Favorites and Loves: Summer

family, rest, Uncategorized

Sitting by the pool this evening and thinking about the coast.

My favorite part, the breeze.

The ocean breeze, warm and quiet, caressing me.

Cool sheets on summertime feet

Watermelon and a spoon

Watermelon with my daughter

Peaches and cream (ice)

Bike rides at dusk

White wine over crushed ice

Thunder and lightening hard rains

Days longer, but shorter, summer flies by.

Summer-crammed good things, quick squeeze in’s, all the good we can while we can.

Indulging in the good.

Fall around the bend waiting to remind us all to behave.

Summer saying slow down.

Laugh, linger, love.

Rest.

Chill.

Let it be.

Take your time.

Love your life.

The brave and beautiful 3, Praises

Children, courage, Faith, family, praise, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

Wednesday morning, I felt the need to retreat. I thought of avoiding all social stuff, followed blogs, subscriptions, true and important posts on the Charleston horror and/or the ones meant to lift me, motivate or push me forward.

I thought of settling back into the comfortable place of effortless complacency. I considered quieting my voice, my words. I remembered my truth, “Write bravely or not at all” and not at all was feeling safe, feeling like a good fit for an expected mold. I had been here before, searching for the consoling truth of God, waiting His truth out.

And then I skimmed my inbox to read the next chance to tell my story, His story. Linking up, who am I kidding? I’ve just really begun, afraid my words are just journaling. On a muggy gray morning I found myself in a funk, a deep pit, asking “Jesus, help me out of this rough patch.”

Like the Psalmist, I cried, I’m slipping! Again, your unfailing love, O’ Lord supported me. When doubts filled my mind, your comfort gave me renewed hope. Psalm 94:18-10

I’ve been linking up with other writers mainly as an exercise in persistence, an assignment that elicits my naive courage, I think.

Jennifer Dukes Lee reminds me to praise and then suggests I comment sharing three praiseworthy things. I was feeling as far from praise as the sun is from the full moon on a winter night. So, I sat with that sullen quiet as I opened the next message.

I read about courage described by Tracy Line as she recalled her “Time Hop” of three years ago. http://tracyline.com/2015/06/23/the-art-of-practicing-courage/ I decided to comment, a Thank You for Tracy’s story of discovering what God intended for her resting period of three years. I shared my struggle with Tracy, which is odd but not odd, in that I’ve not met Tracy Line “The Writer Tracy”.

But, Tracy replied in the same kind way Jennifer Dukes Lee replied months ago. Both expressed good and hopeful truths. Tracy encouraged me further, told me she had read my brave words…You’re a good writer.” she said.

Both said they would pray for me.

Published authors, stopping to pray for me. And both times, God heard and I sensed a change of thought, of heart, reason and my reasoning.

Both times!

Here it is Thursday evening and I’m thinking of the beauty of kind words of two strangers who love God. I’m remembering the challenge to be thankful for three things. A discarded chance to comment just a day ago because I felt my praises were too contrived, too insincere.

Now, just a day past the thought of keeping it all to myself, my brave words, slipping into a quiet, keep it all inside place…I’m bursting to proclaim my three things for which I lift my face and hands in praise!

Praise God #1

Praises to God for a wedding dress weekend! A couch filled with crazy, how do I work this selfie-stick laughter. My daughter streaming happy, joyous, honest and sweet tears from the dressing room when she could wait no longer and slipped her pretty arms into the wedding dress. Her quiet request of the seamstress to honor Grandma and my stopping to catch my breath sigh upon hearing it…my daughter, soon to be a bride. One of my three…

Pre-Yes to the Dress party

Praise God #2

I bought the biggest and best dog bed, refusing to believe it would be ripped apart. I bought this dog bed because “Colt” the Christmas gift to a son about to enter The Citadel, is in fact a pony size chocolate lab puppy who has outgrown the crate. Praise God, he loves his bed!

Every night for a week, back to the place where the crate had been and a word “Bed” and he sleeps, all night. No more pee puddles and he has stopped eating my bras! He is a rambunctious little boy of a dog who likes living here. Praise God for my “What was I thinking Merry Christmas, Austin” lapse in reason addition to our family.

