Gethsemane

Abuse Survivor, Art, bravery, confidence, courage, curiousity, Faith, hope, mixed media painting, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Vulnerability, wonder

Last week, the horizon greeted me like a welcome rescue as I turned to the skinny road from the wider, more busy highway.

Both frustrated by my anxiety over the big white ghost of a Tahoe with headlights like a cat following me closely all the way and determined to breathe and be okay, thumbs on the places 4 and 8.

So, the sun rising wide over my granddaughter’s home?

Redemption. Relief.

A whisper, a sigh.

I could go on.

Thoughts rose up from an article or post I’d skimmed over, the question posed,

What is your Gethsemane?

Meaning, I supposed,

What did you ask God not to allow that He did anyway?

At first, I thought, how can we dare to compare our falling apart and asking to be spared with the request of Jesus?

Then, the mental list developed.

And then, another in contrast.

“Things that happened despite the things that happened”.

I turned the ancient wisp of pages to Mark 14 in the Bible with penciled “sermons to self”. Angela, an educator from Bibb County, Ga. added her wisdom and thoughts back in 1937, became mine because of an estate sale.

Curiously, a page is torn down the middle.

I think now of the veil torn in two.

The darkness midday.

The verses that describe Jesus being anointed with a costly ointment by a woman who was chastised is no longer here. Neither, the Lord’s Supper.

The garden scene is preserved, the plea of Jesus face down in broken supplication remains.

And he went forward a little, and fell on the ground, and prayed that if it be possible, the hour might pass from him. Mark 14:34 , KJV, Oxford

And we know what happened next, the agony, the death and the resurrection.

We know what happened because of and despite the fear in the garden.

What are your “Gethsemane moments”?

What is “scaring you to death”?

Look up, redemption will find you

And, in time pale in comparison to the unwanted anguish.

I believe. I do.

Surprises and Courage

Art, bravery, confidence, courage, Faith, memoir, painting, photography, Redemption, Vulnerability

“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” e.e. cummings

Last month, I noticed a new follow on Instagram. A talented photographer with an affinity for capturing beauty in found objects fresh or ancient and in spaces you’d think too battered, but made brilliant.

His images compelled me, their stories.

An invitation came to be photographed.

Surprised. I was surprised.

I studied his work, admired the portraits of others and felt drawn to each of them through his retelling of their time together, their stories of being themselves, artists.

He must be observant, a good listener I decided.

And so, I said yes to this beautiful surprising invitation to sit and be captured through his eye and his lens.

He listened as I responded to how I began painting. Then, he listened some more to the story of the ill-fitting art scholarship recipient who lost her chance and her way because of hardship, horror and harm-filled days.

Then, the always answer to my return to painting came.

“It began with the gift of a Bible in 2016. Subtle sketches in the margins of women who understood me and I, them.”

And I sat for him twice, occasionally worried I’d overshared and yet, deciding that’s not for me to say.

It’s up to the listener.

The photographer.

The artist.

The capturer of me now, the shadow of the old fading to barely there grey.

I am grateful.

And surprised.

Courageously.

In quietness and confidence shall be your strength…Isaiah 30:15

Follow Drake White on Instagram to view the other artists’ portraits and his website to view his other work.

Drake White, Photographer

In Private

Art, confidence, contentment, courage, curiousity, memoir, painting, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Vulnerability, wonder

Pay attention to the thoughts that surface, bubble up to overflow in private.

Certainties.

Yesterday morning, I closed the door and prayed on the bathroom floor.

No magic, no set expectation, just a plea that was private.

I humbled myself and asked for ease, for help.

Humbled, but not afraid, not cornered by my delay in praying nor in my honest admission of asking for help, for grace.

And, my prayer was answered. I was without pain, still am.

But none says, “Where is my Maker, who gives songs in the night?” Job 35:10

Around 3:00 a.m, I turned and wondered, why did I stop praying as much as before?

Praying in private, mostly.

Again, humbled by the tender realization, but not all the feeling of being punished or afraid.

More like, “I miss praying. I miss the peace of honesty and of talking to God about others and things that only we know”.

