Many years ago an itinerant preacher advised me to “just pray for mercy” and I did.
I didn’t fully understand mercy as a new single mama to my children. I did pray for it though and my life has been and is the evidence my prayers were heard.
Consider mercy.
The punishment or consequence that you actually deserve being stopped from occurring.
I think of that quiet preacher man who stopped by and the brevity of his words, his wisdom. I imagine if he’d said to me, “Well, this is a mess and I don’t know how on earth you’ll be okay, but young lady…pray for mercy, maybe, just maybe you’ll get it.”
He’d have walked away and I’d have been more hopeless.
I thank God for the unexpected visit and the simple words He gave the country preacher. Also, for the grandma and grandpa in the black station wagon who pulled in the yard every Sunday morning to take my children to the white church on the hill pastored by this quietly wise man.
“Just pray for mercy”, the gentle man said.
Today I read again about the woman who sat at Jesus’s feet, her tears falling and her hair used to wash the feet of Jesus along with expensive ointment she’d poured out for him.
Her actions were questioned.
Had she been so bold to invite herself there or was it bold determination, bravery and humble hope for better?
I remember those feelings.
Jesus told the critics, yes her sins are many and her choice, to come here uninvited is a choice I welcome. His mercy met her extravagant gesture, her known sin.
“Therefore I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven—for she loved much. But he who is forgiven little, loves little.” And he said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” Luke 7:47-48 ESV
Consider the mercy you’ve known, will be given again and again. Mercy, unmerited favor, good things when bad made more sense.
Mercy that sees you fully, but never says no.
Today, when you encounter someone in need of mercy, I pray that you give it and that in exchange you sense in equal measure, extravagant love!
“And Job died, an old man, and full of days.” Job 42:17 ESV
The dark age spot on my right cheek has garnered by granddaughter’s attention. She’s announced to her mama that I need to see her doctor.
She’s reached the age of noticing, good things, flaws and unspoken thoughts too.
Last week, I saw a little boy I first met in 2019. He remembered me. He announced to his mama, big sister and me, “She looks older!”
We laughed at his precocious behavior and I came back with “Well, I’ve been through some stuff…you know…Covid!”
Then we all just nodded towards one another and got back to the reason I was there, a family adopting this sweet and observant sibling.
A trip through my phone’s photos confirmed my aging. But, also how the world gone awry because of pandemic changed other things too.
Try it.
Look back, see if your face and others’ seemed to see things differently back then.
2017, 2018 and ‘19 early.
Less vacant expressions as now, less steely clinched jaws in posing, less uncertainty in linking arms in photos and less open and freely given embraces.
More hesitance, more lost eyes seeking something, what…
Who knows?
Less of need to tout your faith that was bigger than fear. More sure of sure footing and solid faith.
So much more sure, it was less necessary to announce it. I suppose I should say what’s clear, these words are realizations of myself.
Someone will know maybe upon reading this. Was Job sitting in a pile of sorrowful ash-covered questions the entire book of the Bible marked by his name?
Job, a man who honored God was the chosen soldier of faith to see if he’d surrender the battle or hold on unwaveringly to his relationship with Holy God and faith.
Stricken by the trial and test, his life gone awry.
His wife told him give up and die; his friends hung with him for a bit until saying clearly it’s you that’s wrong.
“And they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.” Job 2:13 ESV
I wonder if he just kept sitting, unable to stand when his friends became devoid of empathy, questioned his plight.
“But now it has come to you, and you are impatient; it touches you, and you are dismayed. Is not your fear of God your confidence, and the integrity of your ways your hope?” Job 4:5-6 ESV
Monday was a dark blue day, I named it. By evening the blue lifted.
Tuesday, before breakfast, we baked a promised cherry pie and then “skipped to my Lou my darlin’” together.
Something’s happening, last month it was chocolate meringue. Little things, joyously small, sweeter than the cliche’, I’m doing them, I’ve decided.
Baby steps towards allowing joy, being less afraid something or some world event will snatch it away.
My wondering over the trials of Job came as we set out barefooted. The ground was cool and my granddaughter ran way ahead, stopping here and there to gather sticks.
