family

Making New Stories

Abuse Survivor, aging, Art, bravery, Children, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, Faith, family, grace, hope, memoir, mercy, patience, Peace, Redemption, Teaching, testimony, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder, writing

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.”

Micah‬ ‭6‬:‭8‬ ‭MSG‬‬

Curious about my art?

Quiet Confidence Art

Continue and believe,

LT

Eat Cake Today

aging, birthday, contentment, Faith, family, happy, memoir, Motherhood, Redemption
Bette as a Young Baker

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!

Seeing Just Enough

aging, Art, birthday, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, daughters, Faith, family, grace, hope, memoir, painting, patience, Peace, Redemption, rest, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

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”

five minute Friday

Lightly Yielding

aging, bravery, Children, contentment, courage, curiousity, Faith, family, fear, hope, mercy, patience, Peace, Redemption, rest, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, walking, wonder

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.”

Continue and believe, lightly yielding.

You are loved.

Tell Me Your Story

Abuse Survivor, aging, bravery, Children, confidence, contentment, courage, family, Forgiveness, freedom, hope, love, memoir, patience, Peace, Redemption, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing

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.

You are loved.

So am I.

Pretty And Strong

Abuse Survivor, aging, bravery, confidence, courage, eating disorder, family, freedom, grandchildren, jubilee, memoir, Peace, Redemption, self-portrait, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing
The Girl Who Made Me Grandma

I came in the back door after a day in the country with grandbaby boy and barely paused.

I grabbed the dog’s leash and tightened my shoelaces.

There was enough daylight still for a walk.

The Labrador deserved it.

He’d been alone all day.

Later, my husband praised my commitment. He said he admired the way I “keep going”, I guess pursuing wellness.

I begged to differ with him and then rethought that and accepted his compliment.

Then I told him, with a strong tone of certainty,

“I probably won’t change in size very much again. I’ve stayed and will stay the same weight for about three years.”

Then, he replied with some sort of observation about his approving view of me from the rear.

This morning, I had a veggie omelet and a piece of bread toasted, slathered in butter and topped with “Braswell’s red pepper” jelly. (IYKYK)

And I remembered the conversation about my body.

I remembered telling my husband, I mostly just want to be and stay strong.

Breakfast memories popped up.

My grandmother, “Bama” in the kitchen in front of the gas stove, rollers in her hair and dressed in a tiny floral print housecoat.

The grandmother who greeted her oldest granddaughter with

“There’s my big ‘ol girl!”

as I wrapped my arms around her leg and sunk my head into her hip.

I’ve been known to say that her greeting marked me. I suppose in some ways it did and it has.

If I’m honest though, there are other more beautiful imprints.

There was the outside play, the daily long walks on dirt roads to come home to ice water in the aluminum pitcher in the Frigidaire.

There were tiny pancakes with tiny pieces of bacon in the center.

There were games of “Scramble” with a notebook of words created by her and as I grew older, my name in a column next to hers.

My name in her Bible, I didn’t discover until she’d passed on.

And wisdom through words about beauty being internal first and only.

“Pretty is

Is pretty does” Bama

I pray and believe my grandmother will greet me one day…my arms outstretched to hers…

She’ll say,

“There’s my pretty girl!”

And I’ll say

Yes, it’s me.

Pretty and strong.

Yes, it’s me.

Here I am.

I Will Go. I Will Stay.

aging, bravery, Children, confidence, courage, Faith, family, grandchildren, memoir, Redemption, Trust, walking, wisdom, wonder

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

The bubbling shiny place

You made it!
I told you.

I will go with you and
I will stay.

I will go.

I will go if you go.

I will stay.

Christmas Comes

aging, Children, Christmas, contentment, courage, Faith, family, Forgiveness, grace, hope, memoir, Peace, Redemption, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing

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.

Only certain that hope will come near again.

Won’t Always Be This Way

Abuse Survivor, aging, bravery, courage, Faith, family, hope, memoir, Redemption, Vulnerability, writing

Not so long ago, I wrote about “cardinal sightings”, a sign I decided, that God was in my very close vicinity and that he’d sent “someone” to tell me so.

Then time passed as time does and the red bird flashing before my eyes didn’t mean much at all.

Over time, the search stopped,

the fascination faded.

Red On My Walk

Monday after the family gathering a couple of hours away, I’d been thinking about the way things change.

My aunt and uncle (my remaining parental figures) are aging. There are noticeable changes.

There are reasons to accept.

It won’t always be this way.

I walked the Labrador today. I was in no hurry. The sun was warm, the shade was invigorating.

I let the dog drift from the trail to the grass.

I waited and then looked up to see the bird on the branches, a red one.

