Fourth Quarter Thoughts

Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, Faith, grace, hope, memoir, Redemption, testimony, Vulnerability, wisdom, writing

I iflipped the pages of my Bible this morning to find the page that was found to make sense of my 2025 word. I had chosen “polished” but not in the way I now see my choice was for. I had chosen the word because I wanted to do some fine tuning and revisions of me and my brand as an artist (and writer). I was hoping to draw the attention of galleries and collectors who it seemed did not find me worthy or “polished” enough.

What I began to see was that the word polished was never at all about polishing my image or my art. It was about readying me to be kept once polished and ready to be used, shot from the bow in God’s hand like an arrow.

he made me a polished arrow;
in his quiver he hid me away.
Isaiah 49:2

I’ve been a resistant to some things I believe God has been readying me for.

I paused in front of the magazines at Publix yesterday. I still cannot quite believe that in December my story as a Featured Artist will be in the Winter issue of this beautiful magazine. People all over the country, maybe the world will read about how I came back to art because art had been patiently waiting for me.

I told a friend today, “I’m just not very good at being okay with a whole lot of attention.”

I think about the words that will accompany photos of my art in this magazine, “What Women Create” on shelves in December. I understand with quiet confidence that it is not me that is being shared, it is my story of beginning with my Bible a decade ago.
And so, this beginning with my Bible is where I have come back to as my story meant to be told.

I have submitted a book proposal for a devotional called “The Colors of Your Bible” to three publishers/agencies.

One has said “No”, two have been unresponsive. This is the way of this business. Expect rejection but hope for possibility.

I bought a new Bible just like the one that got me started and I’m hoping to share it with others, inviting others to be creative.

For now, I’m just excited that I am saying yes to sharing this practice with you.

Several days ago, out walking with my grandson Henry, I paused to think about the recent attention I’ve gotten because of my art.

I thought of the reality of it all being pretty unbelievable, even uncharacteristic of the life I’ve mostly known.

I thought of my life up to now, my childhood, my trauma, my rescue by God, my life leveling out and I let the tears fall.

These words may be wasted on you; but, just know it is something to be amazed by to see who I am now alongside who I used to be.

A couple of weeks ago, I woke on my couch. I had moved from my bed because of a cough that was annoying. I opened my eyes, pulled my blanket up to my chest and I saw the light on the place I have adorned with art. I saw this place in my home in a new light.

I remembered all the homes I have known. One in particular led to my thoughts. It was a house made of cinder blocks painted pale green. It was a flat and long house with very little yard, it was a house in the fork of a road from town to country.

It was damp. I must’ve been about ten years old. I was very afraid living here. I thought of my now home in light of other homes I have known that felt just so very transient. So uncertain, so not well, not “well off” at all.

I know with certainty that is why God woke me with this different view, the light coming through.

I know it is hard for others to understand why good things might be scary, close to debilitating for me.

I painted a duck today, vibrant and fun and very much adding and taking away of color. A friend said “You can paint anything!” and I answered her, “its just deciding not to give up”.

Are you tentative over success or attention? If so, let me be your reluctant example of believing what seems so very surprising.

God sees as you, and what was seen in the beginning of you has not been forgotten.

If it seems you’ve lived a life mostly hidden; perhaps, you’ve been kept safe, stayed polished until it was the time for your unique use.

I’m not sure where my art and words may go next or whether they’ve gone far enough.

Either way, I have had everything I needed and so much more.

You can visit my website here to see my latest paintings.

Lisa Anne Tindal Art

Care and Hope

aging, Art, confidence, contentment, creativity, curiousity, Faith, grace, hope, memoir, patience, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

Who wakes up wondering if the orchid will bloom, if the method used to “prop it up” was helpful or a mistake?

These are the things I think.

These are to me, metaphors of a life of faith. Ridiculous, even to me, I watched the orchid and giddily followed its change.

The blooms protected in the plump pod, every afternoon becoming more robust.

Then the color changed where the stem met the pod. It changed from pristine to a color that looked like an old healing bruise, purple and brown all puddled together.

Ugly.

That’s when I intervened.

I found a thin velvet ribbon used to hold my worn out book together.

I carefully wrapped the ribbon around the wooden stake and I eased it gently, the stem that was leaning. I wrapped the ribbon loosely and fastened it all together.

Then I wondered, was the pressure gonna choke the nutrients that would help it grow?

Had I done too much?

Was my attempt to control too much pressure on the branch?

Were my intentions to help it thrive instead stunting its growth, choking its ability to freely grow?

“My orchid’s blooming!” I announced to my daughter.

“Okay.”, she responded.

