Morning Unfolds and Evening Nods

courage, Faith, grace, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

I walked outside, barefoot. This morning, the grass wet and cooler than just a few days ago, it caught me by surprise.

I lightened my steps, tippy-toeing, the dogs wondering, “what’s the problem?”.

Summer slumber moving me towards the letting go and the crisp of cool Fall.

I looked towards the sky, turned to go back inside and looked quickly, again back towards the tall pines.

One clump of green up way, way high, lit up golden, welcoming the day. Day of change and chance.

And I took it to heart, I thought…Yes, there’s still chance for new and good.

I angrily covered over a canvas last night, erased the amateur tones that couldn’t be made right.

Then, decided to write, to add some thoughts to words already started.

But, force and anxious effort took over.

Like the Psalmist I wondered,

Could it be God has forgotten to be gracious to me?

Psalm 77:9

Empty feeling, I left the words there, just draft.

Devoid of creative and exhausted from the effort.

I prayed later on. I cried, just a little. Surprisingly to some, I’m not at all the weepy one. But, warm tears, just enough to blur my sight made sense.

Then, I just decided to let it be, let it rest.

So, as morning is purposed for, the morning sky gave a chance to understand…again.
It’s crazy how little tolerance we have for things not going like we think they should.

We can hit one roadblock or not get something just right and we concoct a whole dialogue about our lack of worth and our lack of being good enough for good things to happen.

I just wrote my monthly Faith column for the Wagener Monthly. This month, about a blind man who thought he was blind because he was bad, his parents did too.

Never convinced him differently, even after he could see.

He met Jesus. He could see, he was healed. He believed. They still didn’t.

I falter in the two things I feel God has given me to do and I, like the blind man’s parents, start thinking…I was wrong, not me, not good enough, made too many mistakes to measure up to this gift.

That kind of thinking grows and grows until you become so miserable that you have to decide to be blunt and question yourself…where is this from…what’s this really about?

Asking yourself the things no one else would dare ask.

Like, why did you find it necessary to post every single angel you painted? What were you seeking? What void were you attempting to fill?

Then, you remember.

Oh, this thing I used to consider joy, that used to fill me up and spill over, I’ve made it something else. I’ve made it a place that’s open to fault finding, to self-ridicule and worst of all, to comparison.

Then, jealousy.

So, you get quiet and you get back to you.

You rest, let it rest. You sense the slow change, feel it, move through it at a sweet pace of your own.

You rest. You notice again.

I walked this evening. The cooler air separating the clouds, an intentional separating, breaking down and apart…sifted to smoothness and patterned for best.

I turn towards home, stopping with the Labrador in the grassy spot that feels like country and linger with him in the weeds.

No need for rushing.

We both look towards the place where the sky is wide. He saunters, the high grass brushing his belly and I unleash him because we’re almost home anyway, it’s safe.

I look towards the sky, then we’re done with the day.

And I’ve not pushed, I’ve prayed some more. I’ll paint tomorrow, write again too.

I’ll welcome the unfolding of morning, the nod of evening skies knowing God has been so, so gracious.

Again.

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee

Believing Afraid

courage, Faith, praise, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

Last night, this thought just sashayed through my mind. Popped up, hung around and I thought, yes, this feels like truth.

Feels like revelation.

I thought, go write it down; but, didn’t for whatever reason. Friday night, long week why must I always think so much anyway?

Then woke and remembered and it was still just as good, just as huge and real.

Thought again of heaven, of first impressions and of impressions I may have made.

I could see it new and different after years of not quite enough, not seamlessly believing without doubt or living without faltering.

I could see that it was good, would be okay.

I imagined standing there before God and him caring less about my fumbling and more about my feeble yet persistent pursuit. I heard him say…

I saw you learning to be loved, learning to believe. It was beautiful to see how those around you saw me through you.

I saw you being afraid, too. I saw the times you let your fears suffocate your belief and so you stumbled and you had some failures in your faith and in some things you let go your pursuit.

But, don’t be troubled. I’m not disappointed.

I saw you, saw you believing more everyday. I saw the times your heart’s rhythm was at ease or was joyous. I saw you, when you believed and your soul thrilled in its place of peace. I saw the blue of your eyes, clearly opened anew and the curve of your quiet lip in a humble smile.

I saw you.

Believing, afraid.

I made a new list, a letter to self. One side, what I believe, the other what I’m afraid of.

Then sat and colored in my Bible in the place where John recorded Jesus’ time on earth, the place where disputes over believing in Him and His outlandish love, healing, and behavior were deemed inappropriate.

They were afraid to believe, I guess.