Worth it all

Praise God #3

From a heart, heavy and tired, I’ve been lifted again. Praise God, the sustainer and lover of my weary and wayward soul! The God who reminds me of the good seed he planted in me. The God planted, joy bringing, soul nourishing act of thoughts made words.

Writing, my seed

Clearly and more confident

Bravely, with a few familiar steps back, but stronger steps forward, good work began, carried to completion.

With God, through and for God.

He who began a good work in me will carry it through to completion. Philippians 1:6

Quiet Confidence is my strength, returning and rest, my salvation. Isaiah 30:15

I’m linking up with other amazing and motivating writers who Tell His Story at Jennifer Dukes Lee.http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tell-his-story/

The Story of my Daddy’s Heart

Children, courage, Faith, family, Prayer, Vulnerability

I hadn’t noticed the puppy until now. I didn’t remember my daddy being the dog lover mama was. But, here we are.

Me, almost three with daddy and a puppy following along at our heels. I’m looking down and he must have been watching for roots to trip me up or something that might harm my tiny little feet. I keep this photo on my desk and I cling to the love it portrays, an image of his kind and quiet heart.

Walking by the water

My daddy’s life was badly bruised by tragedy. His daddy was murdered by a black man over some sort of dispute, at the well drawing water. Daddy never spoke of this, I only know through stories saved for my grown-up ears. The knowledge of my daddy’s pain brought clarity and forgiveness for hurtful and scary words that would come easily when alcohol was salve for his wounds.

The story of my daddy’s heart is a timely story, an important story.

Mainly, for the children I love, grown or still small who need to know.

A story of a friendship between a white man and a black man.

Thomas, my daddy’s friend helped him when no one else would.

Thomas checked on my daddy, had long talks on lonely cold nights with my daddy and drove him home on many nights.

Stood by his friend through cancer and watched him, with us, become kinder and more humble each day. Every day spent in searching conversations centered on ammends making and making right of perceived wrongs.

Thomas and his wife, Mary cried at my daddy’s funeral and then stopped by to sit with, listen to my mama on lonely cold nights in her lonely country home.

Thomas fished in their pond, cut her knee high grass in summer.

Just checked on her, kept her going. And then, when my mama died, we gave Thomas and Mary her car. They cared for my mama’s best friend, her dog, until it’s grieving and aging heart passed on too.

Thomas and daddy are together again, friends in Heaven.

Thomas was my daddy’s friend. Race didn’t matter. This is the story of my daddy’s heart and of his friend’s heart.

A Father’s Day story, a timely story

A story for a time like this, a time of tragic hate and young people who are both impressive and impressionable. Young people who are paying attention and are standing for something. Maybe deciding between love or hate.

Choose love over hate. Love like a Wednesday night prayer meeting prayer. An open heart, open door prayer for someone they thought just lost and seeking. A love shown, freely offered in light of and because of Jesus. A strong love like a mama taught a son. A son who lost his mama at a Wednesday night prayer meeting in Charleston.

For the ones I love, a story you need to know

“Love is always stronger than hate.”

Chris Singleton, son of Sharonda Singleton

The Bluest of Days

Children, courage, Faith, family, Motherhood, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

This time last week I was hoping for more time of quiet. I knew pretty soon I’d be interrupted by noisy kitchen rumblings and Saturday morning useless television.

But, I stopped my down time and moved slowly from the couch to shower when my daughter offered to have lunch and go antique shopping. A tiny little town about twenty minutes away, our favorite spot, we’d need to hurry she said.

Just time enough to “go junkin'” and have a little lunch, then back home so she could go fishing with her fiance.

My plan had been to write, to try and make sense of some of the thoughts from a rough previous week.

I had asked a friend earlier this month…I can’t decide if I’m overwhelmed or sad. Just so much good, so much sad, so much to celebrate, so much to grieve.

There was such a disconnect. I felt so disjointed.

I was thinking about sadness and a longing to be hopeful. I felt like life had become too much for me understand and the idea of being hopeful and surrendered was a burden, a chore. Felt unattainable.

Resistant to hoping, I struggled, because all I kept thinking was

Sometimes being sad makes sense and hope feels like being stranded in a deep grey ocean, clinging tightly to whatever is possible, staying afloat, yet wondering, “How will I ever get to shore?”

