself.

Understood, I felt understood.

“Accepted”, a word I’m adding to the list of acknowledgments.

“Grace”, too.

Just now, I revisited Christmases past through my photos. Babies have grown, changes have come, tough days have occurred, peace has been given and endurance has become even more a quiet strength for me.

Because I’ve learned and am learning a couple of things from my “telling it to Jesus alone.”

He giveth more grace.

I am loved.

There’s so much more coming for me.

Because I’ve accepted, I’m the “quiet one” and always will be.

“But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭131‬:‭2‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Always hope.

I look toward my tall Christmas tree, the one ornament, a tiny home, my granddaughter insisted be for it and my uncertainty because it “wasn’t really me.”

And now I see, the bluish green, a pale teal that’s happy quietly although boldly, its pretty red door sort of calling, “open me”.

How can it be?

The color in me, the quiet color has become an invitation to me being me.

A little house accepted by me, inviting an even bolder acceptance of the strength in the choice to keep hoping.

“As for me, I will always have hope; I will praise you more and more.”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭71‬:‭14‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Hope and Other Words

Abuse Survivor, Angels, Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, family, hope, memoir, painting, Prayer, Redemption, Stillness, Vulnerability, wonder

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.

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.

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

If we “always hope”?

Hope does not put us to shame. Romans 5:5

The Encounter

Abuse Survivor, aging, bravery, courage, Faith, hope, memoir, patience, Redemption, rest, Stillness, Trust, Vulnerability, wonder, writing

“For thou art my lamp, O LORD: And the LORD will lighten my darkness.”
‭‭2 Samuel‬ ‭22‬:‭29‬ ‭KJV‬‬

I drove tentatively under the leaning trees, doing my best not to imagine the response I’d need in disaster.

Driving slowly thinking the weight of my car and the weight of me might lead to a shifting of the earth.

I crossed under the canopy of three frail leaning trees.

Glanced left and noticed a figure.

A small child of a deer had been watching.

Waiting for me.

We both paused.

Eyes met each other in the predawn light. I wanted to linger.

I thought of quietly opening my door, carefully stepping up the ditch to the edge of the cotton field.

I thought to get closer as a way to thank this beautiful creature that seemed to say…

“See, you are safe. You made it.”

It’s been a bit since I’ve written here. This morning, I decided I miss writing simply about noticing beauty, noticing God all around and then sharing those encounters. I’ve missed writing simply to preserve the noticing and express it through words. Timidly, I’m dipping my toes back into the hopes of writing more.

New Things

Abuse Survivor, Art, bravery, courage, creativity, hope, Redemption, Vulnerability, writing

Typically, I’m not a follower of “bright and shiny” trends. I like to stay in the safe and familiar lane.

Not to mention, I have stories of life and all sorts of things here. I felt risky and sort of disloyal to change.

I’ve moved my writing to Substack. It’s user friendly and it feels more suited to the blending of my art and writing.

It integrated very easily (and it has to be easy for me) with my established email list from art website.

I’ve been writing Notes here and there but am moving to more frequently Longform posts which are much like what I’ve posted here.

Here’s my most recent post. I shared the experience of a professional branding session for my art.

If you’d like, please follow along.

Writing on Substack

Nurture the Yes Ones

Abuse Survivor, aging, Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, doubt, Faith, hope, memoir, patience, Peace, Redemption, rest, self-portrait, Trust, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

I have a t-shirt I rarely wear, never in public.

It’s not covered with paint, not a stain or a splatter. It’s not folded and stuffed in a drawer, it’s on a hanger.

Soft material, sort of beige and in a classy black font, one word “influencer”.

It was given to me, not a purchase. Someone thought it was a good fit.

I woke this morning recalling a beautiful dream and contrasting it alongside a question waiting to be responded to.

I journaled,

If I am quiet, I will be able to know which things and which people align with God’s will for my life.

In a way, I was wondering which influences in my life point to hope and which do not.

I asked God to help me see others clearly and to be able to know which influences are healthy and which are not.

I recognized in my soul that just as God sees the vulnerability and weakness of me, He sees it in others and those weaknesses in them cause them to not be a right now good influence on me.

So, I made a bullet list, not one that says “you don’t belong”, just a quiet inventory of those who contribute to my hope and those who don’t.

Not a cancel type thing, just a recognition, a nudge of clarity so that I don’t give up hope.

I have a bookmark in my Bible.

“Only speak words that make souls stronger.” Ann Voskamp

I’ve been trying to commit to this as a filter in all I speak, write or even show in my facial expression.

I’ve been set on being at peace so that I can bring peace into every room I enter.

So that through me, the light of Christ and the voice of hope is observed and considered,

Not simply tolerated.

And so, I quietly asked myself, right now which conversations and interactions are making me

Hopeful?

Which are contributing to

Doubt?

Which feels like a reverent posture of pure and humble wisdom.

The stance God desires.

When this journaling began this morning, this inventory of the “yes’s” I need to nurture

I had not opened my Bible.

I turned to today’s date in “Joy and Strength” and was led to Deuteronomy.

Wisdom that complemented my own words.

A warning for a woman like me, a people pleaser, a longing to belong “belonger”, a person who is easily manipulated in ways that seem innocent, that aren’t harmful, just not best.

“If a prophet or a dreamer of dreams arises among you and gives you a sign or a wonder, and the sign or wonder that he tells you comes to pass, and if he says, ‘Let us go after other gods,’ which you have not known, ‘and let us serve them,’

you shall not listen to the words of that prophet or that dreamer of dreams.

For the Lord your God is testing you, to know whether you love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul.”

‭‭Deuteronomy‬ ‭13‬:‭1‬-‭3‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Get quiet with God. Silence the naysayers. Listen to the voices that speak hope and healing.

Those who softly warn you of your straying rather than string you along.

Those who love you, not just court you.

Nurture the “yes’s” while not discarding the “no’s”. Tend to the hope God planted inside your soul so that it becomes bigger than anything about you.

So that your offering is first and only…always

Hope.

	juliedibblewrites on Embracing
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Shine On
	mitchteemley on Shine On
	Cathy Rigg on Welcome, Winter
	Under the mask.. on Held