Day 66 of 100 days of art from the margins of my Bible. (An Instagram Creativity Challenge)
“Surely there is a future, and your hope will not be cut off.” Proverbs 23:18 ESV
A sketch from long ago met me here today and I lingered for a moment and then happy to see I’d not added pen, erased it. I didn’t need the reminder, I decided, of how I’d chronicled hopelessness.
So, I added a tall figure, my favorite blues and then reread the verse. Alongside her there’s a figure walking away. Maybe representing a shadow of who I was. We all have shadow selves, they’re hateful reminders.
I suppose I’m so vulnerable here only because as I’ve said many times before…
God gives me thoughts and words and I simply decide to share them thinking someone else may need them to.
I don’t know what you lean toward hopelessness over, what you’re struggling with or waiting for to see as the benefit of not losing hope.
I just know the things we hope for are incomparable to the things we have likely already seen and known as evidence of our hope and that there is so much more to come.
God woke me with another verse. I went to bed a little uncertain of outcomes and to be honest a little angry with myself over something small.
Sometime before dawn, I had a dream about a painting covered in small pieces of paper that were no longer folded…but, open.
And a verse…
“And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.” 2 Corinthians 3:18 ESV
Reminding me of the source of our hope and all the hope meant for us if we’d only open our eyes, look up, look around…hope being revealed.
So, today…always hope, maybe in a different way, one more aligned with His Spirit within, not “without” you in circumstances, people or things.
The winding country road that takes me farther into the country is crowded most early mornings.
I’m driving away from the city, others are driving in. It’s a curvy road, headlights hitting me harshly and I just keep on.
My thumbs find the raised points on the steering wheel and so I just press in and look forward.
A bus or two will typically meet me. Often, I have to wait.
Last week in the cold rain I thought of the driver, the responsibility of safely moving those children from their homes to their schools and back home again.
I thought of the trusting children, stepping aboard and then sitting assuredly.
Christmas causes remembering.
I remembered my mother’s words.
Over a decade ago, the ICU conference room table had my siblings and I flanked by my mama and a doctor.
The doctor explained the mystery of my father’s condition, the possibility and lack of possibility.
The dialogue went longer than I believe was able to be heard. It all ran together muddled and mysterious.
My mother spoke in the moment of an anxious pause.
“Doctors are just practicing…practicing medicine. They don’t know. God is driving this train. Only He knows where it will go. We are just riding.”
I was with most of my family today. I saw the changes in us all.
I felt the feeling that next Christmas will be different.
I thought of my journal notes early this morning.
We don’t know our days and we don’t know exactly our ways. We are just travelers, passengers in a way…we choose to be joyous.
We often are worried. We approach danger. We encounter uncertain turns. We stay seated although we’d love to jump off and run. But we know we don’t fully know the way, so it’s best to sit still.
It’s best to remember we are the riders. God is the driver.
Last week, another day on the same country road I found myself behind a slow driver.
I wondered why she might be afraid or maybe just tired.
I did my best not to get close. I wondered where she had been.
This woman, sort of petite and with a posture of steel, driving so slowly I could see her.
I have no idea. I simply decided not to add to her question of how or where she may be going and whether she’d make it at all.
We don’t know the way. We’re passengers in the drivers seat but not really the drivers at all.
There’s a verse I love that helps me make sense of both tragedy and unanswered questions…of longings for different.
“The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things that are revealed belong to us and to our children forever…” Deuteronomy 29:29 ESV
Cooking to Remember
I’m standing in my kitchen remembering a verse I read earlier about “secrets”. A verse about the Lord hearing the cries of his children and also knowing the secret sorrows.
I pulled the big Bible from the shelf.
The one I gave my mama, New King James Version with hardly an underline or turned down corner or bookmark.
I’ve often wondered if she ever opened it or if she just accepted my gift because she knew I needed to give it, a gesture from a daughter hoping to help, to mend, to say something unexpressed.