I miss me, humbled and yet, unafraid.

And so, God told me so. Told me in a way, I suppose,

I miss our conversations,

I miss the heart of you.

I delivered a painted cross yesterday, a housewarming gift that according to my friend was “extra”, other gifts and favors already given. I told her I’d like to gift another, for her office.

She gave me permission to choose the color, she’d be fine with white, she offered.

I’m thinking now about the depth in her eyes, pools of thought and kindness.

How I’ll capture that color, I don’t know yet.

I’ll pray.

I can pray. I am certain in that.

Unafraid and so very humbled.

Strong But Quiet

bravery, Children, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, family, memoir, Motherhood, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

Does he not see my ways and number all my steps? Job 31:4 ESV

A family of seven walked the trail together. Up ahead they kept in a slow rhythm, a man, a toddler, a few adolescents and a woman with a stroller.

One looked back, heard my catching up to them. The man smiled and commented on the humidity. The woman pushing the stroller I noticed was empty, corrected one of the children about something. Her voice was loud, her face so serious.

I smiled and looked back at the group, told them,

“My children laughed when I tried to be mean, I was never good at getting their attention that way.”

The girls and boys looked at me and stayed in step with their mama who added in a way that her children know she can be “mean”.

Not in a fearful or threatening way, I sensed the children understood.

It’s a matter of how we’re made, how we convey our truth.

Job argued defensively with his friends and with God for whole chapters and yet, never disrespected or disavowed his Father.

He was quiet, but strong.

Distraught, but not demanding.

Frail, but not frightened.

The Book of Job is poetry for the introspective and honest. It is comfort amidst woe.

It is quietly strong.

“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.”
‭‭1 Corinthians‬ ‭13:1‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Quietly strong, a tone I love.

In the mornings, I find a smoothly writing pen and I write the names of my children side by side, circle them on their own and then add an embrace of a larger encircling together.

A quiet practice.

Strong and soft, unwaveringly committed.

A way of trust.

The way I know.

Wisdom found in quiet confidence.

“God understands the way to it, and he knows its place.”
‭‭Job‬ ‭28:23‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Sunday Seasons

Art, Children, confidence, contentment, daughters, Faith, family, hope, Peace, Redemption, sons, wisdom, wonder

With the songs and sermon, prayers and passages, I had church today while I painted.

The thought came to do both just as I’d decided to stay home. You’ve been running, racing and getting to do lots of things.

You’re learning, that kind of running will catch up, put you in slow motion.

Take your peace away.

Funny thing, I’d never painted while “going to church”. But, I felt compelled to do it and so, I listened as I prepped tiny canvases for color.

Just as I’d listened to a new take on an old favorite, Psalm 139. Whole house silent and I heard it differently, more clearly.

The Holy Spirit’s presence.

My soul knows it very well.

I wrote just these words beside my name in the margin. This beautiful psalm is one we read to remind ourselves we are known beyond our mind’s comprehension by God who made us.

Mostly, I’ve read this psalm to remind myself of God’s intentional love and to confirm that I’m here on purpose, not an accident.

Today though, in the quiet, I saw a little deeper meaning. God knew and knows that it’s our soul that guides and informs us, that the things we need to “hear” from him, we will hear with the nudge of conviction, correction and the deepest of joys that can’t be described in words, only the pure reaction in our core/our soul. Some say gut or conscience.

How do you describe the most intimate joy of being surprised by the ease of something you feared would go wrong?

How do you describe the peace in an unexpected emotional response to something as simple as a hug from a child?

A greeting at the door with a flower and a request for a jar?

How do you describe knowing what God wants you to know that you’ve been avoiding or are afraid it can’t possibly be true?

It’s close to impossible to fully convey the soul.

That may be why David ended this Psalm this way. Sort of a brave request of God.

I’m often afraid to ask such a question.

“Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭139:23-24‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Because God knows all the beauty of us, He also knows the ways we get wrong.

Since He knows us so very well, wonderful creations, complex and complicated, we can trust that we’ll see the parts we sometimes get wrong.