I’m a lover of his story, longing to understand more is the pull of me towards my Bible. I’ll not find details of when he found the strength to stand up, but I can still wonder and I can allow his struggle and recovery to help me recover.
How long was his lamenting conversation with God and was his rising again gradual or all of a sudden…were his feet weak and prone to wobbling or was his recovery smooth and sudden?
I told my cousin yesterday, I feel like we’re all in recovery and we’re apt to slip ups, prone to dismay. We need to say so, if just to ourselves and wait, watch and know the fog will lift, we will see clearly how to walk again.
I’m growing, but not fully grown. I’m walking with strong stride and steady steps, but still not able to walk on my own.
We wound our soft sticks together into an oval, twisted the knotty vines and tangled branches. I carried hers and she, mine.
Laid them on the counter among the flattened wildflowers from our pockets and we drank lemonade on the porch steps together.
Singing a silly sweet song and talking to the crows
This world is not my home, I’m just a passin’ through and you belong among the wildflowers, Lou, Lou skip to my Lou
became our Tuesday song.
“I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted.” Job 42:2 ESV
Wrapped in bright yellow foil scattered with pink and baby blue, the potted daffodils at Publix called my name.
I bought the pot of fully grown flowers and moved them into a terra cotta pot. The bird girl statue Elizabeth calls “our Angel girl” now holds a tray of potted pansies slowly wilting in one hand and the other, upward reaching daffodils on bright silky green.
They won’t last long, already full grown. What’s the use, I thought standing in the produce section staring longingly at the happy yellow flowers.
I thought of hope.
Thought of so much hope that’s in a state of deference, waiting for new life, waiting for evidence of our dreams being worth dreaming for again.
I thought of a song as I painted last week.
Like Springtime
An obscure songwriter not many will know, Chris Renzema, penned lyrics that keep dancing softly with me.
I first heard this song over a year ago. It just won’t let me go.
We will sing a new song ‘Cause death is dead and gone with the winter We will sing a new song Let “hallelujahs” flow like a river We’re coming back to life Reaching towards the light Your love is like springtime.
I walked yesterday, briefly and mostly for fresh air to cycle through my chest to move towards healing from a three day cough.
I saw the daffodils and had a new idea, hope and anticipation of Spring next year, of the daffodils the angel is holding today popping up like little joys encircling the statue.
Spring of 2023 will have me looking towards the little spot I treasure and I’ll watch and wait and laugh quietly when the flowers pop up in a cluster to say to me, see you hoped and waited and we came.
“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.” Proverbs 13:12 ESV
“We’re coming back to life Reaching towards the light Your love is like springtime
Come tend the soil Come tend the soil of my soul And like a garden And like a garden I will grow I will grow.”
Today marks the date of a phone call twelve years ago, my baby brother’s voice saying softly,
“She’s gone.” and the memory of my woeful sobbing, my head dropping heavy to my desk.
Mama, I’ve grown.
I’ll keep growing and hoping and looking heavenward. It’s hard to fathom, but impossible not to believe.
I’ll see you again. Like Springtime, it will be a beautiful day.
Until then, I’ll have a piece of coconut cake tomorrow and I’ll remember your truths.
“Lisa, never take backward steps, only move forward.” Bette (Elizabeth) Jean Peacock Hendrix 1939-2010
Once I was a member, although not fully eligible to join, of a community of people who gathered over grief.
I was the leader, though never feeling equipped. Often, I thought to advise or redirect which led to empty gazed expressions from those mourning a loss due to suicide.
It was simply better that I just sit with them, that I listen.
Often listening lasted too long for me.
Moments between a gut-wrenching story and the responses of others stretched out long around the conference table.
Still, sitting still together in silence was best.
On Tuesday, my granddaughter who’s two and a half going on twenty asked to get closer, get closer to the little birds.
I saw one bird on a thin branch. She spotted its companion nearby. We walked carefully, me instructing her, “Step up high, high knees, watch your feet, be careful!”
We walked over limbs, pine tree remnants and broken up soil in the place where the land is being cleared for changes, her future and her family’s.
I thought of, am thinking of David, of the psalms. One in particular I cling to and others so honest we’re reluctant to say we can relate.
“I lie awake; I am like a lonely sparrow on the housetop.” Psalm 102:7 ESV
We found our footing atop a little high place she called the mountains and we saw the sparrows before they flitted away.
