He waits now. Before, almost two years ago, it was crazy.
I said “Yes” to a Christmas gift of a Labrador for a son who’d be leaving for college.
I lost all control. I did. My emotions of the transition I suppose, of my little boy, took over the reigns. The idea of a big, big dog in a house with an already sweet older little beagle getting older and moodier lady…
the one that was supposed to have been his, but, his sister had to take on the raising.
So, cold January , post-Christmas mornings, I’m out with him, I’d done my research he needs a routine, he needs to play, needs to run.
Cold mornings, kicking a basketball with rain boot covered feet, wrapped in my bathrobe as he ran from fence post to fence post.
We had a routine.
He was settling in. Over time, less chewed shoes, we needed a new screen door anyway.
Now, he’s my morning buddy. He is good and we sit. He waits. He looks out the window for the spot the 4Runner whips into when the college boy comes home. He looks every morning. He knows it will be soon.
He brings me the tennis ball. “Not yet, No sir.” I say, and he plops down beside my feet with a human like sigh of acceptance.
He waits.
He understands. He waits.
I remember times I ran ahead of God’s sweet and sure control. I forced my way, tore up stuff and things, outcomes, fell onto the floor emotionally with hands clenched tightly into fists.
Then, I learned to wait. And waiting became routine.
Routine is good. Like Colt, the big brown dog, I’m good now…better, at least more quiet.
In returning and rest, shall you be saved; in quietness and trust shall be your strength. Isaiah 30:15
A slight departure from my typically long and longing posts.
Progress, perhaps in my not taking of myself quite so seriously fragile and focused. Remembering more the things worth remembering as opposed to those more cumbersome.
I’m in Carolina; but, Georgia’s
on my mind.
The little white house on Peacock Hill. All us cousins spending the night every weekend.
And if we had a “cloud makin’ up over yonder somewhere”
We knew we better hush our mouths.
I go back now on this dark and stormy day that’s gotten more quiet as evening comes and I find us there, all the same as it was.
The thick sky muffled with rain and drumming thud of thunder right now.
My Grandma, “Bama” would have us all sitting on her sofa side by side.
She’d be pacing through the wide open front room to the screened porch to look at the sky, turning from east, west, south, north. Her tiny little fierce frame, checking for bad weather, it was a sight, her task, we sure did respect her.
“God is working! ” she’d say.
It was the only time my granddaddy, “Dan Dan” wasn’t giving us hell from his recliner about one thing or the other or asking my cousin Stephanie, to rub his feet. Which she always did.
If you’re my cousin or my sibling, I feel you right there with me now sitting on the setee trying not to let our legs touch. Knowing not to make a peep, get tickled or pass gas.
But, if someone did…Dan Dan would shake his head and smile that rascal smile and say, “I’d give a dollar to make a fart like that.”
Good thing he couldn’t, cause if he did, he’d say “There’s a kiss for you.” and we’d have all fell all over one another, cackling our heads off!
Stormy now in Carolina and because of Georgia, I’m sittin’ still, checkin’ from the porch and I’m smiling in the remembering of God working.
Keeping quiet, watching the weather and thinking it’s a good time to say a prayer.
” So, come to the pond, or the river of your imagination, or the harbor of your longing. And put your lip to the world. And live your life.” Mary Oliver
I’ve plenty of time now to talk to myself. Empty morning house and moving slowly through the rooms.
My thoughts, an exchange with my soul, so true it’s a wonder the dogs don’t hear and
Tilt their heads towards me as if to say, “Oh, it’ll be okay.”
Today, I woke and made plans as if my day was free. Like a silly survey to guess my type or temperament, I saw myself answering,
What would you do today if you could do anything?
I saw myself, assuredly, giving voice to my wish.
“Well, I’d drive to Georgia and my mama would be there. We’d sit on her dock after eating good fattening food somewhere, havin’ gone to town and to K Mart, buying stuff we didn’t need.”
That is what I’d do. I can’t say why; but, I’m missing her more this time, this coming back to the day she died just before her birthday time.
Grieving after a long time is even more a secret sorrow now. It’s not a heavy grief, more a wish kept secret for the sake of its sacredness.
