Worth caring for. Cared for. Worth resets of neglected places and grace in the rearranging. Worth “beginnings again”.
Sitting in my studio (there, I said it!) that I call a “sanctuary”, the room that was Heather’s, the room with every momento of my children or creative inspiration on the walls before, I feel renewed.
Today, I cleared the walls of unnecessary (almost every space was push pinned with something!) and only left a little. I left the cow Heather painted, an empty frame to get me thinking, and a color wheel Austin must have done in a school assignment. Other things on tables, just a very few to keep my focus on what matters.
I exchanged a pretty chair for an old one and added a forgotten pillow. I repositioned the desk to the window, no longer facing the wall. I cleaned up my messy painting desk, layers and layers of dust, pencil shavings and paint. I felt a little embarrassed by all the paint tubes without lids, how I’d been so careless. I let it pass and I kept at it. Because, I knew the result would be fresh, it would be a “begin again”.
I woke with that thought today, begin again. I wake with it often. Today, just maybe it’s sticking.
My space had gotten totally out of hand. It had a vibe of disrespect. It did not represent the love I have for writing and art and it was a glaring contradiction of a “sanctuary”. Nothing but claustrophobic info overload was its loud unmotivated voice.
On Friday, a friend purchased three paintings. We talked for a bit in the center of my room and I saw my “sanctuary” from her perspective. An outsider seeing in would never know that these things in my room are my treasures.
She certainly didn’t say it. And she didn’t make me feel it, I felt it because I knew it.
I guess in this pandemic season I just let things go, lots of things, thinking well does anything matter anymore? It can be easy to think that way, to let things go, when all around you are questions about life going on and if and how and when it will.
So, begin again, I am, Yay!
Reluctant for sure, tomorrow morning I’ll step on the scales. I haven’t since October. October told me to eat sandwiches again and I have been since then and it is showing, the excess “uncaringness” of it all.
I’ll accept the number and I’ll acknowledge its causes and I’ll begin again in this body God says is His temple. Begin again. We matter to God, every little thing about us does. We matter.
Treasured we are, treasured spaces for God’s use.
“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.” 2 Corinthians 4:7 ESV
I caught a glimpse of one of the last pink camellias. The bushes that border our home and the ones along the driveway had been spectacularly brilliant.
Then with the temperatures and rain were suddenly bloom-less. The grass wore a skirt of decaying flowers, their edges rusty with color and the petals limp and fading.
I paused when returning from walking and a glint of pink popped out from the deep green. One camellia was tucked away. I picked it.
I brought the flower inside and filled the vase with water. This was three days ago. The color remains and the bloom is strong on the stem. I can’t decide what I love the most about looking over to see the simple flower.
From every perspective.
Up close, the underlayer of petals are changing from pink to shriveled golden brown. Standing over it, I am drawn to the fragile innards, the bright yellow heart of it. From a distance, I love the contrast in color against our brick.
Why this one camellia caught my eye feels like a sweet secret, something God knew I needed.
I see beauty.
Lately, I’ve thought of how distinctly different every individual’s perspective is in this coronavirus crisis. It is based on their views, their experiences, their current emotional and physical as well as spiritual state.
I’m reminded of a long held truth. No one truly knows how another feels.
Secrets are our truth.
They are tender. They are hard. They are transparent.
I like the definition of perspective that is synonymous with “outlook”. I believe this.
Before we see, we feel and what we feel inwardly leads to our outward view, our perspective.
I asked myself this morning, How can I be more intentional and sure of the way God wants to use me, to continue rather than decide, oh, you must’ve been wrong?
It all begins with and comes back to belief.
“I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living!” Psalm 27:13 ESV
Believing is the perspective changer, the perspective keeper, the level ground during doubtful times, confusing ones like these.
God’s perspective of us, His creation?
He believes we are able.
He made us this way.
But, what about your secrets that tell you otherwise, ones that say to your soul, don’t try, don’t be sure, don’t step out in faith…you never know, you may discover you were wrong?
What if deep down you’re afraid you will learn, you were wrong about God’s believing in you, you were wrong about trying?
What a shameful secret this is. The one that hinders, the one that feels safer to be the same not take any more steps believing.
I may be wrong, I don’t think I’m alone in this occasional and yet, so overwhelming feeling.
This is why I own it, call it out, really look closely at its defeatist agenda! I speak to it! I tell it otherwise.
“God created me to be creative. God believes in me.”
Believe.
Continue and believe. Your heart will find truth when you confront your secrets. You perspective will follow.