I looked for the verse and then others I love to compare.
We all carry secret sorrows, longings too long expressed, spoken of so much we’ve exhausted the listeners.
Questions, emotions we cover because we “shouldn’t feel that way after so long or she’s just a dreamer”.
Today, if my mama were here she’d be eighty-six years old. She’s been gone for fifteen years.
I thought to watch the DVD given to us all from the funeral home and then put it back on the shelf.
I can’t really say why. It just felt best.
I have a roast cooking slowly in the oven, green beans very buttery and soon creamy mashed potatoes flavored with mayonnaise.
My husband will wake from overnight working to be met by this gesture.
That’s what I decided felt right on the day of mama’s birth.
That, and not rushing my day but opening again the burgundy large print Bible to the place where the Lord appeared to the amazement of Moses and assured him.
“…For I know their sufferings…” Exodus 3:7 NKJV
Closing the big Bible and deciding to leave it in a place beside me, a slip of paper fell out.
The sweetest thing, a little Sunday School coupon filled out by my daughter.
She’d printed the words and her name and then scratched both out to change her writing to cursive. 😊
It was a note telling me that along with other chores, she would “wash the dishes to honor God and me”.
And I began to feel the truth of being seen by her, the tender recollection of days as a mama that were both tired and trying.
They say the things we long for most that begin very early are
To be seen
To be soothed
To be secure.
Where do you feel you’re lacking? What is the secret ache you’re carrying?
What hurt needs soothing?
God sees you.
God offers a healing balm.
For me it was a note from my daughter that my mama kept tucked away,
the realization that my daughter’s a mama with just as kind and observant a daughter of her own.
Don’t look for answers, just know you are fully known and wait tender hearted and at rest for the evidences of love that will catch you by surprise.
“Should I do more?” I asked myself and then my husband.
I turned onto the road to my home and saw a clump of something ahead on the side of the road.
A figure, not a pile of wood, I realized as I got closer.
A young woman with hair the same color as mine, dressed in flannel with black and red and sitting staring straight ahead, her knees drawn into her chest.
In front of our home is a wide empty field with freely growing trees once cut down and now growing.
The high grass is gold and it bends and straightens with the wind.
This young woman sat still.
I turned and turned off my car in the driveway, deciding I’d check on her.
I’m not proud to tell you I thought about putting my purse safely inside the front door, tucking my keys and phone in my pocket. I thought for a second she might be violent.
I knew she’d been struggling, been seen roaming and had been hospitalized for addiction before.
And I knew and know what addictions can do for someone who needs what they need.
So, I thought she might be aggressive.
Then, thank you Lord, I decided differently. I walked to end of the drive, the wind like ice on my face. Quietly, almost like I was sneaking,
I asked, “Are you okay?” and she picked up her body slowly and she walked away.
Slowly, like a crawl, her steps kept on until I could no longer see her as I peered through the window in our garage.
“Should I do more?” I wondered again. Then decided I would simply pray. I could pray.
Pray without her knowing, without me needing her to know.
Because once, a very, very long time ago, I drove my little blue Celica all the way to Tybee Island in the cold.
I sat on the hard empty shore.
I sat and stared toward the ocean for I don’t know how long.
And then, I suppose emptied of some of my thoughts, my sorrows, my questions…I drove back to my imperfect life, my imperfect home, my still present struggles.
I’m remembering that day today.
Knowing it was bravery for me to sit oddly on the beach alone.
It was resourceful. It was deciding I could in fact, go on.
And no one told me so, other than myself.
I hope I get to see the young woman again. I hope God gives me a way to help her see her I’m pulling for her…
Pulling for her to decide she can go on knowing there is meaning and purpose she has not yet known.
That she may recall moments of feeling purposeless and searching for what seems too far to reach.
Maybe God will make a time for me to tell her, this young woman staring into the open and broken down field.
