“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.
On Sunday, a sunny day, my granddaughter and I spread out paper, scissors and ModPodge on a towel. We tore pieces of abstract paintings I loved but had not bought by someone or maybe I’d forgotten I loved them.
We used little strips and squares of color to tell new stories. To allow a new voice to be heard.
Keep living, keep learning.
How God speaks is another mystery that woke me on Monday in the dark, a nagging lack because of hearing others say “God told me.” or “I heard God speak”.
I’ve not experienced God in an audible way.
I’ve heard stories that blow my mind of people who’ve been in situations in need of hope or redirection and God spoke. I’ve read and heard He “speaks” through His Word, both gently and firmly instructive.
I’ve heard about the still and quiet voice that comes and I believe I understand this one well
Me being quiet with no searching for an answer and a thought comes…
Comes in reply to a question that’s been nagging at me.
Once, that voice whispered in my the hallows of my chest…
“It’s gonna be alright.” and the rightness of every worry in my life felt captured in that comfort of a promise. It was a strong promise. I still treasure it.
I smile over it.
This morning, words came and to sum it all up, the words were
“Just keep learning.”
An encounter with a woman I knew from my executive days planted the seed from which this desire has begun slowly growing.
She noticed my artwork and then as she passed through the crowd to leave, said across the room…
“I just read your story.”
I was confused. How did she read the “Artist Story” I sometimes point to when people ask, “How’d you become an artist?”
Later, I realized she’d only read the sweet story of the “cake with you Mama day”.
And, I realized slowly, I was happy that’s the only story she’d read.
This morning, I thought, sensed the coming together of thoughts and God speaking…
It’s been enough time now, enough time has passed.
The story of how you “came back to painting” no longer needs to include the hard and horrible parts.
You’ve grown to dislike the telling of this story.
Instead, when asked, the answer could be…
I’ve been painting seriously about seven years and I keep growing and trying to make good choices.
I keep learning
And I am a student of that desire to keep learning. I have grown.
I am still growing. And that’s the only requirement that is given to me by myself…to be me as artist, writer, mother, wife, grandmother or friend…follower of Jesus.
To be brave enough
To keep learning.
(It may be time to add a chapter or replace the old one altogether, at least edit it with a pen called kindness.)
It may be time to “turn the page” to the beauty of my story with only a tiny nod to the ugly.
It may be time to stop circling back to the places you struggled, the places you failed and fell.
It may be time to say less.
It may be time to edit your story of whatever you’ve taken on as a measure of you finally not just battling in becoming
But arriving.
Motherhood Author Teacher Settled Career Wife Friend Ministry Leader Artist Chef Athlete
Nurse Husband Girlfriend Boyfriend Instructor of Others
Retiree simply “being a light” Aunt Uncle Counselor Advocate
Son
Musician Sharer of your life with others
Daughter
Student of whatever
You are arriving,
you can take a breath.
The only requirement God has is A decision to keep learning.
To imperfectly decide
not to give up.
And to do so with love.
“…It’s quite simple: Do what is fair and just to your neighbor, be compassionate and loyal in your love, And don’t take yourself too seriously— take God seriously.”
I can recall most of the cakes I’ve baked in my 63 years of life, the number is that small.
I once baked chocolate cupcakes covered in peanut butter sugared up icing.
Chocolate zucchini cake was a hit!
I’ve attempted my mama’s pound cake enough times to know that’s not my skill.
Still, I decided to give a day a name, the Saturday closest to my mama’s birthday and eat cake with friends or family or people I’d make friends with on
Cake With Your Mama Day!
Today’s the day.
I’ll go out to the country to the best little not so secret restaurant called Juniper (in Ridge Spring, SC) and I’ll have lunch and then cake.
I’ll soak in the sweet joy of others who think it’s a good idea too.
Celebrate today over cake with someone you love.
Celebrate the legacy left by someone, anyone today!
To see more clearly, I must simply gaze more faithfully.
I’ve just completed an application to be an artist vendor at an April event.
I have a list of other places I and my art may “get to be” and one I was selected for and am a day late on the paperwork. I’ve just emailed the coordinator and said a solid silent prayer.
It’s okay if I’m not there. There are other places I should be and you know these, Lord.
Tiny Words
I’m of the age I can see far away only with my contacts in and to read I suddenly am learning neither glasses nor contacts are beneficial. I toss them off, they are no help.