I attended the funeral of a friend’s husband of 22 years. He, I believe, was on the cusp of living fully, freely. Suddenly massively unexpectedly. he died on an otherwise predictable day. His wife, my friend is sad.

Sadness makes sense.

And I had been stuck on something I couldn’t change. I wanted mama here, their grandma. Ausin will be graduating from high school and Heather will be trying on wedding dresses…both happening in just days, weeks.

Sadness makes sense when grandmas don’t live until grandchildren become adults. This is truth, to me.

Being sad made sense…the kind of trying to but can’t snap out of it sense. But, forced to be a secret kind of sadness because you can’t or don’t really let on how hopeless missing someone feels.

The spiraling down hopelessness made even more ugly because of the feeling of “shouldn’t feel this way” and “your faith is an example to everyone so you can’t be so afraid, so sad, so weak.”

And the promises of and from God are good. But still, that dark grey ocean of longing for what no longer can be surrounds you as you peer anxiously and vacantly to see, feel that hope.

There you are holding onto to what you know of hope; but, still squinting through tired, heavy eyes for rescue, hope…stumbling and stepping cautiously for a level, safe place.

We all stumble in many ways. James 3:2

Days passed, thoughts gathering, circled around and stored up for sharing. Yet, no time for writing, my journal filled with ramblings of prayer and promises of good to come.

Jotted down thoughts on sadness, on hope. Lists made of scriptural recordings of sad and wandering people like me…themselves floating in the murk of what they knew, never doubted, truly and deeply knew was a strong solid hope, yet they too wondered

” How long, Lord until hope is again my safety, my solace?”

How long, Lord until I see your glory?

How long until I see you, know and believe in Hope?

Writing about sad making sense and hope feeling like lost was on my mind and heavy in my heart until last Saturday when I said yes to lunch and shopping.

Until, I walked outside and saw the sky, saw God.

“Look at the sky, Heather, not a single cloud.” I said, lingering for a minute, my face turned upward as I pulled out of the drive.

Nothing but blue.

The brilliant, bluest expanse of blue, as if heaven had thrown open its arms to say, ” All is well.”

My daughter and I had lunch, she discovered the sweetest idea for her reception tables and we headed back home.

Pretty country roads on a blue sky day with happy talk of wedding and then, ” Oh, mama”

And I turn towards her face to see a flash of blue pajama bottoms, a child badly injured.

We stop abruptly, side of the road, get out of my car, hurrying.

She consoled. She comforted. She nurtured. Talked of 5th grade and basketball. Teacher voice, calm and intent . She prayed, silently, kneeling amongst overgrown weeds.

And again, that same blue sky buffeted us as I ran without thinking to pray…to a sister, a mama and held hands pleading ,

“Jesus, save this child. We are certain Lord of your love for us. Please, Jesus, save this child.”

I had never prayed this way. Never implored, pleaded, cried out in this tone…this manner.

Praying, hoping, knowing, trusting.

And a week ago tomorrow, afraid of what I might hear, I found hope again in the voice of a mama who answered a hospital room phone saying,

“He’s gonna be just fine.

I recognize your voice, you held me. You prayed.”

Hope, I see you. You, God are my hope.

More clearly, now.

Children, courage, family, Motherhood, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I called my daughter and asked her to check my roast. ” I think it’s gonna taste like grandma’s this time.” I said.

“You’ve never gotten it like grandma’s, mama” she insisted.

” I have a couple of times, check it.” I said. “I think it’s gonna fall apart.”

“You’re right, mama…it is…you did it this time.” she said.

Last week, my cousin asked what my daughter’s favorite cake would be, planning ahead for birthday.

“She loved mama’s pound cake or the thin layer chocolate.” I answered.

Cake and my mama….always consistently rich, no holds barred, exceptionally outspoken, rich in taste and memorable.

You got what you expected, anticipated.

When I think of my mama, I think of cooking. I think of love expressed with joy.

I think of honest, simple, and no secrets…all expectations met.

Satisfied, satiated, blessed even. Her cooking was art.

Her conversations, her opinions, her advice were the same.

No cutting corners, nothing artificial, sometimes harsh.

Consistently honest and end of the story succinct.