“For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1 NLT
We left the gathering, an annual one that’s held in a building adjacent to a country home. The barn-like place is love-filled, its walls are covered with memorabilia and photos representing life and the life spans of family.
We arrive and we move from table to table, from people not seen in a year or so and maybe a couple or a few you may have passed in the grocery store.
The conversations are sweet, it’s a catching up and it’s a reunion for the cousins. They love it. They recognize many families neglect this type gathering.
The one who prays acknowledges this. I mostly observe. I join in and say words when it seems to fit.
That’s not because of the “rules” of the get-together. It’s simply my nature.
My mama used to tell us all that her husband, my daddy saw no need to speak unless there was something important to say.
Although, he was a quiet man, one of few words, I cherish the smoothness of his voice.
I remember the way he paused as he spoke. There was a sense of waiting for the hearer to absorb his contribution.
I listened.
A word woke me this morning.
I added it to my list, a list that came from a realization that in life and in Christmas, we often have grandiose expectations.
We expect Christmas be a certain way. Not to mention the comparison of others’ celebrations.
I wondered how my heart would settle if I decided to
“Expect less, acknowledge more.”
A list was formed.
Safety, Food aplenty, Gifts, Smiles, Gatherings, a sense of God’s nearness, Pink Dawns…
Quietude
Google informed me of the meaning, no surprise I loved it.
Another gift came from Google, a sweet surprise. This word has a color named for it.
A shade that’s a blending of grey and blue and green.
“Quietude” is the chosen name for the HGTV 2025 color.
I finished the 3rd of three paintings last night, large 30×40’s.
The first, “Now Found”,
“Now Found”, detail
the second, “Light and Momentary”
“Light and Momentary”, detail
and the third, “Have Hope”.
“Have Hope”, detail
Driving home from the cousin gathering, my husband wanted to talk. I told him I was talked out, let’s be quiet.
He insisted and prodded me with a well-thought question…
“Who would you like to talk to that you’d be just so captivated by the conversation, on the edge of your seat and just waiting for every word?”
Stubborn me replied, after a few seconds, “No one, that’s a good question but I can’t think of anyone I want to talk to right now.”
He believed me. He knows me well.
But, he spoke in the long pause of accepting my answer.
“I thought you’d say Jesus.”
“Yes, I just thought of that.” I smiled and answered.
We finished the Christmas Eve country drive home and I sat in my quiet spot with my grown son who is often quiet himself.
morning quiet
Understood, I felt understood.
“Accepted”, a word I’m adding to the list of acknowledgments.
“Grace”, too.
Just now, I revisited Christmases past through my photos. Babies have grown, changes have come, tough days have occurred, peace has been given and endurance has become even more a quiet strength for me.
Because I’ve learned and am learning a couple of things from my “telling it to Jesus alone.”
He giveth more grace.
I am loved.
There’s so much more coming for me.
Because I’ve accepted, I’m the “quiet one” and always will be.
“But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.” Psalm 131:2 ESV
Always hope.
I look toward my tall Christmas tree, the one ornament, a tiny home, my granddaughter insisted be for it and my uncertainty because it “wasn’t really me.”
And now I see, the bluish green, a pale teal that’s happy quietly although boldly, its pretty red door sort of calling, “open me”.
How can it be?
The color in me, the quiet color has become an invitation to me being me.
A little house accepted by me, inviting an even bolder acceptance of the strength in the choice to keep hoping.
“As for me, I will always have hope; I will praise you more and more.” Psalms 71:14 NIV
When I tweaked the words on the About page of my Artist website, I had really no idea of the reason.
I knew I wanted to “offer hope” to others through my paintings.
I also knew it wasn’t really within my power to produce hope for others.
Especially when I’d been in a season of waning hope.
Still, I embraced it as a brand, ordered stickers to use on my packaging and even put a sticker on the back window of my car.
I envisioned people passing by and in some small way, a little circle sticker might lead to a belief in the power of hope.