Aren’t we all, until he reminds us?

Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” John 11:40

Treasure

courage, Faith, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I have sort of a secret. It’s more than sorta personal, the kind of thing you hesitate tell somebody or somebodies because there’s no way their reaction will honor the beauty of what’s been shared.

So, it’s been over a month now since this thing happened. I’ve recorded its occurrence in my journal, they way it appeared least expectedly.

The answer to a prayer while walking one evening. I’ve had answered prayers before, big, heavy and hard ones I’ve laid out before God, mostly about my children,

Rarely, so boldly about me.

I prayed that miserably hot afternoon, “Lord, is it your will that I write this book?” (I almost left the word “book” out here, doubts, fear, etc. saying don’t put that out there…don’t be so brave, keep it to yourself). The talk with God rambled on as I walked.

“Lord, I don’t want to think the way I’ve always thought. Maybe, deep down I don’t believe it’s possible. I believe it’s only a dream and this battle between believing it possible and fearing failure is strong.

So, Father I’m asking, do you want me to follow through, is writing a book a part of your plan for me?”

Walked on, relieved to have gotten it all out in the open. Better for being straight with God, like finally breaking the silent treatment with your spouse, the tension of what needed to be said is lifted.

It’s a start, at least towards good.

You say what you need to say and decide to just carry on regardless.

Not like a limbo state, just a sense of okay either way. Might seem like nothing but at least your load’s been lifted.

And now, I ramble.

The morning after the walk and talk, I do my normal sitting, reading, praying and lingering.

Typical morning, same routine and route.

Heading in to the office, good music, traffic info and some talk of events on the radio.

Then a word out of nowhere. Something I heard, crazy I couldn’t remember why or when.

“Treasure” it said and rested in my mind.

“Treasure”

“This is your treasure, Lisa. This is your ability, your opportunity. This is your thing, I planted there, a tiny thing that you’re only beginning to see. But, you see it now because you’ve gotten quiet. You see it now, because you’ve gotten loud and unafraid about it. You see it now because it won’t let you not see it. Don’t conceal it any longer.

This is your treasure. This is your treasure. The thing you carry around with you everyday, embrace it some days and fear it others…the thing you’re crazy excited to do and the thing that you’re terrified of.

This is your treasure, it has great significance.”

i heard God’s voice. It’s impossible to minimize this experience or to detail it in a way that matches its reality and quiet awe. It was real, not spectacular, just real.

It was His answer and so, I will write the stories, compile them with grace, with brave and honest recollections, “The Colors of my Bible” will be its title.

Because, six months ago, I scribbled this hurried question across the page of my journal. Writing the words in an anxious “gotta write this down before I decide it’s too heavy to write…to even think!”

“Lisa, what if it is God’s will for you to write a book…200 pages or so…and one person, maybe two connects with your story and has hope, understands God more clearly, believes in redemption in a way that’s not just a word for others? Isn’t that enough? Wouldn’t that be more than enough? “

So, continue. Finish. This is your treasure, honor it. Write God’s book.

This is your Treasure in you, a humble and hesitant jar of earthly clay, created by God.

God like you

courage, Faith, grace, grief, Trust, Uncategorized

img_1701_kindlephoto-17074621

Having noticed the birds singing as the morning on cue unfolded, I questioned my surprise.

It made no sense to me that birds would sing, butterflies congregate and the sky open so vastly midday.

Had they not heard of loss? Had they a resolve tougher than ours, more able to shake off the sorrows and sadnesses of life, of death?

I paused to listen again, to notice

Without fail, a God who like you.

Causing me to see, to hear, to know.

To be still. To trust both the beauty and the not so beautiful.

Watching God’s Children

Children, courage, Faith, family, Motherhood, Teaching, Uncategorized

All it takes to be changed and moved by God’s word is to read the stories of people and places who knew Jesus, to read the stories of Jesus.

I believe the writers of God’s ancient yet beautiful words had in their minds that for generations to come, scripture would change us. Stories and teachings are different in small ways each time we read them. We’re softened in areas we need softening and corrected in the areas we’ve fallen prey to doubt, lost our way, maybe need a little empathy, not sympathy.

We come to God, to His word in different ways, different places each time we pause to read our Bible.

My house has no children now.

I pause a minute here.

They’re doing good things, learning new things, are doing them in new and bigger places.

The story of young Jesus in the temple had me standing right there with his mama, our arms linked. Her son amongst scholars and leaders, was holding his own.

I read the verses and all I could do was think how overjoyed his mama must’ve been to find him; yet, wishing he’d never left her side, didn’t have to venture in new directions.