Rarely soft or maternal.

She mothered the way she was mothered.

Industrious, focused and intentional. Harsh at times. Vacant, disengaged, exhausted at times.

She was overwhelmed. I understand now.

More than almost anything last week, on Mother’s Day…for Mother’s Day

I wanted to write my story about my mama….about a feeling I had come to know.

To understand now.

An opportunity to express the peace that comes from experience.

A place of perspective I found, of understanding finally.

I positioned this sepia toned little story. Mama, my aunt, silhouettes of my children, me as a pretty baby….beautiful imagery, idyllic, almost perfect.

I began to write about a memory.

A time, an encounter left hanging around for some time.

Still, it was painful and it was a troubling, limbo type story.

I drafted and trashed.

Too hurtful. Too honest. Too surprising maybe.

Edited and trashed.

The story of a cold, quiet night when I decided after months of drifting, disappearing, rebellious ignorance…to show up and ask my parents

“Why don’t you care?”

A story of the quiet of the room

The warmth of the fire, my palms hot behind my back as I waited

For answer, for punishment, for anger, for forgiveness.

For reaction.

Any attention is good attention for a wayward child.

No words except, ” We did all we could do.”

I left my family. I chased after the wind.

Got caught in terrible violent storm and

Stranded by choices

They stopped searching.

And so, that night, full of attitude and angst.

I blamed my mama.

But, she only listened in the quiet, daddy unmoved in agreement.

They had done all they could.

And I left, knowing then.

But, not realizing until now, more clearly now.

That this was truth. Is truth.

And I became still like a child, turned and left, beginning to see.

My heart not proud; my eyes not haughty. Psalm 131 :1

beginning to hope in the Lord.

She did the best she could.

The best I could do has been far different.

More hands on.

More intentional “love you’s” or random “love you’s”.

Daily affirmations or scripture sent in text messages

“Don’t forget I love you’s.”

Unconditional, my love for them, they are reminded in words.

Letters, notes, conversations.

Maybe overkill, so that love is not something cherished?

Can children become numb to our love?

Does independence lessen it’s worth? Reduce their longing for it?

Is it not the special secret treasure I had hoped….this yearning to love better than?

I hope not, but maybe. Flaws and failures, drifters sometimes. Children are humans in a crazy, enticing, all about me world.

Pathways are prone to drift. Roadmaps must be their’s not mine.

“God’s driving the bus, Lisa” mama said

I’m really just a ride along companion anticipating and praying over departures and destinations.

Imperfect mama…loved children.

Grace comes when we are touched by ugly, but still love.

I can’t even remember when, because it doesn’t matter now.

I have forgotten.

But, one child questioned me.

Sort of “called me out”. It was hurtful and unexpected.

I didn’t react. On the outside at least.

Except to say “I love you and always will.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“I always have.”

And there it was.

After all this time since the firm, vacant look in front of the fire.

Clarity like a knock upon my door…the knock of a scary, rebellious, unwelcome child you say will never be yours.

And I saw my mama loving me.

Withholding anger. Choosing not to bring out my hurtful wrongs.

I saw clearly.

More clearly now.

More honest. Life, love and my words.

“I can only write honestly. Anything else is simply vacant, conspired, not wise. Bravery is healing.” A lesson from this community of writers

But you desire honesty from the heart, so You can teach me to be wise in my in most being. Psalm 51:6

Honest love

Wise love

Thank you Jennifer!

little sayings big thoughts

courage, Faith, family, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, wonder

Closer to God

I cannot remember when, but someone complimented, noticed my faith.

I wish I could remember, just a conversation in passing I think.

I thanked them….said “I’m a work in progress.” Because I am.

Progress not perfection.

Doubtful but not nearly as often doubting God.

And lately, I say “Time will tell” about most everything.

And I’ve said “God has a plan.”

in response to unknowns so many times a day I should be constantly at rest, in submission.

And I recall my best stance, my life verse, the Lisa God knows best, God made this way.

Quietly confident…resting strongly. Isaiah 30:15

I woke this morning and thought of prayer. Can’t see, can’t touch, can’t measure…like faith it is most real in the looking back, the remembering of the written, the spoken, the thought, the mentioned to God, to friend, just to self. I thought of my frustrations, my drive to intervene, to fix, to shed light on an unfair turn of events.