I see best up close, reading or painting with simply my naked eye.
I see what is needed to be seen by me, nothing more and only what’s very close.
I see just enough.
My Place
My focus is on what is near.
What is now, not in the distant future, not beyond my reach or my vision.
And so, I can give myself grace and permission to simply and quietly do what is mine to do in my “present place”.
Cakes, Mamas and Remembrance
“Act faithfully according to thy degree of light, and what God giveth thee to see; and thou shalt see more clearly.” Edward D. Pusey
Walking, listening, with an attentive ear and vision only committed to faithfully see what’s not too far to see, only just in front of me.
“And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, “This is the way, walk in it,” when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.” Isaiah 30:21 ESV
I’m joining other writers today in the Five Minute Friday community, prompted by the word “Far”
It’s the time of year that God allows a sprinkling here and there of soft green woven “pillows”. I know there’s a name for them. I can’t remember it. I just find them so pretty. I tiptoe around them, aware of what I see as fragility.
We walked carefully over the tangled vines and fallen branches. Toddler, Henry in his little boots smaller than my hand. I let him venture barely three steps away from me then wrapped him in my arms to be sure he didn’t high tail it to the place his curiosity was calling.
I heard the water, the creek too shielded by overgrowth to see and too uncertain for us to go seeking. So, we just circled round and round, he intent on going deeper in and me, scooping him up to walk where it was more safe and clear.
He resisted yielding again and again.
The unknown and interesting was a steady call to his little investigative mind.
As if to say, I need to know, I need to see, it must be really special, this place I can’t see, these things I don’t yet know.
Yet, it was too risky for us to go, too unsafe for him to go alone.
I wonder why there’s such resistance to yielding. Why I’m so prone to striking out on my own in fits of figure it out or fix it before it’s too late.
When all that’s required, all that’s an absolute undeserved gift,
Is to yield.
This morning, I flipped to today in “Jesus Calling”, a kind and beautifully patient collection of words I’ll carry as I go, one open hand to heaven and the other secretly imagining my hand like a child’s reaching up again to the suggestion of my Savior,
“Hold my hand.”
“As you keep your focus on Me, I form you into the one I desire you to be. Your part is to yield to My creative work in you, neither resisting it nor trying to speed it up. Enjoy the tempo of a God-breathed life by letting Me set the pace. Hold My hand in childlike trust, and the way before you will open up step by step.”
I woke from a crazy vivid dream about being on the brink of my “dream job”. I would be partnering with a wise and super professional in every way woman, to be involved in some way with the Atlanta Braves. I was one final interview from the job and from moving to Atlanta G-A!
Now, I sit in the too cold for Carolina weather wrapped in a blanket and pajamas so thick you’d wonder if there’s a body in there.
In my dream, I was escorted by this close to perfection in appearance writer and coordinator of “human interest” activities for the baseball players.
They liked me, were excited. I was “in”.
My mama was there…I introduced her to “Miss Everything” with “this is Bette”.
There were other parts of the dream that were intensely telling. No surprise, I was lost in Atlanta, it was pouring down rain and I was driving in a panic and in the wrong direction on the interstate that would take me to the interstate back home.
I wanted to go home and I would tell “Miss Everything” by phone if I could find my way back to there.
In my dream, I found all sorts of things in my purse, one was a check I’d forgotten about.
Although the amount was only five figures including the two behind the decimal, it was enough.
There are many parts of my life buried deep, many aspirational paths away from who my life has made me.
There are crazy dangerous can’t find my way in the storm scary roads. There are dark ones. There are exciting ones. There are wounds from of all the wounding.
There are bravery required ones.
And who’s to say how bravery is defined?
What God has decided is your treasure and what your legacy will decide unbeknownst to you…for others to say “this was her treasure”.
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Luke 12:34 NIV
I’ve been reading a variety of memoirs. No secret, I’ve had a long held goal/hope/calling to write my story.
So, I’ve been reading to learn, to learn how the author will engage me in the hard story of their life with an equal measure of softness to get me to the part of it that was redeemed.
There are a handful I’ve shelved.
Call me critical, but I prefer ones the person writes themselves, not a ghost writer.
And books about trauma, abuse or addiction?
Well, there are two I’m grateful I was mature and wise enough to put down early.
I’m sorry to say one was Matthew Perry’s. I couldn’t endure the hardness of him to discover the soft place he eventually found.