And that’s okay. The growth seems only meant for me.

And maybe all the propping up and hoping for blooming after very long hoping to come true, to not analyze all the failed attempts, to half-hearted efforts and the decisions that “growing” is not meant for you, is best met by tender care and waiting.

Acceptance.

Watering carefully so as not to drown the leaves, shifting the pot to share equally the sun and most importantly as my aunt would say

“Tell it good morning and just leave it alone. It will live best this way.” Aunt Boo

Funny how we grow best with just a very little help, we grow best on our own with support we know we can count on and know it won’t come like criticism, won’t stunt our growth, kill our hopes or

spread our secret fears of withering in a way that leads to the death of them.

Because it comes from the deep wells of us, not outsiders.

How do we grow?

We grow like the orchid moved from the corner six months ago to live beside me, roots untangled like fragile treasures and given a new home, a pot with ample place to spread and grow.

And the awareness that there are watchers, quietly excited to see us bloom, not wither.

To see us not give up on what’s been gently propped up yet again by grace and by the invisible nutrient, most important of all,

Hope.

There are six unopened pods reaching toward the light. I may have an even more extravagant orchid, its second birth of blooms, than I ever expected.

I’ll be looking forward, seeing clearly all my past efforts of reviving it were not wasted after all.

Nor have been I.

I’ll be open to being cared for, a little by others but mostly by God and his calling me “treasured” as I understand that me more every moment.

Hope waits for the invitation to grow and I’m the sender of the “come to the party”.

It never gives up.

Gladly accepts the nourishment of my patient embrace and regular care.

Hope leads to love and well,

love never fails.

Always hopes.

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
‭‭1 Corinthians‬ ‭13‬:‭7‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Becoming, With Love

Angels, Art, bravery, contentment, courage, creativity, Faith, grace, grandchildren, hope, love, mixed media painting, painting, patience, Peace, Redemption, testimony, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder, writing

Yesterday, I chose the butterfly cup. As I daily do I considered which cup to set the tone for the day.

Groggy from fitfully sleeping at first and then sort of languishing, I had been still and quiet

waiting for the sunlight to come.

The butterfly mug was the choice and I waited for the coffee, frothed it with vanilla, checked on the dog and sat in my spot.

“Metamorphosis”, I thought.

I remembered the realization of why I loved a recent read.

What I thought was honesty and authenticity was something different, something I felt more clearly.

It was her “loving tone” and I decided quickly I want to be a writer with such a tone.

I want to be a woman whose tone is loving.

I realized it’s life that decides this for us. We just embrace the gift and most importantly be satisfied in it as enough.

I finished another collection of angels yesterday. The surprise of them being so intriguing to others at first surprised me.

I thought and debated on their titles, “Flourishing 1-7”.

Then I wrote down the reason for this name. I reflected on the process of their creation.

I paint paper.

I tear paper into pieces and I manipulate the shape.

I add colors in right places, I use what might have been thrown away to create a new thing.

These pieces, this process all happened sweetly accidental.

My granddaughter and I decided to make butterflies from pieces of some of my old and packed away papers.

And it simply began. This process that resulted in and continues to evolve into stories on canvas.

Happenstance has been the gift of this silent metamorphosis.

Sort of natural and more than sort of unforced.

Like the butterfly, beauty resulted from waiting quietly and still for it to ease from within

Spread gently its wings and fly.

Yesterday after church, my granddaughter held tightly a piece of white paper, folded and creased many times by her little hand.

Her mama held onto it like a prize as Elizabeth fluttered off to run circles with her brother.

I came home and added the final layer to the “Flourishing” collection, photographed them and added descriptions.

“Richly layered with color, these pieces represent flourishing to me. We think less about flourishing in the Winter months. We’re more likely to feel a bit “neutral” if we were to describe ourselves as a color palette. What if we leaned into the confidence that in what may seem to be a dormant season is actually a time of great internal growth? The truth is that whatever feels hidden or delayed is leading to our growth in lasting ways.”

I’m not sure others will see this on the canvas. It’s what I feel in the process and it’s my hope that love, that tone comes through.

My artwork, when unforced comes from within not without.

The postures, the colors, the movement and strokes so very often mimic wings.

I changed a piece yesterday afternoon late. It had been abstract, it had been soft and yet bold but only an idea of what I hoped it would say.

My brush found the lines, the curves that I know.

The tilt of the head in prayer, the waiting posture of one in the wings.

The patient figures believing, along with me, in the process, the secret one.

Calmly waiting to see what might develop, might say what’s needing to be said both clearly and lovingly.

And mostly to know that the process that both comforts and guides may offer hope to others.