My prayer, my thoughts, my surrender. God answered. He convicted. The unfair and upsetting became fair and possible.

I had rested. I had waited. I am waiting more often.

I am drawing near, staying near.

Refusing to doubt.

Doing what I can…letting God do the rest.

Little sayings.

Big thoughts.

Early morning brings a prayer of clarity:

Lord, remind me of the gift of coming back to you. Remind me of clarity and of your sovereignty. Keep me aware of the joy of quiet. Make me an example to others of the blessing of trust, of confident quiet. Give me simple, yet powerful boldness in declaring your mercy and your grace and Lord, most of all, thank you for loving me in the times my prayers are angry, rambling, frustrated, and disheartened. I thank you Lord, for the gift of quiet, for this is when I see, I feel, I recognize…

You were listening.

In Jesus name, Amen.

thread and pattern

courage, Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I surprised myself and never doubted my decision. In general, this is not me. Time has passed now and the weave and texture of each word, each encounter, I fear will become less significant.

That the beauty of the right word at the right time will be wasted and fade into the mix of my crazy busy days of late.

Two weeks ago now, I needed a place to stay and secretly hoped to be invited by my cousin.

An overnight trip to prepare Austin for college. Normally, I’d treasure time alone, hotel room, book, hot bath.

Yet, I was intrigued by the idea of meeting up with my cousin.

This is new and strange behavior for me.

I am not a “friend-ly” person.

Never one to congregate, weekend for girls, or endless daily talks with girlfriends.

Maybe it’s growing up the only little girl in a rowdy “little rascals” type neighborhood, or most likely just the cautiously introverted thinker I am.

I have lots to say, I’m just particular about who I say it to. Because it’s usually an honest conversation, I’m careful to engage.

Not much on shallow filling of conversation space with talk about the insignificant

Always been the one to think about the back scene of people’s circumstances and stories.

So, to be excited to have dinner and conversation in a home with a distant cousin and her husband on a trip to decide my son’s future…

Again, strange, atypical behavior for me that might require small talk.

Strange for her too, maybe not having seen me in about 20 years. Her husband questioned the offer.

My husband questioned my acceptance.

I imagined cool conversations about children, God, and touching up paintings of childhood memories.

I found their home and stepped onto the beautiful porch overlooking the marsh, consoling her dogs as I walked up, a stranger, and then she greeted me and we hugged, big southern girl cousin hugs and she said…stepping back

“Oh, my goodness, you look like your mama.”

I replied, honestly and without hesitation “I know. Some days that’s good, others not so much.”

And then, we began the filling in of the missing years, the misconceptions, myths and the preconceptions.

Family junk, legacy, laughter, closeted skeleton stories

Threads of our pasts more than anything at all…most of all our faith in God.

Our dinner and breakfast conversations all about childhoods both blessed and marred…commonalities and clarity.

Vickie called it a “thread”…such a tender strand of strength we both held.

A powerful acknowledgement of ” what messes our lives have been…but grace…

But, Faith.”

She prayed the right prayers, said the right things. Words just bounced between us, meaningful ones I grasped like a quick reaching up with hand to embrace, hold softly and tightly in my palm.

“Keeping this one.”

At church, I was greeted by a woman who said.

“You’re growing. I can see it.”

Years ago, this same person anxiously approached me offering an embrace. She sensed and I believe, was told that I’m not so open to hugs and attention and overwhelming questions about myself, my life. Over time she honored that, yet continued to greet me with a handshake and a smile…still though strong words of encouragement and of reinforcement of my faith path.

Saying things like…”God has great plans for you.” or “I love to read your column. God is using you.”

I smiled and said ” Thank you.” Still sort of awkwardly feeling as if her eye was constantly on me.

The closeness made me feel oddly inadequate. So, I avoided her and she retreated, until one Sunday. One sentence.

She and I, in the church bathroom, washing hands together. Miss Bobbie, a thread in my pattern.

“You are growing. I can see it.” Miss Bobbie

Several days ago, I commented on a blog post by Jennifer Dukes Lee about being homesick, about her struggles to find her way as a college student. Jennifer’s struggle to find her way resonated with me in a way much broader. My struggle was about prayer.