So, I’d have gone to sit by the pond with my mama, maybe walk around the dam, see if the beavers had clogged up the “run around” and listen for the geese in the distance
Just so I could hear her say, ” Here they come.”
I went to the country today, to my daughter’s. Later than I had planned, I was rushed and annoyed.
“It’s okay if you don’t have time to walk.” I said.
“Oh, we’re going on an adventure.” she answered.
We walked on curving paths through fields and red moist clay. The dogs ran ahead, turned back to catch up and chased after a rustling in the woods, just a little ways, we’d call and they’d come right back.
We turned a sharp turn, she asked her dog, “Eli, you know where we’re going?” and said to me, “This way.”
” A pond? ” I asked.
“”Yeah.” she said and we made our way through the briars and branches to the place under the pines where the water rushed through.
She couldn’t have known. My soul, I suppose led us all there, my daughter, the dogs, my mama and me.
I’m linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee at Tell His Story. This week’s post is about grief? What I’ve come to know as my sacred secret as I move through the month of January, finding feathers everywhere.
I’m updating this blog to share again a story of a gentle man who danced and prayed, a man who is loved by many and is sadly under hospice care. I’m not related. I have relatives who are. I imagine the legacy he will leave his family is immeasurable. His prayer about believing God sees us, hears us and even listens when we talk, and talks right back, it made a forever impression on me. I am grateful for that.
Join me if you will in praying for the family and friends who are surrounding this sweet prayerful dancer under the care of doctors who are saying, Soon his dance will be heavenly.
I am remembering this story from 2017.
I’m gonna tell this sweet story here because it’s just too precious not to be told. It’s all about dancing and desire and the way God listens and waits for our asking, God waits to dance with us. For our rhythm to be one of agreement, our desires to be fulfilled.
seeing, hearing, knowing, our Father who art in Heaven
Oh, he danced. We all danced at their wedding. I watched him for awhile, looking at the young people as they jumped up to dance, his face bearing a sweet smile as the couples made their spots on the floor their own. I watched as he shimmied his shoulders and tapped a little tune with his cane. Finally, he got up and he danced. And just like the first time I saw him, heard him pray, the whole room took notice and we all got the chance to see a life lived fully with wisdom and desire. I was glad to be in his presence again, the man who told me God listens.
Two weddings this year, my daughter and the love of her life, my niece and her’s…two chances to dance with the ones we love. Two chances to see the fulfilling of desires.
Sweet Dance of Desire – Heather and Benji
Take delight in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.
Psalm 37:4
I didn’t expect it. I don’t know if any of the others did.
Of course, I didn’t really know them, this family of sisters and cousins about to be my niece’s family.
We all sat semi-circle in pale floral upholstered chairs in the church parlor. It’s been a long time since I sat in a parlor, I thought.
We’d joined hands earlier, a stranger and I next to each other and the matriarch said grace as we sat ladylike. We filled ourselves with pineapple cheese ball on salty Ritz crackers, watermelon, little sandwiches and homemade cheesecake.
Where I’m from we call these foods “Nic-Nacs”. We talk about the recipes and we go back for thirds, not seconds on the tiny little plates. We look around to see who’s first to indulge. Southern ladies allowing themselves a little extra, smiling slightly towards one another, our lips lined brightly with corals and pinks.
Gifts were opened, names recorded by my daughter, oohs and ahhs were like lyrics, a pretty little melody, bouncin’ about the parlor.
Then, towards the end, the granddaddy walks in. A handsome sweet face, feeble but, determined and just glad to be with us. His walk was slow and uneven, one leg causing a struggle, he leaned on his cane, his body resting in a slanted way. Still, he had a confident swagger in step, sportin’ his dress pants and crisply ironed shirt.
I thought he must have just come alone, must live close by or had been waitin’ in the car for his mate. In the South, men don’t get to go to bridal showers, it’s pretty well known and understood.
He joined the circle for a bit then his daughter introduced him,
“Daddy wants to say a few words”.
He took his time as he stood, waiting for us all to stop our chatter. It was a treasure to him, I could tell, to just be with us and to “talk about the Lord with you ladies for a few minutes”.