Linking up with others on the prompt, “perspective”
I thought the craziest thought the other day. Leaving the grocery store again after having to pep talk myself into going, I notice all of our differences. I sit and watch the other shoppers’ arrivals and departures. I inventory the wearers of masks in comparison to the full faces.
“Return, O Lord! How long? Have pity on your servants!” Psalm 90:13 ESV
I notice the efficiency adapted by the store. I am grateful for the smile of the one who wipes down my cart. But, I notice it is ambivalent, the welcome that ushers me to be the next shopper in.
The same expression, same as my thought,
“How long? How long?”
I wear my mask although I don’t like it. I feel it is the respectful of others thing to do.
But, it makes me feel horrible, makes my chest ache in the way that only sparks worry and imagination of diagnosis. The grocery store is symbolic, I decide.
Symbolic of our differences as expressed on masked and unmasked faces.
I imagine God looking down, all of us scattered and separate and still learning this “togethering”.
I notice an older man dressed casually in shorts because our weather is splendid. His eyes meet mine as if me being female reminds him of his promise to his wife. He reluctant huffs as he pulls up his mask. Another older gentleman and the most crisply dressed older woman walk in separately, heads held high, maskless.
They make eye contact with me and their reaction is a mixture of life lived wisdom and pity. I wonder what they think of me.
This may not be a popular noticing of mine I am sharing here.
The people who are wearing the masks, including me, appear to be so much more afraid than the ones whose faces are free.
I’m very fond of a word that describes our expressions. It is the best word I know of as the gauge of feelings, outward indications that bubble up from our souls.
It is countenance. I consider it a tool. Stand all alone and face your bathroom mirror. What do your eyes tell you?
The curve of the lines that border your mouth? The rise of your cheeks towards the meeting of your lashes?
What do you see that cannot be hidden? Often, I’d use this assessment when I worked with troubled women. I knew it was truthful and easy to do. I’d tell them, look in the mirror, you’ll be able to see the truth of how you’re doing, what you’re believing, what you’re trying to disguise.
I know this to be true.
I drive home with my groceries feeling more curious. Curious over the choices of some to go without masks. Were they confident or just stubborn? Are they more brave than the rest of us or do they just feel the masks do no good, what’ll happen will happen anyway.
And the ones like me who wore the masks, are we afraid or are we respectfully cautionary? Are we just a “follow alonger”?
I don’t know. Once home, I’m better. I flicked the mask from my face before I even put my cart away. I know it has a purpose; but, I despise the fear it represents to me.
I wake and I open my journal and I think of how scattered my days have been feeling. How some days I see calm as my countenance in the mirror, others a questioning blank gaze.
I ask God to keep me gentle, to keep me observant, to keep me intrigued by the expressions of others.
I ask God to keep me noticing, to be my teacher, to turn me towards the mirror in my car when I’m afraid to get out, to show me my countenance and help me fix it before entering. To allow the light to be shown through my eyes when there’s nothing else uncovered.
I ask God to preserve the gentleness of me, to keep me meek not distressed and bitterly questioning.
These things we do until we realize they don’t serve us well and that we really are together even when we are “un-together” here.
To help me consider the countenance of others although not fully seen. To acknowledge we all struggle differently, many of us numb by now to the fearful pandemic, many of us walking around in what feels like armor. We do what we can and we tell ourselves to stay in our bubble, ignore the statistics and predictions and hope tomorrow will be different.
What are we that He is mindful of us? We are His creation and we matter. To God, to each other.
Our eyes cast down, our chests heavy with question. He knows. Or our confidence in pushing onward moment by moment til this storm has subsided or at least become more understandable.
“Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance.” Psalms 42:5 KJV
We turn our attention towards the hope and the laments, the questions without answer, the admission of troubled mental struggles and errant behaviors, the book called Psalms.
It is there we find relatable stories, honest words of David, of singers and psalmists, that we find our countenance changers, our togetherness with others and with God.
“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name! Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, who satisfies you with good so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.” Psalm 103:1-5 ESV
We are together even in our un-togetherness. We are covered although scattered in our thoughts and souls.
We are all together in God’s strong hold. We are together with both masked and unmasked faces God sees fit to have intersect us. I hope my eyes contain just a bit of Him, the one who sees us all, unmasked, scattered and yet, together souls.
I’m a stickler for continuing things I begin. Oh, wait that’s not true. I’m scared to death to get back at rewriting that manuscript, the one that felt too honest and now not honest enough. A wise friend named Ray reminded me this idea was born eight years ago!
