A collection of nine paintings, acrylic with oil pastel, is available through The Scouted Studio’s on line gallery.
To learn more about the inspiration behind these or to purchase, follow this link.
One wilted rose remains. It’s wound its way among the limelight hydrangeas. I’ve been greeted by the beauty every morning this week. Soon, the petals will drop and not so long away, the green will be dried up by Autumn air and the tiny rose will just be a memory, but also a hope.
Could it be as simple as choosing forward looking more often than back?
Could this be the blessing over the curse?
“See, I am setting before you today a blessing and a curse—”
Deuteronomy 11:26 NIV
How we see things matters. Interactions, relationships and our part in the ugliness or beauty of them.
Exchanges linger in our hearts even if we’ve been long separated from the person or people.
We are marked by ugliness and yet, we can choose not to be forever marred.
We can choose to see the joy and lightness in looking forward.
I was frozen in the driver’s seat. I could hurry to catch up and engage in casual talk or I could sit and wait, not have the guts to simply be near her.
“How are you?” might be my question or maybe they’d go first.
Or there might be no words offered, no interaction for the sake of one another, just a layer of stifled breath between us.
And that’s quite okay.
Because hurt lingers long in the hearts of one betrayed, cast aside or used for another’s climbing the ladder advantage.
There was a time when my face was well known, known for the work I represented and recognized in the “right” circles.
Now, I’m just “someone people used to know” becoming the woman not needing to be “known”, just me being me.
I’m not sure what prompted the thought, the realization.
I’m sort of okay with this new “imageless” image. Maybe all the other roles, women I tried hard to be were actually in a way
Imaginary.
This morning, I read a review by Michele Morin of a book by Christine Caine, “Don’t Look Back”.
Caine writes of the ways we can get stuck in our tracks (turn to an immovable block of salt like Lot’s wife) when we continue to look back.
Maybe looking back is good if we use it as a choice to decide.
To look back and see the distance you’ve gotten in your healing from hurt, to look back and think for a minute before reacting, I’m better, stronger, wiser on this forward facing side of that person’s hurt.
To look back, not stuck and staring but to look back and confidently reposition our gaze, to view the harm of our pasts as a reflection of our empowered decisions…
What was meant to harm us will not destroy us.
What was bad is on its way to more very good.
Decide to believe in the good you’ve already seen. Choose a sort of self-assessing.
Quietly measure the sense in your soul that keeps saying to you
All is well and all will be well with me.
“But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.”
John 14:26 ESV
I stood in the pool, one foot in shallow, the other in the slant towards deep.
An audience of one, my granddaughter putting on a performance, her very own synchronized swimming dances from the edge into the water. Again and again, with happy pirouettes, she demonstrated the newly formed lessons with commitment.
I paused in between each repetition. I noticed her noticing me as I waited with gazing eyes to sense heaven again.
To find the Holy Spirit in my backyard.
And I did. It was a minute or less.
I sought quietly and I found the breath of heaven, the sense of the Holy Spirit in my chest, the warmth of the passing for just a second breeze on my cheek.
Willing myself to a state of “distractionless”.
In the auditorium, I sort of coaxed my mind to be where I was, to not think of things to do, to wonder less about home a couple of hours away and to practice presence, to be receptive.
I repositioned myself. I set my intentions, I reset my mind from racing to attentiveness.
I wept in worship. I raised my hand, opened my heart. Not unnatural, simply unable to resist.
A woman behind me prayed in unison with the one praying. I sat when “Amen” came, my cheeks lined, rivulets.
I wiped my face and reached behind to thank her, tapped her on the leg to say “thank you”. I noticed the touch of my hand, wet and she touched my hand, received it, my gratitude.
I was away for two days, my granddaughter said two weeks. I called to ask about Saturday’s plans and quickly they were decided, I’d be going to pick her up.
We dodged the storms. I taught her to measure the distance of thunder.
We listened. She understood.
She talked on and on and I read with incessant interruptions the book she chose.
Then the storm stopped and she slept like a 14 not 4 year old girl.
I slipped out of bed for coffee and returned to read quietly, turned by mistake to the wrong date of my devotional.
“I have no home, until I am in the presence of God. This holy presence is my inward home, and until I experience it, I am a homeless wanderer, a straying sheep in a waste howling wilderness.” Anonymous 1841 “Joy & Strength”
And moved to cherish, to hold closely the reality of God’s Spirit in me. I am a seeker of solace now, of pausing long for all other things to experience God.