They were words of instruction and love and of his hopes for the soon to be wed. He was happy that his family is growing, he said. His words not just a platitude. He talked about prayer, and about desire.
We all sat quietly, my daughter across the room, glanced towards me, her face, sweet as if to say, “I know you love this, mama.” There was a sense of the significance of this time, his words, our chance to listen and hold on.
He talked about his life, his trials, his troubles, his God and his telling of stories to whomever he meets. A variety of people, I thought who have been captivated by his curiously wise dialogue.
Long pauses, between sentences, he was thinking, figuring, preparing what God had for him to say. His time in the church parlor he considered an opportunity, meaningful, worth something, I could tell. So, he paused a long pause before saying one thing clearly, his voice commanding our attention. He paused to make sure we all were captive in our seats.
“I can hear God. He talks to me all the time. I tell you one thing, people don’t believe me, that I hear him; but, I keep telling him how I feel, what I need. He answers me. If I had one of those contraptions that measured…what’s the word…decibels, I can assure you I hear him all the time. I’d have something to show the ones who don’t believe me, don’t need it, though, I hear him. It’s real clear, too”
“You can too and you can tell him anything.” He added.
“But, just make sure that if you desire something and you tell him, that you really, really desire it, because he will give you what you desire.”
Then I listened as he prayed for the soon to be married couple and for all of us ladies and I waited, still and attentive to his sweet voice.
I listened, longing to hear more.
I made sure to see him at the wedding, be sure my husband had a chance to meet him. My niece asked me to pray before the meal and I did my best, all the time wishing I’d been able to hear his prayer instead. I wish I’d suggested it, I thought, before the final plans had been made.
But, I prayed a prayer about love and family and looked over at the granddaddy after my “in Jesus’ name, Amen” to see his encouraging nod as if to say “You did fine, He heard, he knows the desire of your heart, remember? He just told me so.” And then a smile that felt like love with just the slightest wink of Southern gentleman.
And then, we dined and we danced knowing our desires were very known.
We lived in a cute apartment in a sort of upscale community, my baby brother and I. Our apartment was above a retired couple.
Their comings and goings always together, I’d glance down at them from the kitchen window, he gently helping her from the car and carrying one or two bags of groceries.
Occasionally,he looked up, his expression a contrast in wisdom and frustration.
Yet, they never complained of our late hours, our trash piling up or our completely haphazard life.
Both of us single, both of us sowing wild and hapless oats.
Every Sunday, they went to church. Sharply dressed and contentedly methodical were their steps back home.
On one particular evening, we ended up close enough for words. I asked the gentleman, “How can I know God’s will for me?”
Surprised by what he must have seen as a lost and careless young woman, he just stood there. “I’m sorry if we are loud up there sometimes.” I said, ashamed I’d asked the question.
Still, no words as we stood together in the shade of stairwell. Do I wait, do I leave him be? Should I not have invited his sermon? Will he rightly point out my sins?
He answered with a book. I’d love to say it lives on my shelf; unfortunately, the patterns of my life were not abruptly changed that day.
But, a seed planted, oh my goodness and I’m so glad God allowed me time enough for it to grow.
There are many who will not believe there are big portions of my life not well-lived.
Who may think I talk of redemption and wonder how on earth do I really think I needed to be redeemed.
Last night, a text came. I was painting and cleaning my art room. I’d walked the dog in the mist and fog, praying hard and quietly demanding as I walked.
The old heavy and annoying albatross of anxiety had begun to linger above my head.
It’s such a dull and cumbersome feeling, the one that cooks up chaos, confusion and confoundedness in the heart and mind.
I decided, after listing all my anxious taking of responsibility for plans gone awry to God, to head home, be quiet and paint. “I’ll paint. I’ll listen to Alison Krauss and I’ll just paint.”
So, I’m painting in silence because the air has cleared, my mind unfurled and open.
My painting, not furious, but an easy comfort.
My prayer was heard, my heart was made free.
I needed to answer her text; a young woman, mother of precious girls and one little boy is worried and has been crying for days, she said.
I’d given her a reference for a job. She didn’t know. She desperately needs one.