If we’ll simply ask Him.

We don’t have to be afraid of the answer. It will come gently. After all, our Father is the maker of our very tender souls.

Today, I took my time, walked outside to breathe in the coming season, check on the mysterious morning glory and just because.

I stayed home.

Remembering lunch with my daughter and son on Saturday, rounding out my birthday celebrations, I recalled the sweetness of togetherness and the ways they’re so very different and deciding that’s quite okay.

Wonderfully made.

My hopes for them, always been the same, are the very evidence of that very thing, hope.

“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭139:14‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Rather Resilient

Abuse Survivor, anxiety, confidence, contentment, courage, fear, hope, memoir, Redemption, Vulnerability, wonder

Behind the grill, in the corner there’s a collection of leaves, dirt, dust and a moth or two.

I paused this morning to see the sky. The air fixated, it seemed on one leaf. Brittle fern fronds on the floor like rose petals left for a lover and the one leaf, edges upturned and a little bigger than the others,

Sort of shimmering.

I know it’s strange, to be fascinated by a dried up leaf on a sleepy Saturday morning.

Was it healthy or close to decay? Was there a notice of it over the others that caused it to be the lonely one taking in the breeze

While the others were still?

Had given in to decay.

I turn 62 next week.

There are unforeseen health things.

All in a matter of a couple of weeks. There’s the dental stuff that triggers childhood shame. There’s the inflamed knee that pains me and odd or maybe not, I’m unable to kneel to pray.

There’s the diagnosis of high blood pressure that I’m disputing, watching and waiting.

Because I think it’s anxiety.

There’s all this stuff that points to aging and old things and to the trauma of losing parents before they were old.

Someone I love told me of an emergency room visit and how it triggered her. I told her “no wonder” and asked how she recovered.

She told me it was just a few days ago. She’s getting better.

And not by crazy shaming of self “get it together” because

It’s not the same and that was so long ago.

Instead, by accepting her emotions and not shaming herself about them.

Letting the sorrow and fear revisit and then go their way.

This is now.

You are here. This felt like that, but it isn’t.

All the leaves have now been swept away together. The resilient one mixed in with the ones unbothered by the wind are in the yard with the pine straw and mulch.

Strange that I’d notice a crinkled leaf first thing.

Or not strange at all.

Rather,

resilient.

Stilled

Angels, confidence, contentment, Faith, grace, hope, memoir, mercy, Peace, Redemption, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

“because of the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high”
‭‭Luke‬ ‭1:78‬ ‭ESV‬‬

To ease into the end of yesterday, I sat on the steps of the pool. It’s one of “my things”.

I let the cool water calm my aching legs, notice my toes.

The clouds and tops of trees, a mirrored reflection for filtering my thoughts and pausing.

I listened to a meditation that led to being brave enough to believe in right next to me nearness of God.

I prayed, longingly and admittedly a tad half-heartedly

maybe it will be.

Eyes tightly squeezed, I felt warm tears stream down toward my chin. I opened my eyes and a butterfly danced then rested, yellow and payne’s gray paint color bordered.

The meditation ended.

I lingered, amazed yesterday evening.

The presence of God in a butterfly on an old overgrown shrub, the softness of its appearing, the grace of the the Amen,

It’s because of God’s tender love that you cried.

Were stilled.

Be still.

Stilled.

Remember and rise.

Be expectant. God is near.

Here’s the guided meditation app.

https://www.pauseapp.com/

Stories Told Lightly

Abuse Survivor, Art, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, hope, memoir, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, testimony, Vulnerability, wisdom, writing

“And he said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
‭‭Luke‬ ‭7:50‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Given the choice, I prefer the quiet space alone. I love words, but prefer writing over speaking and even more so as I’m older and it’s showing evidence in both my appearance and ability.

I saw the sun on Monday morning and I thought of passages of Jesus coming to the gatherings, houses, and rescue of so many.

Healing as they welcomed him, restoring as they let Him in. Something about the sun on Monday caused me to wonder if Jesus ever wondered or even went back to say, “Who have you told about your healing?”