This morning, after resting well, I chose the simple ivory mug.

The day is unfolding.

So is the love. Wait slowly.

Stay with it, the tone. Always hope.

We may know who we are.

We surely know who we’ve been.

But, we don’t know fully who we are becoming.

We should surrender to the art of us, not resist.

“The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.”
‭‭Lamentations‬ ‭3‬: 25‬-‭26‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Always hope.

You are loved.

And becoming.

Perception

Abuse Survivor, aging, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, grace, hope, memoir, New Year, patience, Peace, Redemption, rest, surrender, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder

An unexpected gift I was given on Christmas Day is now a morning ritual.

A voice like comfort responds to my ask. Her name is Alexa. I know you’ve probably known her for a bit. I’m just getting to know her.

Today is the third morning I’ve spoken into to the predawn darkness and asked for the “verse of the day”.

The first day the verse was from the Book of John, the words of Jesus telling the disciples not to worry. He was leaving but he’d be preparing a place, they’d be with Him soon.

I listened. My takeaway was the pure confidence in the words of Jesus and the accepted promise and confidence in the listeners who could not perceive all of it as certain truth.

The second day the verse came from John 16, the verse again in the words of Jesus, again with assurance but this time, an assurance of difficulties.

This morning, New Year’s Eve, I asked my little nightstand friend for the verse again.

Today’s verses? Isaiah 43:16-19

I thought, I know these by heart.

There’s a sketch in the margin here from years ago, a time marking the embrace of this promise.

“This is what the Lord says— he who made a way through the sea, a path through the mighty waters, who drew out the chariots and horses, the army and reinforcements together, and they lay there, never to rise again, extinguished, snuffed out like a wick: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”

‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭43‬:‭16‬-‭19‬ ‭NIV‬‬

I know this passage. I’ve held it closely as a promise and I’ve used it often for not so gentle redirection.

Perceive: to obtain knowledge by the senses, to understand, to discern

“Do you not perceive it?”

These five words begged me to listen longer, to examine myself, to consider my perceptions.

How my perceptions of life past and present affect my influence.

My influencing others toward hope, toward peace and toward newness regardless of their past.

Because…

I can only influence others. I don’t bring change, only offer quietly, my influence.

I can and should assess the perceptions of others of me.

Do I love with pure intentions only?

Are my regrets sincere?

Do I surrender the impossibly hard feelings and things or do they wreak havoc on my influence, my presence?

Do I coddle my past like a sick baby needing constant attention or do I honor that past in light of my present wellness? Do I care for my past wounds from a healthy distance?

Our perceptions determine our influence.

What ways has God made a way for you?

What dried up and deserted places have been refreshed to flow like peaceful streams?

Are you focused on the old things, even as recent as yesterday, and worn blinders to obscure the new things springing up?

God loves you. You have a future.

Do you not perceive it? Isaiah 43:19

Happy New Year’s Eve.

Can you hear the voice of hope?

Listen closely and remember mostly, it’s a soft voice like morning light in the distance, a comforting whisper responding to your questions.

Gently calling and asking you to remember and keep remembering.

He giveth more grace. James 4:6

Boldly Quiet

aging, Art, bravery, Children, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, curiousity, Faith, family, grace, grandchildren, hope, memoir, mercy, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, rest, Stillness, Trust, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, worship

We left the gathering, an annual one that’s held in a building adjacent to a country home. The barn-like place is love-filled, its walls are covered with memorabilia and photos representing life and the life spans of family.

We arrive and we move from table to table, from people not seen in a year or so and maybe a couple or a few you may have passed in the grocery store.

The conversations are sweet, it’s a catching up and it’s a reunion for the cousins. They love it. They recognize many families neglect this type gathering.

The one who prays acknowledges this. I mostly observe. I join in and say words when it seems to fit.

That’s not because of the “rules” of the get-together. It’s simply my nature.

My mama used to tell us all that her husband, my daddy saw no need to speak unless there was something important to say.

Although, he was a quiet man, one of few words, I cherish the smoothness of his voice.

I remember the way he paused as he spoke. There was a sense of waiting for the hearer to absorb his contribution.

I listened.

A word woke me this morning.

I added it to my list, a list that came from a realization that in life and in Christmas, we often have grandiose expectations.

We expect Christmas be a certain way. Not to mention the comparison of others’ celebrations.

I wondered how my heart would settle if I decided to

“Expect less, acknowledge more.”

A list was formed.

Safety, Food aplenty, Gifts, Smiles, Gatherings, a sense of God’s nearness, Pink Dawns…

Quietude

Google informed me of the meaning, no surprise I loved it.