Sure, “Lisa Anne Tindal – Fine Art” is under the two words; but, my name is in the tiniest of fonts.
How do you feel about hope?
Is it just a fluttery little word like a tender feather or do you understand the weight of deciding its importance.
I’m beginning to see it more as a choice we can make, an outreached hand of goodness for the taking.
I’m beginning to understand that to “defer” hope doesn’t mean you decide “oh,well…maybe not”.
It means deciding to give up.
Morning Mercy
It’s so very easy to focus inward on all the secret longings and doubts, an inventory of inwardness. When I focus upward and outward, I notice things other than myself.
It’s a practice that seems small but makes a big difference.
What have you stopped hoping for?
God keeps bringing me to the phrase “deferred hope”.
Is there a secret you’re keeping? Are you doubtful and desperate but doing your best for others not to know?
Because God is a God of hope, if we postpone or decide there’s no hope, we’re essentially “deferring” our belief in God.
Hope today.
Decide to be intentionally hopeful that God is near, loves us and is only good.
“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.” Proverbs 13:12 ESV
For a woman who recalls little girl church being a place more of unbelonging than one of welcoming invitation, more of shouting than speaking…some words and concepts have always felt too special for me.
Being “consecrated” or living a life that can be defined as consecrated seems way too high and mighty and too out of my timid and torridly lived life to believe.
It was never taught that it was good to be strong, only honorable to be tiny and weak.
Last Saturday morning the house was quiet.
Ornaments I’d reimagined and repainted were laid out and tied with gold ribbon.
The morning light was pretty. I photographed them one by one on a white backdrop of poster board.
Carefully edited them and added to my website. Then I settled on the floor and moved to lie down, my face resting on the carpet.
The Angels
I prayed an honest prayer:
“Lord, I consecrate these ornaments to you. I consecrate my art to you.
I don’t know what that means, Lord. It feels too out of my realm, too out of my reach. Still, I consecrate my life to you…even if it feels too special for me, too much for me to understand.”
I rose from the floor, gathered up all the pretty ornaments and moved to the next thing of the day.
Then the collection of Angel Ornaments, numbered 1-7 sold out in an hour.
I am beginning to understand the simplicity of simply giving something to God and going on with an internal hope.
To believe such pretty words could be mine to trust in.
Because deciding not to hope or deciding a life in rhythm with God is just too special and unattainable is deciding to live in scarcity
rather than abundance.
And it’s a choice we’re invited to make, never one made as the result of a harsh or heavy-handed or demanding God.
That’s the truth.
The truth we can believe.
“The consecrated life is a life let go of …a life that opens its heart and hands to the Sovereign God’s knowledge of me completely. The consecrated life trusts that the Maker of me knows me best and knows best.”
Maybe you’re still that little girl with the ingrained rants in your head that you’re just too impure, too damaged, too from the wrong side of the tracks, too destined to repeat the things genetics and environment said you would…
And maybe you have.
And maybe you survived it all.
The reason is that hope and that tiny flicker of purpose, the light that may have dimmed.
But never has and never will go out.
Let yourself let it shine.
Hope always.
Always hope.
Not a single one of us is unfit for being drawn closer to that consecrated life.
It’s a choice without exclusions or preselected expectations.
If hope “deferred” (decided against) makes our hearts sick, how much more well will we be if we believe in hope
“And I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.”
Solitary Watcher
I’ll likely forget it but I chose “healed” on a reset of yet another password forgotten.
Such is life.
Such is the life of one grandmother on the beach walking, eyes to the crannies and nooks created by the rocky barrier.
Deciding I found the perfect golden conch yesterday.
Announcing to my daughter “I’ve never found one like this before”.
No need for new discoveries today, I just whispered to myself.
That one, a reply to a choice to “find the joy today” on yesterday morning needs nothing more.
Not a grander discovery.
No comparisons.
I’m on the beach alone under the tent erected by my kind son in law. Chairs waiting to be plopped down on remain bottomless.