I completed a survey of the experience, the conference “She Speaks” for women.
I added my takeaway, my thoughtful remembrance of weeping in worship (this is not my normal), of joining hands with other women and of feeling a belonging that was without typical female comparison or judgment.
I slept softly with a girl, four years old, who dreamt something only she knows.
Thinking, I pray she continues to be receptive to what’s not earthly…for that’s where the gift is, the seeking that must be practiced.
When she was a baby we stood at the window and she gazed fixated, seeing heaven in a way I’m incapable.
It doesn’t come naturally. We must remember to long for it with intention.
The experience of the nearness of God.
Indescribable, it is.
I believe children know such a closeness.
Closeness we long to know.
Continue to seek, believing God is near.
Continue and believe.
The way it shimmered caused me to pause. If the movement made a sound it’d be like the rhythmic lapping of the water caused by my body in the pool.
The slight breeze from the air conditioner vent caused a silver dancing curlicue in front of me as I drove.
I was captivated.
What before would prompt brooding, a sign of acceptance, I saw as beauty.
One or three thin strands of my hair, not brown but grey.
Dancing in my periphery.
I’m talking about turning 63 like it’s tomorrow and at the same time overjoyed to discover the biblical meaning of August, my birth month, is “restoration”.
I’m considering the bravery of not feeling old, instead feeling ready.
I have thoughts to share with others, I encounter people who engage with my story and with others whose plight tells me my story might bring comfort,
Might compel them to keep living
To keep growing older.
To continue and believe.
This month I’m leaving WordPress.
I’m thinking of change, of blogging about not just art, but my thoughts on faith on my art website. I’m tender over it.
I love my blog. Still, it makes sense as I acknowledge the overlap, the connection, God’s instrumental hand on my life. Maybe he’s calling me to simplify,
maybe he’s calling me to growth.
My writing and my art will abide together in the same home.
I don’t know which direction my art or my writing will go.
I just know I’m captivated by the glimmers.
Glimmers of hope
That say “keep going”.
If you’d like to follow me as I move forward, visit the About page at http://www.lisaannetindal.me and SUBSCRIBE.
Happenstance, sort of (I love that word, by the way) I’ll have a chance to share my writing hopes with a publisher next month. My very good and wise friend, Ray will smile at the hopefulness and bravery of this.
He might be one of the very few who wouldn’t be annoyed or puzzled over my reluctance.
Today, I picked blueberries. We have lots!
The breeze was warm with sunshine again!
And the thoughts came as I filled the jug with berries for my granddaughter.
Fear is easy. Reluctance is relaxing.
Avoidance is an exhale.
A sigh of relief.
We choose what we know.
We choose fear because we know it as safety.
And once we know the cause of our choices we can give ourselves freedom to
“Unknow” them,
I pick berries barefoot in the weeds and never think of ants, spiders, bugs or snakes.
It’s not that they don’t scare me, it’s just barefoot berry picking is what I know, what childhood told me was okay.
When other things were scary.
The more you know, right?
I said “Yes.” to discussing my idea for memoir.
Yes to next scary steps, certainly not barefooted.
I promise.
Continue and believe,
“Jesus said to her, “I who speak to you am he.”
John 4:26 ESV
I sketched a thin woman in a scarlet gown in the margin of John, chapter 5, page 893. I found her flipping through to reread the account of the Samaritan woman who was avoiding the crowds to draw water at the well.
She met Jesus.
These pages don’t tell her story, only have the recorded words of Jesus talking about living water, a life without thirst, a limitless provision.
“On the last day of the feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and cried out, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’”
John 7:37-38 ESV
Yesterday, I had a moment that led to chills up my legs and over my entire body. I sensed the truth of my physical reaction. I paused to accept it and allowed a tiny bit of wetness on my cheeks.
My college roommate for just a year, now a successful business woman who I’ve not seen nor spoken to in over forty years, commented on a Facebook photo of my granddaughter.
The thought that came was sudden.
“She needs to know how I came to be okay.”
She needs for me to keep sharing my story.
She needs to know how I moved from hopelessness to hope.
The Woman at the Well went into the town nearby and told everybody that she’d met the man who knew everything about her, told her all he knew and gave her hope, living water.
I find myself wanting to read more of her story.
I long for the next chapters in her life to be in my Bible, her walk forward with Jesus.