It lingered. It perched.

I paused to rejoice silently.

I came back home and worked on a painting, refreshed my son’s bedroom for when he visits with fresh sheets and comforter, fluffed the quilt and got the bed ready for his dog to stretch out.

The Labrador who’s staying with us, but not for too long. He’ll be back in Charlotte in a new quiet home very soon.

I thought of Christmas today, of Christmases of my childhood, Christmases of before.

I thought of how it’s a pattern of mine to anticipate the sameness and sadness of them.

And yet, if you made a bullet list of hard and good Christmases side by side, we’d both be surprised, maybe enlightened.

I don’t know why the emotions work this way, we hold the hard so tightly and we hold the sweet and beautiful as if it’s not important, as if it’s not a splendid gift, a time to treasure.

We look for the memorable and forget the moments.

We long for the same no matter its goodness and we resist the reality of every single breath alongside those we love that testifies to the truth,

It won’t be this way for long.

Oh my goodness, I saw my grandmother’s face on my aunt, the tiny little circles like apples on her cheeks as she smiled.

And she saw it too. It was the first time she noticed and now we all can’t not see it.

And I saw her face when she saw me, saw my children, their children and all of the others.

And it won’t always be this way.

We’re not predictors of time or change or good or hard.

I saw three cardinals, a flash of crimson through the window.

One lingered, dipping into the birdbath that belonged to my mama.

It was a day of unexpected sightings for what I’d not been seeking.

Isn’t that the way, the most beautiful way?

It won’t always be true.

But, some days it will.

And the worst of days no longer mark you because you pause to see the good have been better, the sweet has been sweeter and the expectations have been softened by the brave embrace of the comparison.

Continue and believe.

Old and New

Abuse Survivor, aging, bravery, confidence, courage, creativity, family, hope, kindness, memoir, patience, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, writing

“Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old.
‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭43‬:‭18‬ ‭ESV‬‬

On the top of my “to do” is to download my blogposts as I prepare to move my words from here to Substack.

The question mark is gone, I’ve decided to move. But the questions remain.

Do I print every post? Do I simply save them? Are there words that will cause me to cringe? Are they a spattering of wisdom worth keeping for later sharing, maybe publication?

Yes, to everything.

I sit with my list, the Labrador is so very chill; I believe happy I’m home and not hurried.

I view the YouTube tutorial again.

Okay, I’m gonna do it…

Later.

Not on the list is the closet, the tangled mess of costume, classy and funky necklaces, dysfunction!

I attended a Christmas party last night. I almost didn’t. My closet and its sad collection of not fitting or way too far worn and gone clothing set my tone towards dismay.

I pulled it together and had some pleasant and memorable conversations.

Back down the hall I went today. Before shipping sold art, before painting, before the WordPress cancellation that I must do by Friday.

I started in the back. I touched every garment. I charted the seasons and phases of me.

A period when I bought sweaters oversized and chunky because I thought I’d never be not “plus” any longer.

The too large pieces were jerked from the hangers and began the pile for donation.

Next the “dry clean only” executive pieces, pencil skirts, cardigan, fancy blouses for under blazers. These were the outfits for those days I took the stand in juvenile court to speak unwaveringly confident about the abuses children endured.

Those were the meeting clothes, board meeting or travels to Atlanta.

Interview for promotions attire.

Those are not me, these positions are no longer my calling or service.

Then the “statement necklaces”, a tangled mess were untangled.

A bunch of those were chunked along with a favorite black turtleneck that I decided to sit for “just a second” to paint and ruined the sleeve after an hour.

But a few pieces, I kept.

The Mother’s Day gift tunic, worn transparent from washing.

The fancy camisole I wore to my daughter’s wedding and my mother of the bride dress.

A red sweater because of my mama.

The bluebird blue structured top I wore to the Citadel graduation of my son.

The long sleeve black A-line dress I wore to my mama’s funeral, the shoes as well.

Another black dress, more of a sheath from my thinner days, the one I felt both pretty and presentable in for the first time going to church with Greg.

A necklace made of macaroni, painted purple and threaded on twine, a match for the one Elizabeth made.

A few other things that I treasure were kept.

More than I thought I was able to part with are now ready to be loaded into my car for donation.

The ease of this chore always surprises me.

We can let go if we just begin.

We can begin again if we will just will ourselves to let go.

I hope you’ll follow me to Substack. I’m just there as me, Lisa Anne Tindal.

I hope you’ll see the reason for my move, the decision to be more intentional about writing as one affected by complex trauma.

Writing from a place of my words an offer of hope.

To do no harm, simply be brave enough to be new.

Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.
‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭43‬:‭19‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Thanks for being here all these years. I pray you’ll follow.