I wondered if the woman who had to stay home because of her bleeding happily began to sit and interact with others in the light of day. I wondered if the widow with the sparse amount of change she gave away kept living on little but with more happiness than any success could bring.

I wondered if the woman Jesus stopped the scribes from stoning spent all her days comforting other women who lost their way and needed to know life could change.

I’ve kept a piece of paper in my Bible since 2016, a sketch of an open book and a bullet list of why we all should tell our story.

Six years later, I’m surprised to even be asked.

But, I have and I have said “Yes.” The story is a more gentle one, not spattered with sorrow or bitter questions of why…it’s one of the tapestry of comfort in the form of art inspired by faith.

I’m grateful. I shared this morning as I move into this season of sharing and of learning.

Studying the lives of Sarai (Sarah) and Hagar is humbling me. Quick to be critical of Sarah and compassionate towards Hagar has always been my response to these women integral to God’s story. I even have notes in my Bible, all directed at mean old Sarah and as expected, feeling connected to Hagar, the one abused and shamed. I’m learning about culture back then, about many things.

I’ve got lots to learn as I prepare to follow through on a couple of requests I said yes to…neither of them sought by me. One in September and a second in October, sharing my story of how women in my Bible brought me back to painting and how their stories are teaching me.

I’ve got a whole lot more to learn, (I know I already said that 😊)how the love of God is not just for the beaten down women, but for the women who participated with words and actions against other women. It’s all about the power of God to redeem and the gentle call to us all…Come back, daughter.

There’s a bigger purpose for it all…pain, heartache, anger or regret. Hagar and Sarah experienced God’s love in equal measure. They were seen by God, completely.

I’ve got much more to learn and I’ve occasionally been corrected. That’s okay. I’m learning. But a sort of knock on my door came in the form of unexpected questions…can you guide women in your process of painting and speak on how connecting your art and faith has and is strengthening and changing you? Public speaking, live painting.😳

Honestly, it is frightening. I can write vulnerably about my journey and at one time I spoke quite often about the struggles of women, mental health and other things…it’d be a whole lot easier to keep sitting on the couch quietly drawing in my Bible or painting in the corner room in solitude or blogging occasionally.

But, maybe Jesus knocks and we let Him in and then He knocks again, saying come on out, let’s go and share, together let’s tell the story of the two of us in relationship. Let’s go and tell.

(I’ll be sharing more about the two events as the dates draw nearer.)

Continue and believe, learn and go.

Go in peace. You’ve been made well.

You have a story to tell.

The Color of Story

Art, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, family, hope, memoir, Peace, praise, Prayer, Redemption, Stillness, Trust, walking, wonder

For a time, all the books were shelved with the pages, not the spines facing forward. Another time, prompted by some sort of famous person, all the spines with titles were organized by color.

Often, I take the book covers off a new book, curious over the color chosen by the publishers. The colors are typically soft, often blue, tan or yellow.

They’re muted, not noisy.

Soothing.

The star quilt is the one I chose. My grandmother died and we all gathered around the cedar chest to pick a quilt from the perfectly folded pile. Three quilts came back to Carolina that day. My daughter chose a soft blue sort of willowy with a ring pattern. My son chose the largest with a spattering of vivid, I decided, story telling squares.

There’s a sweet spot on my walking road that caused me to stop long ago. Sometimes with the Labrador, often alone. The vast valley of green field bordered by forest always caught the sun going down and the weeds, grass, wildflowers seemed to be wearing halos.

I’d stop, neighbors maybe looking on and I’d capture the blue sky scattered with clouds over the splendid field.

Then someone, a young couple, decided to put a double-wide home in the space on the end.

It seemed an intrusion to pause there to think. It wasn’t the same place, the field felt somehow disgraced by the change.

But, yesterday evening, I approached the hill that curves around to the big open field. The sky reminded me of waves building, like the tide’s rhythm. I paused for a photo.