I want to know if it was shaky, her faith. I long to hear from her through John, Luke or Mark, her battles, her returning to life with the reputation she’d created.
I wonder if we don’t read about the other “chapters” in her life and others’ because God feels they wouldn’t serve us well, wouldn’t offer others that same water of hope.
I wonder if others wonder such things.
When the Samaritan woman returned to her day to day, possibly less enthused about her encounter with Jesus, was she met with disbelief, with sarcasm, with scorn?
I’d like to know what all the ex-husbands and ex-lovers as well as those who thought they might get the chance to be her lover had to say.
Was it hard for her to see herself differently than what she’d come to be known for?
Was her salvation just a fluke? Did she struggle with doubt?
Maybe.
After all, she was human as were all the humans healed by Jesus.
She had emotions.
I believe she held on tightly to the simplest of words.
“I met Jesus.”
We read that she changed the lives of many Samaritans that day.
But, we don’t read how she walked into her new future day to day.
Maybe there’s just not enough space to record all the ways Jesus continued to help her, how she continued to remind herself of the day at the well, how she hurried to tell everyone.
I have hope now. I am well.
I used to believe I’d always answer the question of why I believe in Jesus by telling of all the answered prayers I have experienced.
Now, it’s in the stories of others, in my story, in the unexpected and beautiful nudges that say I matter…
the woman you became despite the little girl and young woman, growing older woman, often imperfect that you’re becoming.
The entirety of you, your story matters.
“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
There’s still plenty of time and space to share it.
Continue.
Continue and believe.
And if you’ve not yet believed or your belief is fading or shaky.
I’d love to pose a question.
How might your life be different if you decided to believe and believe in Jesus.
He giveth more grace.
I am evidence of that.
I brought my “grandma” mug outside. It’s quiet. The cats are being cats, deciding which one is the favorite, staking their claim, one in a chair beside me, the other at my feet.
I remember my mama had her coffee on the porch. Soon, I’ll hear the sliding door open. My husband will wonder where I am.
Not cushioned in my morning chair in the corner.
Now the birds are strengthening the chorus of their choir, all the chatter becoming less harmonious.
Too busy, I softened the borders and the colors on a trio of paintings last week.
Now, they are more soft-spoken, their message more a hint than a demand.
Soon, I’ll not be hidden in the quiet place shielded by too tall hedges.
Last week, walking, I found a new explanation for my tendency to retreat, to isolate, to stay small and unnoticed.
Why the resistance is so strong in being seen, known, unhidden.
It’s because, I gave myself permission to accept, hiddenness is a skill set, a talent I finessed as a child.
Being hidden is a pattern I’ve perfected well.
But, less often even if difficult.
Deeply recessed is this go to behavior, a way to protect even though protection is not necessary.
I am safe. I am loved. I am not limited any longer by the required skill of self-protection.
I am safe. Salvation is my story.
Hidden and loved.
Noticed by God as I notice His Spirit in me.
Quietly seeking him in places that are hidden in a good way, the way called peace.
“But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord God my refuge, that I may tell of all your works.”
Psalm 73:28 ESV
I haven’t joined other writers in a while, been hiding there as well. Today, I’m linking up with Five Minute Friday here:
https://fiveminutefriday.com/2023/06/08/fmf-writing-prompt-link-up-hidden/
I stood still to find it again and then the bird perched in boldness and just waited on the top of the tomato cage. Its belly was brilliant, glistened like silk. It seemed untouched, unmarred, original and articulately designed.
At first, I thought “a tomato already?”. A brilliant spot of red amongst the lush green growth of vine.
Two pages of my journal are covered in words in reply to the question, how does God see me?
I finished Henri Nouwen’s “The Return of the Prodigal Son”. There are multiple asterisks in the margins and many underlines.
I paused here yesterday. Read and reread about A First and Everlasting Love.
“For a very long time I considered low self-esteem to be some kind of virtue. I had been warned so often about pride and conceit that I came to consider it a good thing to deprecate myself.” Henri Nouwen
Nouwen reminds of Psalm 139, that before we opened our eyes to life, God had brilliant plans already decided in the way He made us.
Often, I think of the beauty of being wonderfully made and not so much the “fearfully” part. What does it mean to us that we are made “fearfully”.
I would say it means “well-made”, not haphazardly, not without intention and plan, well-thought, very, very distinct and worthwhile.
So, I continue to return to the truth for me and for you.
