I walked because walking is good for me. I thought about my waning faith, my weakened confidence. Mary and Martha came to mind.
Tonight, I walked later than usual and I was frustrated over our internet connection, I only heard part of the communion live stream.
Funny, I usually relate to Martha. But, I thought of Mary who stayed home, didn’t rush to pray that Jesus would bring to life her brother. Had she resigned herself that she’d done all she could do? Meanwhile, Martha tells Jesus “even now” even if you don’t save my brother, I will still believe. “Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.” John 11:21-22 NIV
And that’s exactly how I’m feeling, and it feels like peace. I do not understand any of this pandemic crisis. I do understand my faith in God and my redemption through Jesus. And so, even if, even so, all is good, all is well. One of two times, Jesus wept…was he worried he was late? No, he just saw the sadness and worry on the faces of the sisters, I think. Same with us, with me. He sees.
It’s been said of me, “you think life is a fairy tale, Lisa”. Maybe I’m not cautious enough, don’t plan for disaster, take hardship as it comes and don’t worry too much until I have to. I accept that. After all, I told God yesterday just how much I’d love to see an angel.
“For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.” Psalms 91:11 ESV
It’s also been said and it may be true that I avoid the tough questions, I disassociate to feel safe from truth.
Seems to me this way is closer to faith than a companion of fear. So, I’m unlikely to change, if I do I hope it’s an even stronger bend towards faith in what’s not clear. Faith in God nurtured through quiet prayer and observations of His creation, birds, trees, moon and sun.
From my front yard I only get the remnants of the setting or rising of the sun. Our house rests hilltop and the view across the road is a wide open field, a gift to me making me feel like I still live in the country.
I walked out to see the pink glow spread wide like a veil across the horizon. There’s been a steady breeze, the trees with brand new leaves are rubbing against each other and in the quiet of very early, I sit on the steps to listen. I hear the chorus of birds, remembering something I read that said it’s the birds that tell the sun to come up. I love the idea of that, a happy alarm in birdsong saying “Get up!” we have another day.
I ventured to Target yesterday. Needing to go the grocery store but not having it in me to face other faces. It is our granddaughter’s first Easter. I needed a card and maybe a new sleeper. Target felt odd and I got tentative looks for wearing my mask. Something about our serene little city is either in denial or choosing to be hopeful more than careful. I’m not sure. We love our independence and we lean towards caution or careful hope. We decide which place is best to live. A little girl looked at me in my mask and I smiled and waved; but, she only looked afraid and wrapped her arms around her mama’s leg. She couldn’t tell I wasn’t scary. My smile was masked.
Back home, I’m reminded I’m less scary and less scared here. The dog to greet me, my walk to enthuse me, my art to invigorate and the stability of now to be enough. Shielded in my abode. I’m not scary here.
A question keeps lingering about what this pandemic means to our futures and our faith. What I’ve noticed is that the flowers keep blooming, babies keep excitedly growing, new ones keep being welcomed into the world.
Birds keep singing, dogs keep welcoming us home, Springtime keeps being pretty. God keeps giving us reason every morning to believe.
Naive? Uninformed? Maybe. I don’t watch the news. It’s too hard to decide on what is truth. I’d rather just trust the morning sun. The sunrise that caught me this morning and gave answer to my question as to why I woke so doggone early.
“As sure as the sun will rise, His mercy will not end.” Ellie Holcomb
Later, just before sunset, I plan to set up my laptop, listen to words about what today meant to Jesus and then have some juice or wine and a cracker as I join an online community in Communion.
“And as they were eating, he took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to them, and said, “Take; this is my body.”” Mark 14:22 ESV
Then tomorrow, Good Friday, as the sun rises I’ll set my heart and mind on doing my best to increase my understanding of the death of Jesus, to better live in a loving way what I believe. Not to be scholarly or an expert writer of Jesus, to be more like Him more often.
“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?
Wisdom from my aunt. I’ve written about her before. We call her “Aunt Boo”. Her name is Sue Nell when it truly should be Grace or Vivian or maybe Jacquelyn she’s so timeless in beauty.
When she calls, I need an hour and it’s the best hour I’ll ever spend.