In the margin of my Bible there’s a sketch here, a rooftop with a solitary bird brings me comfort, tells me others understand.
I have a very old Bible, an estate sale find. Once I thought to find the owner’s family, now I have decided it’s mine.
In this old Oxford Bible, a leather woven cover soft over the thin yellow pages, I find papers, a teacher’s identification card, and a lesson plan marked “January”, a typewritten script for 5th grade students on the color wheel.
The owner of the Bible I found was an art teacher.
Underlined in faded red, she must’ve wanted to express the importance of colors developing, merging, being strengthened when placed alongside or blended together.
I found it fitting to tuck the funeral pamphlet of my mama’s service here.
Here in January.
“Though I walk in the midst of trouble, thou wilt revive me: thou shalt stretch forth thine hand against the wrath of mine enemies, and thy right hand shall save me.” Psalm 138:7 KJV
Today, I journaled prompted by more ancient words, the quote in my “Joy and Strength” devotional.
Let them be strangers, your dark thoughts. Believe them not. Receive them not. Know them not. Own them not. (Joy and Strength, Isaac Pennington)
“For the Lord is the Spirit, and wherever the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” 2 Corinthians 3:17 NLT
Continue and believe. Share your sorrows. Listen and agree.
I follow an author, Priscilla Garatti, who lives nearby. I imagine meeting one day. There are a handful of authors, bloggers, artists with whom I feel kindred. Their creativity is like I hope mine comes through, with depth, honesty and a belief that we can still hope.
On this sunny Sunday morning, I wake groggy from cold medicine and I read Priscilla’s most recent post about a dream I’ve found to be teachable for me. It contains the word conviviality which I had to look up.
I’m glad I did, glad I can now hope for togetherness despite pain, angst, differences or simply changes in relationship.
Conviviality despite perhaps unkind words, taking into consideration the pain of others before distancing myself or adding to their distress.
There’s comfort in understanding more clearly. There is new perspective found in new knowledge.
I calculated the years of my daddy’s life events one evening. I recalled the information about the grandfather I never met, the details of his murder.
My older brother is good at research. He is skilled in looking into causes of things. He’s intelligent and a seeker of knowledge.
As I read of the circumstances of my father’s father’s death and then his mother’s passing later, I felt a veil lift, a veil that brought empathy, greater understanding.
From my calculations based on my father’s obituary and the details my brother shared,
My daddy was 13 when his daddy was taken from him. He grew into adulthood with his mama and siblings then went to Korea for how long, I don’t know.
He came home from war. Two days later, his mama died of a massive stroke. The grandmother I wish I’d known, along with the grandpa who contributed to the handsome man with the gentle spirit
And at times, tortured soul. No surprise.
I began to think of how life is such a mix of mystery and truth, vague recollections of family dynamics we just gloss over, afraid to look bravely enough at the vulnerability and pain of those we knew and know.
There’s a story buried, deeply concealed under most everyone’s story.
I believe this.
There’s me and three siblings who have raised wise children, children who are resilient even if they’re unclear how come. There are grandchildren who deep within have a yet untapped stream of strength from whence they don’t yet know.
I believe this.
Today, I sit with a sleeping kitten close by. I smile as I think this wouldn’t surprise my mama or daddy, even those long lost grandparents.
I smile because I imagine them wondering what took you so long to accept the truth of you.
The quiet one who is most satisfied quiet, the complex one always hoping someone will understand. The creature much like a cat, letting others near on her own terms.
I imagine my grandmother seeing me making notes and writing in my Bible. I see them all content in their contribution to who I am and who I’m becoming.
I see them happy about the heritage I’m creating for my children and grandchildren, even if messy or often unsure, always unseen, but hopefully remembered, my prayers.
They see, alongside my Father, my secret prayers.
Mystery and truth, I’ve come to believe that’s life,
life as a follower of Jesus who keeps following and life as a human in this wrought with pain world.
In the margin of Deuteronomy’s chapters, I find sketches of women, underlined reminders of being humbled by God.
I find a drawing of a door with the words above it “the secret things belong to the Lord.”(Deuteronomy 29:29)
I see notes to self to “pray big prayers”. I discover a sketch of the earth with my words “In His hands we dwell.”