I wonder if she longed to cradle him in her arms again. If she could go back to the miraculous starry night, would she if she could or did the sight of him speaking of His Heavenly Father overwhelm her?

Mary, the ultimate giver of roots and wings, an empty nest beyond compare.

Every year Jesus’ parents went to Jerusalem for the Festival of the Passover. ⁴²When he was twelve years old, they went up to the festival, according to the custom. ⁴³After the festival was over, while his parents were returning home, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but they were unaware of it. ⁴⁴Thinking he was in their company, they traveled on for a day. Then they began looking for him among their relatives and friends. ⁴⁵When they did not find him, they went back to Jerusalem to look for him. ⁴⁶After three days they found him in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. ⁴⁷Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers. Luke 2:41-47

I imagine Mary, when after losing her son for three days, walking up to the temple and there he is!

She’s standing still, overwhelmed as she catches her breath.

I see her there, utterly enthralled.

His character, his voice and his pursuit of knowledge.

I can sense her knowing, her understanding, her acceptance.

There are things he will do, places he’ll go that she’d never know, not be able to go along. He won’t need her there.

Captivated, she listened and watched.

Something happens in a parent when the child they’ve raised speaks up, speaks for another or simply stands tall in crowd we’d be intimidated by.

It’s a beautiful moment to see.

Watching your child teach children with love and authority, speak with confidence, or demonstrate some act of kindness to another.

Take on a challenge you didn’t expect,

expecting to see it through.

Or maybe, if your children are adults like mine, they notice a place you could do better, tell you about it and you’re not offended by their truth.

You’ve taught them well, you decide.

So you, stand in the distance and watch when you can.

Finding joy in finding them again after being apart.

Captivated by them, God’s children, knowing

He’s watching them now.

And he said to them, “Why were you looking for me?

Luke 2: 49

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee and her story of a time she thought herself as less than and now she knows so, so much better!

http://jenniferdukeslee.com/put-brakes-today-happiness-hijacker/

Saturday, opening slowly

courage, Faith, grace, praise, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

IMG_1493_kindlephoto-4328048

My husband opens the cabinet, “Oh, we have bread!” like it’s the greatest joy on earth.

I’ve cooked us breakfast. Simple.

Bacon, scrambled eggs with a touch of heavy cream and sharp cheddar.

He contemplates the fig preserves. The jar lid sealed with the sticky juice of fruit, gritty as the lid is turned to open, figs sugary and rich line the sides.

“Should these be still good?” He asks.

“I’ve been eating them, but there’s a new jar of blueberry in the cabinet.”

So, he opens it up. “Man, there’s a lot of blueberries in here.”

He tells me three times. Fresh bread in the cabinet and blueberry preserves like his grandma’s, these things have set the course his day.

I woke later than usual. My day is open.

I have seven or so blank canvases and thoughts I need to pull together into sentences, paragraphs; perhaps, a chapter.

My prayer, bedside, before I made the breakfast with fresh bread and blueberries…

Lord, thank you for this day. For chances to decide how to fill my day. Make me more open to seeing the me you see.

I give you my day and I’ll remember to remember that this day, this life is from you and for you. Because of mercy, Amen.

The mere thought that God wants to make me holy, sees the potential in me to be holy.

Sees the possibility of his idea of me, his plan for me lining up close together!

The truth of this astounds me.

Me, unworthy. He, unrelenting.

IMG_1494_kindlephoto-5902925

I read from Jeremiah and I think then, “What are the plans for me Lord, the ones you call declarations?”

Almost noon now, I decide to taste the blueberries, so I have some toast.

I’m content in the day’s slow unfolding.

IMG_1492_kindlephoto-6085484

Blueberry preserves from a pretty jar, buttery toast and the chance to listen, to know even just a little more clearly, God’s plans for me.

Sweetly Sorrowful

courage, Faith, family, grace, Prayer, rest, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

This morning I had no intention of being reminded.

Of getting drawn backwards in time.

I hadn’t thought this way in a while, I’d finally crossed the finish line of acceptance in that long race called grief.

Like a runner crossing that line, arms thrown towards heaven, acceptance was well-earned.

But, I got pulled in, read a few lines and my eyes rested in a place of raw truth.

The words, written about a mother missed. Shared by David Kanigan, a thoughtful blogger, writer, sharer and follower. I only skimmed it, the piece he shared. I stopped, still in this truth, captivated by the expression.

It’s been three years now since my mother’s death, and I’m still wondering why I haven’t spoken with her in so long. Blair Hurley

more here: http://lithub.com/my-mother-is-gone-but-her-edits-remain/

And they were so true, her words so sad, such a validation that I carried them all day long, thinking

“It’s true, how I long to talk to her. How it seems I should be able.”