My struggle was simple, but, oh so destructive. I did not believe God heard my prayers, therefore I had decided it was too hard to pray for fear of delay or disappointment.

I bravely commented on Jennifer’s blog.

” I have a tendency to pray half-heartedly to avoid disappointment.”

And Jennifer Dukes Lee responded to God’s prompting, just for me at just this time with:

“When I get weary of praying I remember that one day I will be in Heaven and when I get there and meet God, I want Him to recognize me as woman who was persistent in prayer.” Jennifer

A thread in my pattern, Jennifer, a woman I’ve never met.

And early this morning my friend Debra greeted me via Facebook and coffee together, but miles apart.

” I pray for you daily.”

Debra, a thread in my pattern

My growing pattern.

And like Jennifer, I want to be recognized by God and even now in my earthly, chaotic, doubtful days I am hearing Him say so, so clearly…

“You are growing, Lisa. I see it.” God

Thank you Jennifer!

Answered Prayers and Tomorrows too Soon

Children, courage, Faith, family, Motherhood, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized

Two big changes are coming all at once.

My daughter’s engaged to the boy, now a man, with the big truck with the Bible on the seat and the beautiful smile.

The future Mr. and Mrs. Benji Brown

The one she woke me over 7 years ago to say. ” I’ve found him!”

And half asleep in the dark, I knew she was smiling.

I thought a long time that night of the sweet, determined confidence in her announcement.

And now, I see her tender smiling tears and I am joyously overwhelmed. To see her in love and preparing to wed, an answered prayer and blessing.

A year away but feeling like it’s tomorrow and tomorrow is feeling too soon.

Too soon for happy, teary, joyful goodbyes

Goodbyes covered in prayers of blessing and “Don’t forget I love you’s”.

My tomorrows for now are spent intentionally reminding of love…mine and God’s and of being weepy at unexpected times in my day.

My daily text messages of scripture continues, but my focus is intentional to show a more blessed me and a joy-filled temperament…one that shows, not just speaks…one that lives out what I have spoken so long.

“You are a blessing to me”.

Still, the thought of a house without my daughter and my son moistens my eyes.

Weepiness is not really me.

But it is my heart and they are my heart, my soul.

So, in the meantime there are ways to move towards this time of the coming tomorrows.

Like standing in the center of their bedrooms after they’ve left for the day lingering in the quiet, yet noisy messiness of their stuff.

Art and antiques on my daughter’s walls, bed made just so, heirlooms of her grandma’s, dried flowers from Benji, Bible, journals and massive amounts of clothing filling her closet.

Down the hall, sparse and organized, my son’s room, a guitar and flags, hoodies, hats and an overabundance of shoes lined up in orderly fashion

College acceptance letters neatly stacked on the corner of his desk. A lone blue folder, silver letters in marker “Citadel”.

Last week, I dropped him off for “Pre-Knob” overnight at The Citadel.

He turned the corner and walked alone under the canopy of oaks.

His posture was that of a man, broad shouldered, briskly walking towards his future.

I felt it.

I saw it in his steps, a readiness to decide his future.

So, I fell behind a distance and I let him go.

Austin at The Citadel, strong and determined.

And I know…they have been taught along the way.

Teach your children to choose the right path, and when they are older, they will remain upon it. Proverbs 22:6

Meeting Martha

courage, Faith, family, Motherhood, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized

The sifter and the sifted

If I had the chance, I’d like to meet Martha. I’d tell her about my Children’s Sermon with the old sifter and grater. I’d explain how we talked about grating cheese for macaroni and sifting flour for baking a pound cake.

Martha would understand the point of the rusty grater and the sifter…the laborious process of being changed for better, refined, finer, softer.

Martha, who was frantic and frustrated

Preparing the house and the dinner for Jesus.

I wonder if I’d vacuum or wait peacefully expectantly.

Would I, like Martha go a little crazy?

Become the martyr of housework, miserable and bitter?

My family, like Mary, off in a corner letting my mood run its course.

Watching dogs, feeding dogs

Washing clothes, folding clothes

Working hard at work and hard at home.

Methodical sameness of effort.

Early mornings and late nights.