The book of Deuteronomy, a retelling of the teachings of God by Moses, a reluctant teller of stories, a rescued child chosen by God although he was certain he was unworthy.
I see God in the history, mystery and truth of my family. I pray the same is said in the mystery of me.
“The Lord heard you when you spoke to me, and the Lord said to me, “I have heard what this people said to you. Everything they said was good. Oh, that their hearts would be inclined to fear me and keep all my commands always, so that it might go well with them and their children forever!” Deuteronomy 5:28-29 NIV
Continue and believe.
Overcomers, we are.
A heritage.
“And he brought us out from there, that he might bring us in and give us the land that he swore to give to our fathers.” Deuteronomy 6:23 ESV
“You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways.” Psalm 139:3 ESV
I lost my glasses on Monday, the cute ones, the ones a little bolder than my typical tortoise or black. Like most people my age, there are spare pairs everywhere. But, not on Monday.
We drove down the pretty road bordered with deeply rooted trees. Her mama had left a forgotten treat in the mailbox.
So early in the day, my readers must have slipped from my pocket or fell from my lap.
It’s an interesting dependence I now have on them, like a security blanket for a baby.
I catch myself thinking I have a pair like a headband only to pat the top of my head to be sure they’re there and find only hair.
On Monday, I was without them. I warned people I responded to in text. They were unbothered by my typos.
By the end of the day I was managing just fine. My daughter didn’t find them on the road and I decided, oh well they’re just gone.
I gathered my things in the passenger seat once I was at home. Glanced down in the space between seat and console and saw a strange sight. I decided my husband had left some stuff in my car.
A little glass case, black with faux fancy logo with a pair of readers in the color peridot, my birthday stone.
I lost them so long ago.
Not as fancy as the blue, but I loved them and missed them.
Why am I writing about finding reading glasses?
It’s the thought that came.
The thought about good in God’s time and God’s way, about the way answers come when we accept we don’t know.
The way God is the very best at the “art of surprising”.
On Tuesday, my granddaughter wanted another treat. It was close to lunchtime and she had a slight runny nose, but would never tell her grandma she was feeling bad.
(Memories of her strong mama here, rarely voicing a need or trouble.)
I let her lay on the floor, not flailing but fussing. Let her let her mood play out, allowed her to reconcile what she wanted with what her person in charge decided was best.
From the kitchen, I heard her whine change to elation.
“I found Gamma’s cross! Grandma, I found Gamma’s cross!”
She ran over and handed me the tiny gold cross, the one Gamma lost months ago and we all searched until we settled on not finding and stopped searching.
I called Gamma. Told her, “Guess what?” and quoted our precious granddaughter.
She found the cross.
Under the couch, found when a little toddler tantrum decided to get quiet and lift the fabric of the couch to think. How she spotted it is really nothing short of a miracle.
Yesterday, we had a sweet day together. The back seat of my car strewn with a used pull-up, tiny books, little cards and juicy cups, and “guess what?”
My fancy blue glasses.
God is good always. Always present, always waiting for us to find Him.
I had a thought yesterday as I listened to the words of a popular song “My Jesus”.
I thought “I don’t feel the nearness of Jesus now.”
An honest admission that confirms feelings aren’t always the most accurate assessments of our joy or our pain.
To admit a lack opens our hearts to a closer examination of whether we’ve been working too hard to find God and forgetting He’s never left us.
Like the glasses, appearing when I decided I’d never find them, they were waiting for my discovering.
How does it make you feel to know that God is sovereign, knows everything?
David understood.
His sinful choices, his wandering away always led to an unrelenting confession,
God you never left me, I once again lost my way.
Choosing to know God knows everything about me is either scary and vulnerable or it is surprisingly and steadily comforting.
It’s our choice.
Either way God never misplaces us, forgets where he left us or refuses our finding when we go on our own way.
There’s a tiny mustard seed charm lying somewhere that came unglued from my bracelet.
It’s been lost so long I’ve stopped searching.
Gamma and I are hoping our angel finds it. Boy, that would be some surprise!
But, if not all is good with my faith.
With God and I
It is well with my soul and God is close.
Prone to wonder and wander.
My Father certainly knows my way.