For now, here’s the link to my April Newsletter, a much easier write and read.
What have you lost that might have seemed silly but made you hopeful until you decided well… even that makes no difference now at all? What represents hope or an idea of God knowing and knowing you?
Today I found something and I almost told my husband. But, I realized the joy of my finding would be lost on him and I needed to keep that joy, I’d gotten a little low. I needed to start a new reserve.
I was determined to find it. I fully expected to see the flash of blue in the very same spot. I walked yesterday and saw the lifeless bright blue bird in the thick green grass.
It bothered me so. I kept walking and self-talking.
It means nothing at all, I told myself, likely the bird intersected a passing car and landed there.
But, it was so vibrant in color. I thought of pulling a feather from its completely still frame.
But, I didn’t. Same as two days before. A large hawk or goose feather was laying in the grass along my walking road. I’d normally be excited. I wouldn’t care at all who saw me. I’d walk back home swinging my arms and striding in my fast way. One hand holding my phone, the other clutching a feather as big as my two hands lined up together. I’d bring it inside and I’d stick it in an old bottle.
Instead, I walked on.
Paranoid over something I skimmed about chickens and flu and thinking I’d have all the germs of the feather on my hands and I was only halfway back home. I let it lay.
I regretted it. The next day, I went back looking. The large white edged with brown and grey feather was gone.
So, I thought about it, tried to shake it off, this cynical me I’ve become.
Tried to stop my thinking that God has no notice of me and all of a sudden I’d become unaffected by feathers, I’d become very unseen and afraid.
Two weeks ago, barely steps from our house, a sparrow lay next to the gravel, the tiny brown baby so upset my soul.
So, I thought again. There’s meaning here. Nary a feather have I seen, but a bird on the ground on the side of the road. Is there significance in this for me? Is there a pattern? Is it deadly?
What did it mean? Nothing, I insisted, there is no reason to believe lifeless birds have a message for you.
But, I believed differently. So, I struck out early and I wanted to either see the blue feathers left there or I wanted to see that the bluebird had somehow found strength and flown.
I saw neither. No bird. No feathers. I walked on toward the place with the deep dip, the place where the red birds fly over without exception.
Not this morning. Well. This too?
It’s early, I decided; the birds have an evening path, not morning.
I continued on.
Why the cynic now? Why has my belief in feathers faded? Why had I not seen any? Why was I pretending it didn’t matter?
Steps close to the curb and face towards my feet, I see it and bend down. It’s black and all mottled by rain. You best bet I keep it.
I carry on past the place where the feather was scary and I long to have another chance, see another maybe.
Instead, my steps continue and suddenly a flurry from a paper box delivers! A bluebird so blue it’s nearly blinding and it surprised me!
See! I told you!
it seemed to say, you didn’t see the one you ached to discover but here, it is me!
I am here!
I smiled, smiled and kept walking until I saw it.
A pristine little one nested amongst the leaves, a soft fuzzy tail white feather.
So, I clutch the pair between my fingers and I turn for home.
Thinking every bit of my bird and feather encounter matters. Every bit! The tiny dead sparrow, the hawk wing feather that made me so leery, the precious limp blue winged creature, brilliant although lifeless.
And my longing, it matters, my longing to again long for feathers.
All of it. My confusion, my fear, frustration over not knowing and cynicism over something as simple as a feather.
All my feels. All my feather stories.
“The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.” Zephaniah 3:17 ESV
It all matters. Sadness, sorrow and surprise revelations that say
Continue.
Continue and believe. You have more stories. Stories of life interspersed with symbols of sorrow.
Stories of feathers, of God, of your life and love of birds.
Continue.
Evening now, time for walk number two. I’ll be hoping the place where the trail dips and turns will happily greet me with two flashes of red, the cardinal couple.
“There was a believer in Joppa named Tabitha (which in Greek is Dorcas ). She was always doing kind things for others and helping the poor.” Acts of the Apostles 9:36 NLT
Last night, I saw the writing prompt, “Now” and thought there’s so much that word could inspire in this time, this time that feels like now is an open-ended question or complex algebraic word problem I’d likely give up on. So, I thought to write about the difficulty of now, the tough realization that we’re running out of distractions to fill up the time called now that feels so far away from “then” and even farther from “when”.
Instead, after making a very good to do list to help me feel a purpose, I lingered over a quote on my “In Touch Ministries” devotion, knowing this was pressed prior to Co-Vid and meant to turn us towards Easter.