This morning, my phone rang and I talked to “Aunt Boo” who said I was heavy on her heart and asked me how I was feeling. When I told her I wasn’t having a good morning, she said, Oh, Lisa…me neither and then we took turns telling how this time is scaring us. By the end of the call, she said she felt better. I did too. Even though she didn’t once say “prayer and patience”, she said plenty even better.
She said, “I’m not a psychologist and I don’t read books; but, I just think God made some hearts to feel things much harder than others and that’s me and you.” 💕
She talked about family and the way my granddaddy was so rowdy and yet, had the heart of a baby, he cried over lots of things. He did some things he shouldn’t have, she told me, but oh he had a tender heart.
We talked about wisdom, how things you don’t think you can survive are meant to show you that you can and are meant to make you trust God forever. We talked about my cousin and how long it had been since she passed away but how everybody in the family still remembers her from her “good days” not her bad times. She reminded me, family forgets the hard, holds on to the good.
She told me “Women are just different than men, the way we react to life and hard times.” Keep moving, she shared her solution or anxiety will put you down.
Then she told me to do something for her.
She said, “I want you and Greg to sit and hold hands.” I laughed. She was quiet. I forgot about it until I went outside. “Aunt Boo wants me to hold your hand and send her a picture.”
“Okay” he said.
And it didn’t really hit me until I looked back at the photo, the wisdom in this one small thing. In a time of isolation and talking to friends from a distance, sterilizing everything AND the kitchen sink. Whose hand can you hold? Who will be with you because they’re already here?
So, thanks Aunt Boo for the possible handholding you’re gonna inspire.
Get yourself an Aunt Boo, someone who’s just enough gentle faith, honest commentary and wisdom, enough for generations.
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
Last night, the first star was out, the one some wish on, the one that makes me think of my mama. The Lab and I sit outside in our spot til dark. I saw two stars shoot by the first one and I just sat waiting for night.
My son and I talked earlier, not long and drawn out, just acknowledged this time like one neither of us had ever known. He listed his unknowns, calmly gave worst case scenarios of his future, defined this time as limbo. I agreed. Limbo that’s an acceptance you can’t really fight against, you just are in it. I mentioned God and the power of prayer, said I believe this time will be remembered by prayer, God will be remembered by many, newly recognized by some. These are my certain convictions. My hope.
The 6th chapter of Deuteronomy contains the greatest commandment and it closes with Moses telling the people what to tell their children when they ask about God’s rescue of them in times to come.
“When your son asks you in time to come, ‘What is the meaning of the testimonies and the statutes and the rules that the Lord our God has commanded you?’ then you shall say to your son, ‘We were Pharaoh’s slaves in Egypt. And the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand.” Deuteronomy 6:20-21 ESV
God would want us to remember just as Moses told them. To remember the palpable fear and uncertain dread in this time of limbo, to remember that God was aware.
One piece developed from little more than colors on one side transitioning to the other. Originally, “Eden” until it became “Redemption, This Side of Heaven”.
Redemption Series
Then seven pieces added, colors conjuring emotion. I laid them all separate then in a stack, thinking oh, now that’s a painting, all of them lying together different but the very same.
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.
You are not a taker, You are only ever Giving and drawing, seeking and calling. “Over us”
It only took words unsolicited for my fear over words to make sense.
I did not use my words as a little timid girl.
As a middle child buffering the childhood fights. Staying quiet, not adding to the noise. Only one person has ever given a word to my existence back then. She remembers me as “bewildered”. What relief that was when she told me, to find out after so long, someone had noticed.
As the teen who discovered her body and then lost it with food.
As a young woman who just didn’t tell because it seemed no one would listen.
And an older woman who continued not to tell and then found permission but got all kinds of bogged down in not telling because that’s what she knew.
Yesterday I read something I should quote but won’t because it’s so rich I fear I’d dishonor the writer, water down her revelations
Lessen the gift of it being shared by a blogger who calls my writing “gentle”.
Because the article led to a realization, this is why you don’t step out in the faith you now have.
You still do not think there will be listeners.
It takes a bit, has taken a bit.
You begin to believe differently.
You believe you have listeners and you may have actually had them back then, you just weren’t certain so you chose the safer solution, don’t tell, don’t need, stay quiet.
But your stories remain.
As do your listeners.
Continue. Continue and believe.
“Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he has redeemed from trouble” Psalms 107:2 ESV
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 