“God, I invite your searching gaze into my heart. Examine me through and through; find out everything that may be hidden within me. Put me to the test and sift through all my anxious cares.
See if there is any path of pain I’m walking on, and lead me back to your glorious, everlasting way— the path that brings me back to you.” Psalms 139:23-24 TPT
I opened the tattered devotional to the pages marked Day 4 and found the list in faded blue ink. There are names of people here who aren’t here any longer.
The name of my pastor back then, other family, friends and I think a friend of my son from his middle school years, Will.
There’s the name of the little boy, Noah who was pretending to drive and put the SUV into reverse. He ran over and killed his mama.
There’s the prayer of surrender to and acceptance of outcomes. There is the word “thanks” for my home and husband.
There is the tender request for my children still children back then, I asked God to give them joy.
That prayer is recorded. My request is unending, no expiration.
Joy for them, joy unexpected.
“You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” Psalm 56:8 ESV
Recalling my restlessness last night I decide if there was something fearful to have play out in a series of dreams like short films, last night I dreamt an entire season.
No cause known, nothing unsettled, I decide it’s because I gave my mind no rest yesterday. I was on overdrive towards organizing all the tasks to come.
My second evening of adding running to walking, I came home to discover we had no hot water. So, no shower to help unravel the day.
All of this hurried unexpectedness led to no rest.
All is well. I am fully known and loved.
I shall move now into Thursday.
Remembering God.
He steadies me. I don’t have to take control.
The way ahead is safe as are my thoughts, questions and prayers.
Safe and sound.
Settled already.
“Look straight ahead, and fix your eyes on what lies before you. Mark out a straight path for your feet; stay on the safe path.” Proverbs 4:25-26 NLT
“…His grace will lead you in small things as well as great.” Jean Nicolas Grou
I returned to my September spot this morning. I told myself October would be a reset in my health, holiness and change.
Instead, very little changed simply by changing my morning spot. If anything it sort of stalled everything. No table for coffee, no place to place my Bible except my lap.
The morning sunlight through the blinds was blinding instead of a glorious welcome.
Still, I stubbornly chose to sit in the spot because someone said it helps to change your routine, helps to motivate you to do simple things like choosing a different chair.
Three days before November, I’m back on the sofa, my spot on the end.
I look to my left and am reminded.
This is the place of my peace, of growth, acceptance and connection with Jesus.
I gaze at the empty chair, the one that was weathered yellow when I took it from my mama’s house. Now it’s a soft white and becoming more worn from sitting, less angelic.
It’s a soft place.
I look towards the wall and see the sunlight beams finding my art. I see why I needed to return and move slowly towards November.
The place on the sofa that accepts me as I am and greets me with how far I’ve come.
I’ll reserve my mama’s chair for reading or for a certain toddler to rest her chin on the arm as she takes a break from being a “monkey jumpin’ on the bed”.
I’ll treasure the legacy of the yellow garage sale chair, the one that felt special in my mama’s old home and is even more at rest here.
The tiny Target pillow amongst the others reminding me to “see good in all things”.
See good and walk freely.
“and I shall walk in a wide place, for I have sought your precepts.” Psalm 119:45 ESV
Every window called me closer, the horizon layered in a display of indigo, grey and powdery blue.
The clouds thick and volcanic in puffed up borders.
The Day 25 of 31 days of writing prompt is “think”. Rather than thinking immediately, “I got this”
I got nothing.
Other than the decision to continue learning that my thoughts are directly related to my feelings and my feelings have fault lines in the places they’re unavoidably connected to past trauma.
So, today when anxiety threatened over something similar to long ago, instead of bracing for battle and chastising myself and my thinking by saying to self “This is not that.” in a “snap out of it” tone
I elaborated by thinking, “No,
This is not that. But it is the same feeling.”
Then I gave myself permission to do a calm comparison.
I have feelings. But I’m not the actual feeling.
I can feel uncertain and still have a little self- aware conversation and become more certain.
Now, here I am at dusk. The clouds of morning giving way to night.
I’m still captivated.
Maybe I’m closer to viewing life this way.
Captivated.
The geese are now approaching.
I think of my mama, lovingly, longingly, loyally.
This evening not being the “that” of those before.
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 