I do have favorites and I’ve just downloaded a fourth. I’m not a book critic, so I’ll keep that to myself except to say I was surprised by the authors’ ability to detail their horror without causing fear in me.
This is what I needed, what I believe readers need.
To tell their stories in a way that didn’t cause me harm emotionally. These books are and were gifts. They’ll remain with me.
I see the search that didn’t quit in them to find the quiet treasured pearl in the turmoil and torment of their wounded lives.
Hard to believe, but they found a way to shine.
“I will when I can.” I have pencilled in the back of my Bible. It’s a response to a counselor’s question long ago.
“When do you think you will be able
to write it?”
And my answer, I’ll bravely share…
“When I no longer need to be noticed, when I decide it’s okay to forget.”
This post just got real brave, didn’t it?
My husband woke me from the Atlanta dream saying I’d been “yanking” the blanket.
I stilled myself, smiled in dawn of Thursday and remembered the last bit of the dream.
I found my way home.
My quiet life.
To continue and believe.
“Turn the page, Lisa Anne.” mama
“Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” Luke 12:7 NIV
You are loved.
Like a tiny sparrow flitting back across the cold blue sky to its nest.
Yesterday, G’Pa announced to Elizabeth and I that he’d never seen the creek. The land is deep and wide around their home and down in the valley on the edge there’s a pretty little creek. I said “We should go see it” and then quickly G’Pa and I said no. It seemed risky I guess. It’d be a big production to get boots on, be sure the grandbabies could be carried safely and even more to remember exactly how to get there when I’d only been once.
Back then, I was fascinated by its beauty, this secret place worth pursuing.
But, we probably made the best choice, two sixty-something year olds striking out on an adventure with a four and one year old. We’ll go maybe with extra help to guide us soon. It’s not something we should do on our own.
Life has things for us to do, scary and uncertain, maybe little secrets that require bravery.
”Don’t be afraid, for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.“ Isaiah 41:10 NLT
God woke me up with the thought of His Sovereignty, the reality that wherever I am,
He is too.
I put the thoughts together before daylight, remembering the idea of second children’s book about fear that I had kinda shelved away. It seems the idea might be calling my name to remember and revisit it.
With these new thoughts about walking into obscure and beautiful places even if scary:
I will go if you go. Through the brittle winter field
And into the forest Up the hill and down the
hill to the slippery spaces and up the hill again
Around the corner and careful
don’t step on the vines
with sticky sharp thorns and then the water round the corner will appear
When December came, I willed myself to move toward Christmas in a more hopeful way. I’d read somewhere to look for “enjoyment” not to pursue perfection in my home, my gatherings, my notice of life all around me.
I have had one particular Christmas that I tended to decide my uncertain feelings about Christmas because of.
This year, God put an expression in my heart and as the days of December unfolded, it became my solid truth, my olive branch of peace to receive and to offer up.
“It won’t always be this way.”
This is the truth, friends.
Meaning that Christmas as a six or seven year old that was scary and scarring is long past.
All of us lined up in a row, the question my mama asked, “Who do you want to be with, me or your daddy?” The tiny little brown station wagon loaded down and pointed in the direction of leaving never left, nor did any of us kids. It was not my mama’s finest moment, it wasn’t mine either. But, oh the moments and the Christmases since. They’ve been a mixture for sure of ugly and pretty. Still, hope has never left me, has always come ‘round again.
I don’t have to fight for Christmas to be good, I don’t have to prepare for sadness, despair or even illness simply because those things have happened at Christmases before.
Christmas days in hospitals or bedside with illness or in bed yourself may have happened and may again.
Christmas next year won’t be exactly as it was a few days ago. It may be sweeter, there may be hardship, the people who are present and the times we are together may require acceptance and change.
This is life. Life is a good gift.
I’m missing so many moments as far as having “moment” photos, the goal.
Moments like standing next to my worshipful daughter singing “Joy to the World” in candlelight. Like the room filled with people as my brother offered prayer. Like the faces of all the babies when the paper was ripped and spread all over the room. Like the expressions of those I love in conversations about life now and in the coming year and although the word wasn’t spoken…evidence of redemption.
Those were moments not fit for pointing a camera at, those were moments stored up in hearts.
Hearts that are reservoirs of hope.
Mine is full. I pray theirs is too.
And you. Living in light of it all.
I wasn’t sure how Christmas would be this year. Nor can I be sure of the next.
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 