Then quiet time feels like striving, pushing, forcing

And love feels like work

The bitter seed of pity grows big and strong roots and I’m stuck in a place of distress and discouragement.

Where are your blessings, Lord and where is my joy?

I can see Martha in me.

Martha, and me, sifted and refined by the words of Jesus

Reminded to lay her burdens down

Martha, who felt her efforts went unnoticed.

That her words mattered little and her sacrifice was nothing more than expectation that someone might notice.

Martha, who had a hard time

A very hard time believing that her crazy, frantic efforts were nothing more than distractions and anxious control.

I’d love to meet Martha.

The Martha who was reminded to wait.

The Martha who gave up on Jesus.

I’d ask her, what I believe was true of me and of Martha

“Was it hard Martha, to lay it all down to surrender?”

“Did it get easier to trust…to be more like Mary…or was it something you had to work on every day?”

I’d ask about her brother Lazarus, because I wonder

“Did you feel responsible, you with the inconsistent faith, for Jesus not showing up soon enough?”

Most of all I’d like to know,

“Did you finally embrace faith that can’t be seen when your precious brother came to life with Jesus’s loving hand of healing?”

“Martha, did you finally let go of control when Jesus said?”

“Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”

And then, I’d say with a tight and teary hug…

“Thank you Martha, for being you and for being me.

Siblings, dogs and love

Children, family, Motherhood, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

Brothers and sisters

6:00 a.m. sounds wake me.

No alarms necessary.

Our house is noisy and scheduled.

It won’t be like this for long.

Abbie’s up ’cause Heather’s up.

Routine, Abbie likes routine.

Her house, her bowl, her place on the couch.

I get that.

I hear her fancy little beagle steps (we call it trickling) making her way to check her food bowl then on to her soft place in the den.

Bed to couch, what a life!

Then little, big brother wakes.

Low moan growl heard from my end of the house becomes….”Oh, time to get up…Yay…come get me” bark!

Good pup, outside to pee, checks his bowl, then back inside slips into the kitchen slinking around to check sister’s bowl.

Not time for food yet, okay.

Grandma’s doing her quiet thing…. I’ll wait.

Colt, Austin named him…somehow not knowing a colt is in fact a small horse.

Name fits, trust me.

A Christmas request…last Christmas before college from Austin.

Craziness, yes.

Doing crazy, unnecessary things for my quite self-sufficient children is a choice for me, a choice I call demonstrating love. What better send-off I say, into their own little nests , than to plant remembrances of intentional love my priority ? Creating little things that upon recall might elicit a response of

“Mama didn’t have to do that, but she did.”

Things like getting Colt, the big Brown dog much like that red one he loved named Clifford.

Sweet, goofy, yet obedient to treats, chocolate lab flopping into the kitchen on big feet spread bigger every day.

Abbie, frustrated with her new brother, takes his place on soft, old quilt I have added to protect my mama’s old chair.

Fresh, clean and crisp.

I smile and

Cover her with quilt. She likes safe, close cover. Rub her back as she answers with a little sweet beagle Abbie sigh.

Abbie decides this place, this chair, “It’s mine”.

Sweet Abbie. She’s adjusting. She’s keeping up.

She’s trying to understand.

Barking in rhythm protecting me last night when a big black cat was spotted by Colt.

Loud, strong, get our of our yard barking, both warning the stoic and stubborn cat “Get out of our yard! My grandma’s home alone!”

Abbie barking louder and longer as if to say, “Hey, I was here first.”

Abbie waiting in the window for Heather, taking turns sitting for treats and demanding soft head rubs from Austin or reassurances from Greg.

Abbie is adjusting. We all are.

Colt is a lesson in transition…in love

and tolerance

and acceptance

and grace

and patience….

Colt looks towards his chair, head tilted, careful not to upset Abbie…just curious about why she’s moved to the chair.

And then he meanders over to her spot, settles there as if to say ” Oh, okay, this works.”

Dogs and siblings…Siblings and dogs.

Love and transitions

Most important of all, continue to show deep love for each other, for love covers a multitude of sins. I Peter 4:8

	Lisa Brittain on Women of Faith
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Women of Faith
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	juliedibblewrites on Embracing
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Shine On