“In loving with His whole heart, Jesus was willing to be turned down.” Dr. Charles Stanley
I turned back to my daily Bible guide and returned to Acts. The story of Tabitha, I missed before. She became ill and died and was surrounded by friends who wore garments she had sewn for them. Peter prayed and she was healed and because of her healing, many others believed.
But, I couldn’t stop thinking about the women who surrounded her, the lives that would remain in the room and that many would carry with them, wearing tunics made by their friend and remembering her acts of charity, her love for them.
I thought of the quilts my grandma and aunt made that lie folded across our beds. I thought of women everywhere who’ve learned to make masks for medical workers and others.
Love remains. The love we give, the love we’ve given. The love we decide to give today, regardless of it being well-received or going unnoticed. Jesus is our example of love giving, love that will remain.
We’re beneficiaries of His choice to love mankind through dying not knowing who or when or if we would receive it.
So, the prompt called “now” that caused me to be frustrated over its lack of borders led me to a story of a creative and what she left for others, love and beautiful garments.
Her love remains even today because of my discovery of her “story” and the way it made me feel worthy, feel hopeful, inspired.
What’s your story? How have you loved others, how can you continue elaborately even unknowingly in this time of openness in time despite closed doors?
Of looking for God in the small places, letting the light in. It’s uncomfortable. We are unaccustomed.
I found an old note to self in my Bible. “Wait for the promise of the Lord, gracious uncertainty.” It was written after I read Acts 1, about Jesus ascending to heaven and him telling the disciples that the Holy Spirit will be their(our) guide now.
…but to wait for the promise of the Father Acts 1:4
Jesus answered their question about when by saying it’s not for them to know, only for them to spread the word of Him, so that many can be saved and to listen to the Holy Spirit as to how and when they were to share.
Last week, I didn’t mention prayer in a setting I felt I was supposed to. I didn’t. I didn’t know why.
Until an hour later, I’m out walking and I notice a family planting new roses. I stopped and I turned and I was greeted with what felt like glee.
“I don’t typically do this” I announced “but, would it be okay if we prayed together?”
And the mama rose from her flower bed digging and the daddy who’d been supervising smiled a giant smile and called their little boy over beside him.
I prayed and they prayed.
Then they smiled and we talked about the dog I couldn’t get trained and about children and sunshine and they commented about how they watch me walking and noticed I’m so fast. I laughed. They laughed too.
So, I smiled “see you later” and walked again back home.
I knew it was the Holy Spirit that told me turn back, meet them in their front yard, interrupt their day and together, pray.
It’s that way when we are attentive, I realized.
We’re praying for rescue now and not knowing when and we’re getting even more quiet although uncertain.
We’re leaning in to listen. It’s more possible than ever.
We’re praying prompted by the Holy Spirit. It feels new maybe, like new students not yet keen at recognition.
Maybe God’s idea for this season, this semester of waiting is keenness.
I woke up as usual and looked towards the window for day and then prayed, help me to see you more clearly God, today.
Three hours now into the day, I reread the words of Jesus and I see peace in the corner; a stack of books, collected feathers, glass that caught the sunlight, old magnolia pods in a tiny bowl, my granddaughter’s tiny silhouette.
A magnifying glass.
My son answered “I love you” in reply to mine and headed back to stay home in a different city. Not halfway into the day, I can hardly keep up with God’s ready replies to my prayer.
“Help me to see you today. Show me your knowing. Help me to recognize your glory.”
Praying you see Him too. Continue and believe.
“He said to them, “It is not for you to know times or seasons that the Father has fixed by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you… Acts 1:7 ESV
It’s not new, my fascination with the sky. The clouds on Tuesday looked like fat pillows against clear blue and situated as if a pillow fluffing designer had been busy all morning setting up the shop.
Then Wednesday morning not too many, cloud cover interspersed very flatly, blank canvas space.
But, in the afternoon we spotted the big crow. My granddaughter smiled and then giggled when her clearly adult grandma sang a song she made up and then over and over added “Ca Caw! Ca Caw!”
My sky is different, I thought yesterday evening walking. I’m not as sullen or driven to staring at the blankness as if looking for inspiration or looking for anything else. Maybe it’s not necessary I decided.
Maybe, as my friend answered yesterday when we talked of trauma’s inability to be anything less than honest with us. Maybe it’s just now a representation of clarity, of sweet truth despite storms.
She answered my question.
”Do you think it’s possible not to be affected by trauma?”