“I’ll pray for you, that a breakthrough will be soon.” I said. She answered with something like you are so great, I really appreciate it. I wish I had your faith.
I told her that the things I say to her are the things I say to myself quite regularly.
I’m not who I was, still not all I should be. Closer every time I surrender, a thankful trusting heart at rest.
Told her I get the blues too. I have to pray, get quiet and trust.
I hope she knows it’s true, that the mess I am is not nearly as much a mess as before.
That, the will of God is for her a good and settled mind; but, we have to seek it.
That’s what he said back then twenty plus years or so, the kind and patient gentleman who gave me the book.
“You have to seek God’s will and keep seeking it in the quiet place of prayer. ”
This morning, I’m reading scripture from II Samuel. A devotional about setting goals for fruitful living, talks about spending time alone with God.
The passage is called “David’s Prayer of Gratitude”. It was written after he was the least likely to be chosen, after he defeated a giant with a stone and before he strayed haphazardly distracted again by lusts of life.
“Then King David went in and sat before the LORD and prayed, “Who am I, O Sovereign LORD, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?”
2 Samuel 7:18
He’s the good shepherd; he kept his shepherd boy who he chose to be a king.
He keeps us too, reminds us where he found us and where he’d like to help us go.
Acknowledge what I’ve been given instead of longing for what I lost, felt I lost out on.
re·solve
NOUN
firm determination to do something:
“she received information that strengthened her resolve”
Pray more.
Trust more.
Love more.
Learn more about God and me.
Keep them all.
“Keep the faith, finish the course. ” 2 Timothy 4:7
Thank you, Paul, for your part in the story.
Sometimes I think I’m either the most simple minded of people on earth or the most complicated of minds incapable of rest.
I’m a contrast of contentment in the gift of lamplight on morning devotion; I yearn for solitude, rarely am I lonely.
Yet, the thoughts I conjure up, I’m unable to contain. Been called “deep”, been thanked for my deep thoughts.
On this day, the last of 2016, there’s a loud huffy sigh, bemoaning the disdain of its days. I don’t think I’ve ever lived a year that many feel as if we’ve all walked around either on eggshells or avoiding land mines. Negativity, pessimism and a tendency to grieve people we’ve never known, to align ourselves with the distress that we’ve never experienced and probably never will.
Tomorrow, not an unveiling of newness, other than number, a new set of hours making a day. But, there is a trend towards thinking it might be good, might be better.
My only aspiration is to step towards the things I’ve let fade, linger too long.
The treasure, closer and closer to the place of boxing up and storing on the top shelf of my closet, nothing more than idea and season.
This morning I read of Paul and his encounter with a rich man, a man whose possessions meant more than his days.
Measured his wealth, decided it was too risky to trade in for his soul.
I have never known wealth, have lived an unexpectant life. I’ve coveted the lives of others, longed for their pretty things.
Wasteful times and thoughts those have been.
Finally, I’m beginning to cherish the beautiful enough.
I’m thrilled by the smallest of unvalued and the immeasurably valuable things.
Lessons, memories, stories, connections.
Seeing, feeling, knowing Gods hand on the course my life.
Dogs, I learned to love them in 2016.
Life, I learned to accept it, daily.
My people, I learned to love them with open hands, not tightly clutched grasp of apprehension.
Thank you, God.
Crazy chances taken, wasted saving graces and Lord knows I’m beginning to see why I made it through.
I’m finally finishing a book I should’ve never set aside. I’m rereading it now, underlining bedside.
Paul and Jesus, themes of wealth, struggle, integrity, times living “on fire”, times of dull flame, finally, more times of staying the mental course that brings good to days. The little book ends with “Ten Vows of Success”
“He who suffers, remembers.” Og Mandino
“I will bathe my days in the golden glow of enthusiasm. In that bright glow will I be able to see, for the first time, all the good things in life that were concealed from me during those years of futility.
Just as a young lover has a finer sense and more acute vision and sees, in the object of his affection, a hundred virtues and charms invisible to all other eyes, so will I, imbued with enthusiasm, have my power of perception heightened and my vision magnified until I can see the beauty and charm others cannot discern which can compensate for large loads of drudgery, deprivation, hardship, and even persecution.