We are valuable according to God and that value doesn’t change according to the limitations I know like fear, self-destructive patterns, lack of confidence and/or lack of the notice of others.
This is the “footprint” I want to leave here when I’m gone.
Your value is not determined by what has happened to you or what you hoped would and did not.
Your value is according to God. He fearfully planned it for you to discover just how “wonderful” you are.
Your value is not determined by the plans of God that got trampled by malice, meanness or evil decisions of another.
Your value remains untainted, to be discovered with sweet and steady intention…you keep going towards it.
Continue and believe.
“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.”
Psalm 139:14 ESV
When my granddaughter balanced on the highest beams and danced on the lofty walls up the playground equipment, I imagined her losing her footing. I was ready to drop all my stuff and catch her. Instead, she offered joy. She shared her confidence with me.
She demonstrated faith in herself and faith in me and reminded me of God that she sees, clearly more clearly than me.
When I read about the man who was blind I can’t help but see a boy. I don’t know why.
“As he passed by, he saw a man blind from birth. And his disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
Jesus answered, “It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him.”
John 9:1-3 ESV
Jesus is saying exactly what he means.
As God’s Son, the “light of the world”, it was God’s plan that this man, blind from birth would have an encounter with Jesus and be healed. That he would follow the “doctor’s orders” and go to a pool called Siloam and put muddy water on his eyes.
This man, a beggar before this day, all on his own with no hope for better and no hope on the part of his parents.
He was healed and everybody thought it was impossible. So they refuted, doubted, questioned the simplicity of it.
And he told all the protesters of his sudden sight recovery that he didn’t fully understand either. He just knew he could see them.
In the margin of my Bible I have written,
Can it really be true? I am healed?
The next chapter over, John details the story of the death of Lazarus and of the way Jesus tarried in attending to his friend.
When Mary and Martha, who were friends of Jesus, worshippers of him, came to tell him about their brother, he didn’t immediately go to see about him…he waited two days.
What was he thinking? Isn’t Lazarus dead? What is the reason you’re not hurrying to heal this man, your friend…don’t you love this whole family, Jesus?
Valid questions.
Jesus told the disciples essentially, I know what I’m doing…you will see.
“Then Jesus told them plainly, “Lazarus has died, and for your sake I am glad that I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.”
John 11:14-15 ESV
When Jesus saw for himself, he wept.
“Jesus wept.”
John 11:35 ESV
As the Son of God, he was broken over the death and yet, He knew God’s intention. This death and resurrection will be recorded. It will make a difference in the lives of others.
It will help others make sense of their own unattended to and lingering sickness of heart, mind and body.
When Jesus says “this illness (trauma, circumstance, abuse, neglect, poverty, anxiety, fear, addiction or unmet longing) will not lead to death, he’s not saying it won’t be difficult, He is saying, if you will allow me to enlighten you, to heal you.
You will be light for others.”
And that is the why, the worth, the reason for suffering.
So that we grow into who God knows we are, that we are resurrected from the lives of before.
That we live like a rescued adult, cushioned by grace.
No longer like that child with hurts, questions and or mistakes.
Joyously.
The intention of Jesus for you.
“These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full.”
John 15:11 ESV
Keep going, higher than ever and with joy and hope.
Continue and believe. You are fully known and loved, have been all along.
You will see.
“Childhood is a short season.” Helen Hayes
I found a photo of my daddy today. He’s a barefooted little freckle faced boy with a perfect part in his hair.
He is grinning.
He looks like me. My children look like him. I see my grandson, Henry.
I ask myself honestly, really…do I or am I hoping it could be?
Because it’s not the honor of claiming resemblance, rather it’s the purity in the pose.
The abandonment to being a child.
Today was a grandma day. While the baby napped, I sat across from my granddaughter on opposite sofas.
Captivated by “Eleanor Wonders Why”, she laid on her tummy with legs bent and feet taking turns tap-tapping on the couch.
I sat and watched her contentment and her little lying on her tummy sort of secret dance.
I paused to remember when I’d last laid on the floor or the ground like that, a motion that says I’m in my own little world and it’s so happy here.
She caught me watching, smiled and brushed wild blonde bangs from her cheek.
And I’ve been thinking all evening of the next pretty day I shall grab my grandmother’s quilt, spread on the shaded cool grass and lie on my tummy with a book or with nothing and just think, think, think as I lift my feet up and with no time to consider, just keep doing it.
Like a child,
A child again.
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.
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