Were the people who were healed in the Bible really going in peace or did they get drawn back by their pasts? We decided the scriptures are true and if there had been a “rest of the story” about the women Jesus made well, God would’ve included it.
Instead, the stories have a certainty. An encounter with Jesus that brings certain healing.
My friend told me the way to believe in our very own healing is simple.
We become certain of God’s love. I loved her reply because I see it. It’s a slow coming to terms; but, it is becoming certain and it is making the difference.
I am certain of my healing.
So the sky is now different. It’s not a place I’m looking towards to ponder possibility and wait for some answer aching heart turned in an upward skeptical way.
No, now the sky is my solid confirmation. I see its steady changing and its transformations daily. Same sky, steady and at the same time changing.
God. God and I, the sky above me reminds me of His knowledge of me, of His delight in what delights me.
“That Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith; that ye, being rooted and grounded in love, May be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height; And to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be filled with all the fulness of God.” Ephesians 3:17-19 KJV
How can we truly believe all the promises we’ve read, heard from pulpits, been enthralled by testimonies? How can we embrace “daughter, you are healed” or like the prodigal who returned know it wasn’t just a fluke, God was waiting, He ran out to meet us and we were welcomed. How can we believe God planned our meeting Jesus just like the woman at the well, a prostitute who was surprised to see Him, even more surprised by His intentional kindness?
We can decide to be certain of His love more than anything. We can be as certain of God as we are of the sky.
Look up today.
Be reminded, God’s love is vast and wide and deeply unchanging.
I watched the soloist in worship, saw timidity in a way that led to her being brave. Fairly new to the stage, I’ve been attentive to her growing. I long to know her story.
Has she always sang so bravely, was it a thing she knew she’d always do? Was it a path that opened before her and at last she agreed she was able?
I watched as her hand held the microphone in its stand. I listened as she told me it’s God’s breath in me that led and leads to my breathing. She opened both hands towards the ceiling as her voice was elevated, “Great are you Lord!” I joined in agreement.
I’d still love to know her faith story. I’d like to know her journey as a woman.
I sat in the white chair later, the chair that was yellow when my mama got it. She had it in her den and I don’t recall her ever sitting there. It was positioned in front of her place for sitting, a place she could simply see it.
It faced the wide windows that opened the view to the field, the skinny lane that announced visitors. My mama lived alone for a bit and her yellow chair is only one of a few things she gave me. The others, ceramic roosters and a bracelet, now broken and not really jewelry, “costume” the jeweler said, “not worth anything”.
The yellow chair now recushioned and covered white, the little roosters and the bracelet, all yard sale discoveries.
My mama had very little.
Her legacy is wisdom. Wisdom and spontaneity, gifting herself with an occasional treat!
I thought of her as I drifted into a nap on Sunday. The yellow chair now creamy white facing my own wide windows.
I found solace in the soft chair, curled like a baby in my mama’s not made for sleeping chair.
I rested in the certainty of her joy when she found the fancy to her yellow chair. I celebrated her deciding she was worth it, something her life had never told her.
No wonder I find comfort in my mama’s yard sale chair.
It’s a side of her story she really didn’t tell. Her story of strength, of being worth something other than what life had shown her. A story of the bravery in believing, to wake to your very own beauty.
To believe in yourself because of God’s plan. I sit in my mama’s humble chair and feel the softness of her wisdom, I feel able to keep believing I am more than what my hard years have told me.
Continue.
Continue and believe.
There is wisdom in quiet joy. There is wisdom in pursuits that are tentative.
There is safety in remembering another’s very own wise path, as far back as when the writer of Proverbs called wisdom a “her”.
“When you walk, your step will not be hampered, and if you run, you will not stumble. Keep hold of instruction; do not let go; guard her, for she is your life.” Proverbs 4:12-13 ESV
I hope to ask her one day, the new solo singer in worship, “How did you get to this place of using your voice to strengthen my faith?” There is wisdom in her journey I’m certain. I long to know why.
Who are the wise women in your life? The humble ones, the overcomers, the singers, the confident business owners, the young mamas, the elderly still with us, the teachers, the artists, the singers?
Life makes us either hard or wise. Stay soft if you can, wisdom comes not from hardening.
we run away from our discomfort... but it doesn't leave us. to heal we need to turn around and face it, experience it and once we truly do we are out of it. We heal and we grow.
2 Timothy 1:7-8 For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline. This blog is about my Christian walk. Join me for the adventure.
Lisa Anne Tindal 