Surveying all the people. Older ones strolling, younger ones strutting.
Noticing
I consider their lives, curious over their stories.
I remember my self-defensive anger so many years ago when a woman who was struggling and angry over expectations of a program I oversaw,
Shouted at me,
“You don’t understand! You’ve got a picture perfect life!”
And I replied not with shouting but more of a how dare you to presume I’ve never had a “bad life”, I assure you I have not!
Today, walking along the edge of the ocean, glancing up towards our umbrella to greet my family’s arrival,
I realized a new thing.
Discoveries
I paused to pray for healing for typical childhood ailments, for others undergoing treatment and for pending resolutions to questions.
I thanked God for the good things already.
And I felt my breath catch in my chest and stood still to really acknowledge
The realization that maybe thinking of others, praying for others, offering open-handed surrender of others to heaven, rather than prayers and longings for self…
Might just be the evidence of one who is
Healed.
On the way to there, at least.
Farther along.
Because maybe, just maybe my life is not perfect but very
Close to the picture of what is closer and closer than I’d ever imagined.
Because of a heart that’s surrendered to softening, has opened all the locked windows and flung open the doors to hurts hidden, held onto for far too long.
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:” Ecclesiastes 3:1 ESV
Before sleep, I rethought the day. All the places and things squeezed in, the storms, the back country roads to my people, my childhood territory.
My aunt caring for my uncle, prone now to suddenly falling. His sweet conversation comparing himself to his soon to be ninety year old brother who “falls more.”
My aunt with her pink soft shirt, leopard print loafers and nice coral colored lipstick lips
I remembered my daughter describing my grandson’s tumble off the porch.
I remembered her saying he cried and was scared but wasn’t hurt.
He likely will fall again.
Likely, my uncle will too,
Unfortunately.
I remembered my granddaughter’s sweet smile. I recalled her intuition.
I drifted to sleep knowing I’d need to decide on an artist trip, an adventure I could learn from the anticipated mostly younger artists.
I thought of the wavering of my feelings.
I remembered a word I read early in the morning.
“There comes a moment when you throw caution to the wind. There comes a moment when you need to go all in.” Mark Batterson
I strangely thought of resilience, of being strong and sure in “my walking” while there’s time.
Because life is so wrought with fragility, likely to include falling and deciding to remember,
I sat in the back next to someone I don’t really know. We shared a casual conversation about pimento cheese spread. Surrounded by art, the meeting’s agenda would be sharing a YouTube film on “beauty”.
We were offered pencils and a piece of paper to jot down thoughts, told to prepare to share in a group discussion.
The poet/researcher in the video mentioned God’s creation, spoke of God’s intent for not only artists, but everyone, to recognize the power of beauty as a way to change us internally and then effect those around us.
The couple just in front of me looked towards one another often in a likemindedness that matched the word “bullshit” he wrote and held up in front of her (and me).
They exited early.
I listened as others gave feedback, sprinkled around the room were comments about architecture, about culture, about our community, about horses.
I thought to add to conversation, to suggest they all begin to notice color and to, if they felt led, to ask God in prayer to help them see color.
I planned to share how this practice and prayer has been a reset for me, spiritually and creatively.
No one had mentioned God.
Three times, maybe four, I raised my hand to be called on.
I wasn’t acknowledged and decided to stay silent.
That it was not a time to speak.
“ a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;” Ecclesiastes 3:7 ESV
To keep the peace I’d acquired and allow it to be a presence without words.
To possibly be peace to others without using my words.
“Did I but live nearer to God, I could be of so much more help.” George Hodges
This morning, a guest blog post on an author’s site has been shared. My words, added to her community of others writing about “beholding our beauty” in the places life places us. I was just so grateful to write inspired by Esther, her bravery and how bravery is a choice we can make every day, even if with uncertainty.
I encourage you to read not only my thoughts, but to engage in this community that Deborah Rutherford is so intentionally building.
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 