As I continued towards home, I saw a girl hurrying down our driveway. I met her. She told me she had mail that might belong to us and then asked for an egg. She told me she lives in the trailer, has a baby, a boyfriend who works too much and a mama who is sick with a second bout of cancer. Then she told me she can’t find the people who should have this handful of junk mail, coupons and such and then asked again, “Do you have an egg?” She wanted to make some cornbread.

So I gave her two eggs, told her my name and that I would pray for her mama.

And she crossed the road back to her home, the robin’s egg blue trailer in the field I loved.

And now, love again.

My star quilt is used to cover a hole in the arm of my then new loveseat. The Labrador we love beyond measure ate a chunk out of the arm as a wild and excited puppy, home alone.

So, I folded my clean quilt, beige and blank side showing to match the furniture and to disguise the damage.

The stars’ colors never showing.

This morning, I’m seeing the change, the quilt folded before bed with the star pattern showing. The colors are dancing next to the cobalt blue of a pillow and the rich green of a painting I painted and framed before I ever had the guts to use the word “artist”.

The same green of the field with tiny new pines is the same green of the grass on this painting and the moss from so much rain, a pillow for a feather I spotted walking.

I suppose I’m noticing God again after a season of just continuing towards what we all felt might soon be better.

I’m considering all the places I’ve missed in the interim and acknowledging some grace I can give myself.

Get chances to give others.

Because the places of goodness in my life hold the promise of more; even more lines, color, and interruptions that aren’t misdirections, detours or disasters.

Simply colors added to my story.

Just so pleasant, the peace of accepting them.

“The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭16:6‬ ‭ESV‬‬

God is everywhere. Don’t forget to notice.

Keep going.

Your colors are showing.

Threes and Peace

confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, hope, memoir, Peace, Redemption, testimony, Truth, Vulnerability, wisdom

“Behold, I will bring it health and cure, and I will cure them, and will reveal unto them the abundance of peace and truth.”
‭‭Jeremiah‬ ‭33:6‬ ‭KJV‬‬

I’m guilty of using words repeatedly, words like “season” I keep hearing, lyrical sort of as they dance with others.

I like the word peace. I cherish it, settle my mind on its importance for me, more so for those I love, those I meet.

Others I’m using are resonate, redeem, and appreciate.

I pause mid sentence to use my mental thesaurus, but these words seem to be mine in this season. I see no need for substitutes.

I’ve just read the writing prompt for Five Minute Friday by Kate Moutang, the word “twenty”. She shared a sweet story of her memories of world travel, a trip she thought was one of “giving”

That turned out to be a season of sweet gifts and lessons she treasures.

I have a little quirk.

I like things in threes.

Three plants lined up on a shelf, a turtle and a rabbit anchored by a little sign saying “peace”. I love the way three seems complete, like the knot tied in a string and the meeting place in a circle of hand holders,

a ring around the rosy kind of innocent peace.

This morning, actually for a month or more, I’ve been thinking about my 60’s as my 62nd draws near. I’ve been the listener in little coffee shop chats between women, comparing which was harder,

Turning 30, 40, 50, or 60?

The marking of a new decade. I’m wondering about the years in between. The years that take a back seat to the big surprise gathering, black balloons, not so funny jokes, but sweet celebrations with family and friends cheering, look how far you’ve made it!

Thinking of “20”, I’ve mentally divided my 60 plus years by three. I’m time traveling back to 20 year old me, 40 and 60.

The seasons and seasoning of me by hardship, grief, achievements, peace, panic, fear, and many wow, we made it, they did it, so very proud moments!

Wiser now, quicker to see my need for humility, more safe with my true self.

Imperfect and not defeated by the imperfection of me.

So what if I look back I wonder at Lisa at 23, 33, 43, 53?

Were those birthdays less monumental?

I can’t remember really, just know they led to the almost 62 me and I’m grateful for every lesson, every gift I never believed 20 year old Lisa would see.

All of them, every single second leading to the truth of me.

This truth is peace.

It’s worth it times three.

Linking up with others prompted by “20” here.

Five Minute Friday

	Lisa Brittain on Women of Faith
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Women of Faith
	smoker4mom on Women of Faith
	juliedibblewrites on Embracing
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Shine On