Later, it occurred to me “not too many people live as long as I have without my daddy here or my mama.”

My daddy, 17 years.

Mama, almost 7.

Reminded of loss, but moved by another’s understanding. Changed for having read the honest and unexpected words of another.

Oddly, I found myself happy over her admission, her honesty as if we’d talked and she and I agreed…yes, I know, I know!

Grief is such a juxtaposition of sorrow and sweet, I’ve decided.

Such sorrow over our lack of ability to change it, such sweetness over our retelling and remembering.

A sadness kept silent, yet relieved in finding the perfect expression of another.

So, I carried my sadness lightly today; I’m sure no one noticed, like an all day reminder saying “yes, but….” .

That was the state of my heart.

It was there all day, hung around, popped up when things got quiet.

Intermittent longing for my mother.

Good things happened today…conversations, smiles, friendships and tasks completed.

Still, at day’s end I felt the longing again.

Decided not to walk the dog.

Too tired, too late, too unmotivated.

Then, felt the pull. The sky, the birds and end of day pull towards God. It happens this way…decide not to walk, go anyway and it happens every time. God sends me some beauty.

Geese overhead, puffy clouds and a rainbow with no rain. A sky filled with soft clouds beckoning me to rest, to be at peace.

No one will understand unless they may have been there…

Country night, dusky sky and we look toward the water, my grandfather’s pond and in the distance we hear them.

Mama says, “Here they come.”

And they do, the geese, v-shaped silhouettes against evening sky.

They did and I mouthed her expression, “Here they come.” pointing towards the sky hoping she could see.

Savannah Girl

courage, Faith, grace, praise, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

She’s in the front yard, sweet potato lime green vines wrapping up around her arm. Her face looks a little like mine, the bob haircut, crooked bangs. She’s my reminder to trust , to be quiet, to wait with open hands.

20140910_075318_kindlephoto-681724

But, change is good like a settling in of something hard you been holding.You cant say when but, you let it go. You let it go, you breathe…I’m better now.

Changing my blog, making it look less afraid, less uncertain.

More art, more boldness, more focus.

Like me.

Feels like I’m changing.

Trusting.

Settling into believing new things and

Colors of my Bible.

Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

Isaiah 43:19

Take a Knee

courage, Faith, Prayer, Uncategorized

Colt got the “game ball”.

There was a time on the field, all the players gathered round, came together.

Excited over the win or sullen over the loss, they came together when Coach Ray

said “Take a knee!”

And I can see it now, my son’s face, sweaty dark strands of hair matted into place when he took off his cap.

Attentive, waiting, respectful for what was about to be said.

Watching from a distance, I waited until they rose, walked towards the dugout and went back to being little boys, cuttin’ up with their buddies or running around together.

They had left it on the field. The win, the loss, the errors or the game winning plays.

The team had taken a knee, listened to their coach and then moved on with their day.

I told my Sunday school class last week, “It’s different if my knees find the space next to my bed in the morning. It’s just different in that place, that posture.”

This morning I “took a knee” and then with clarity, He taught me, reminded me and I moved on to devotions and journal and I made a list of things I can and can’t control.

Rules of this game of life, attentive to the coach, my Savior and teacher.

Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me.

Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child.

Psalm 131:1-2

Take a knee.

Writing as prompted by the word, team.

Content in my Expression

courage, Faith, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

IMG_1125_kindlephoto-7941397

Last week, I celebrated my 56th.

Last night, I realized a truth.

It happened in the time of disengaging from book and deciding…okay, gotta sleep now.

Your mind’s half quiet, half -scattered. You recall the day, the week, the past, the present.

I should have written it down, this rambling towards truth I decided to make more true, to hold tighter, more cherished and sure of.

I’ve been painting.

I’ve been writing.

I love art and I love words. I love standing back, head tilted and hand lightly resting on my heart, pausing with, yes, yes.

The Trusting One

Or just to write and get to the end, read again…and again, quietly exhilarated in the perfection of my expression that mirrors feeling.

But, I’ve never ever called myself an artist or a writer.

Because comparison and duplication get in the way, get in my head, cause me to strive towards mimicking.

When truth is, all that matters is that

I am content in my expression.

Content in the spilling and smearing of paint.

Content in the dance of my words, of their pause, of their telling stories of skies and God and life.

IMG_1125_kindlephoto-8602944

So, I wish I’d written it down, the thought before sleeping that went something like deciding to be

content in my expression and resting there,

the trusting one.

	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