With enthusiasm I can make the best of any situation and should I stumble now and then, as even the most talented will do on occasions, I will pick myself up and go on with my life.
Always will I bathe my days in the golden glow of enthusiasm.” Part II The End of the Story, The Greatest Salesman in the World by Og Mandino
This little book, a recommended read from my son and a very wise friend, Ray Visotski.
Happy New Day tomorrow…that just happens to be the first of a New Year!
Acknowledge what you’ve been given instead of what you’ve lost or lack, Lisa.
Beef brisket on little buns loaded with jack cheese and buns made shiny by warm butter
Fingerling potatoes coated in olive oil and Parmesan cheese, crispy under the broiler
A cole slaw fancied up with creamy bleu cheese, crushed pecans and cranberries
Decadent macaroni and cheese, thick, soft and warm
My attempt at a little cafe’ worthy finale’, custard and Nutella blended gently over heat, cooled and then covered in melted marshmallow, not the star of the show,
still sweetly delicious.
Gifts exchanged late Christmas night. Laughter and languishing. Sprawled out in the den.
Late night led to late waking.
Back to the kitchen, I go for the simple.
Remembering my grandma’s house when we all had breakfast from the box with the big rooster.
And how I loved it when the honey colored flakes floated in a pool of white.
I’d dip into the bowl with little fingers, pick just one and bring it my mouth, letting it rest softly on my tongue.
Then I’d turn the shallow bowl up and drink down the milk that tasted like candy
My feet swinging loosely over the edge of my grandma’s chairs up close to the big table.
My cousins all around me, the day after Christmas at the old house in the country.
Little is much, I know this to be true, know its peace.
My grandmother in her late teens, it never occurred to me to wonder about her this way ’til I painted her against the backdrop of her raising.
Her daddy was a minister. She had to have been beautiful back then and on the cusp of change. Standing on the firm foundation of her daddy’s reputation and the memorized words to scripture and lilting hymns, I’ve decided she must have turned heads.
I imagine to be in her presence would have been a pleasure. A petite young lady, I believe she’d not be found sitting stiffly with hands folded securely in her lap.
She loved people, loved knowing them, knowing their stories and telling hers. She was engaging.
I suppose there came a time she questioned the path of her life.
There must have been a time of determined rebellion.
She married my granddaddy, my son’s namesake.
She was young, one of four sisters, I recall.
He was a rascal, a carpenter by trade and a fishing man by choice, loved cold beer and cigars. I never heard it told; but, I figure he must’ve swept her off her feet with his irresistible smile and lazy swagger.
I know she didn’t lose her faith, she just didn’t get it on Sunday mornings with her husband by her side.
But, she kept it. She kept her faith, not one to let anything be taken.
I learned a whole lot from that one truth, just realizing it fully now.
Faith, sort of an enigma until you settle into its simple sufficiency.
She kept her faith. I got to see it. Hard marriage followed rebellious courtship, faith never left her.
I wish I’d heard the stories, wish I’d had a little talk with my grandma about her love for him. The giddy beginning of headstrong and hopeful decision.
Wish I could have seen the light of love in her eyes, a young woman abandoning all for abandonment in the moment.
And for loosening the reigns of control.
This painting is for my niece with the song she remembers as my grandma’s favorite. I recall someone sang it at her funeral.
It’s a beautiful hymn with lyrics praising the God who considered us worthy despite ourselves . The acknowledgement of grace causing our souls to sing…
“then sings my soul”.
I’d love to know the song that caused her heart to flutter, though, caused her cheeks to flush when she went for what she wanted.
When she said “Yes” to my granddaddy and no to her father.
There’s only one left, it’s bright green with fern-like stems. The spindly arms reach across vacant space like a long sighing stretch across an empty morning bed.
The tiny little succulents I planted in my mama’s broken pot were pretty, fragile and spongy little blooms living all together on a cushion of soil.
I’d placed them in a spot easy to glance toward in the pauses of my morning. The sun just creeping in, warm and soft seeping in of light.
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 