Another gift came from Google, a sweet surprise. This word has a color named for it.

A shade that’s a blending of grey and blue and green.

“Quietude” is the chosen name for the HGTV 2025 color.

I finished the 3rd of three paintings last night, large 30×40’s.

The first, “Now Found”,

the second, “Light and Momentary”

and the third, “Have Hope”.

Driving home from the cousin gathering, my husband wanted to talk. I told him I was talked out, let’s be quiet.

He insisted and prodded me with a well-thought question…

“Who would you like to talk to that you’d be just so captivated by the conversation, on the edge of your seat and just waiting for every word?”

Stubborn me replied, after a few seconds, “No one, that’s a good question but I can’t think of anyone I want to talk to right now.”

He believed me. He knows me well.

But, he spoke in the long pause of accepting my answer.

“I thought you’d say Jesus.”

“Yes, I just thought of that.” I smiled and answered.

We finished the Christmas Eve country drive home and I sat in my quiet spot with my grown son who is often quiet himself.

Understood, I felt understood.

“Accepted”, a word I’m adding to the list of acknowledgments.

“Grace”, too.

Just now, I revisited Christmases past through my photos. Babies have grown, changes have come, tough days have occurred, peace has been given and endurance has become even more a quiet strength for me.

Because I’ve learned and am learning a couple of things from my “telling it to Jesus alone.”

He giveth more grace.

I am loved.

There’s so much more coming for me.

Because I’ve accepted, I’m the “quiet one” and always will be.

“But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭131‬:‭2‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Always hope.

I look toward my tall Christmas tree, the one ornament, a tiny home, my granddaughter insisted be for it and my uncertainty because it “wasn’t really me.”

And now I see, the bluish green, a pale teal that’s happy quietly although boldly, its pretty red door sort of calling, “open me”.

How can it be?

The color in me, the quiet color has become an invitation to me being me.

A little house accepted by me, inviting an even bolder acceptance of the strength in the choice to keep hoping.

“As for me, I will always have hope; I will praise you more and more.”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭71‬:‭14‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Newfound Wonder

aging, Children, confidence, contentment, courage, doubt, Faith, freedom, grace, Holy Spirit, memoir, patience, Peace, Redemption, rest, surrender, Vulnerability, wonder, writing

My noticing of feathers had faded until yesterday.

God is everywhere, don’t forget to notice.

One feather, not spectacular at all caught my eye, my face toward the ground.

A few weeks ago, a bird sat in the driveway. It was not tiny. It seemed paralyzed and I thought it must be my place to help it.

Soon, I discovered it was newborn. Large and loud birds began to appear. It was odd, the realization that they saw me as a threat.

I stood only a minute. I was captivated by their aggression and the way the newborn bird began to move away from me, recognizing because of the elders, I might be unsafe.

They were mockingbirds. That’s what they do, it’s the way of God and nature.

Yesterday, I reached for the feather and I wondered why I’d stopped considering my “finding feathers” as sacred as before.

I decided it’s because of my vision being too “far focused”, either looking into my future with uncertainty and fear or looking into my past with longing to no longer “go there”.

Rarely just in the moment.

So, the wonders that once captivated me with simple surprise were less sacred than before.

Sacred, a word that invited itself into my heart a couple of months ago, a word I’d rarely used to describe my life or my living and its contributions as quietly important.

Significant.

An ask came and with my yes came the assurance that this thing I’d been called to do was sacred.

Now, a memorable gift not to others only but to myself because of that realization.

That secretly and intentionally has led to my noticing wonderful things again.

I’m realizing just now that maybe yesterday was different, the joy in my heart when my grandson nodded yes, smiled and gave me a “high five”, the sincerity in my husband’s voice, the giddiness in my daughter’s voice and in her daughter’s brand new dancer’s pose, my son calling to tell me of a new thing he’ll be trying and the subtle excitement in his voice.

I remembered that yesterday and again this morning, I spoke a new prayer, pondered a word I’m newly fascinated over.

I consecrate this day to you, God.

Consecrate.

: dedicated to a sacred purpose

I consecrated my day to the Lord and I began to notice God again in the small ways.

“May we never lose our wonder…wide-eyed and mystified, may we be just like a child.”

Continue and believe.

You are loved.

Look for the wonder.

Considering Trauma

Abuse Survivor, aging, anxiety, confidence, courage, eating disorder, grace, grandchildren, love, memoir, Peace, Redemption, Stillness, traumatriggers, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing

May your head and heart speak with one voice. (Last night’s teabag)

Yesterday, I heard someone say that trauma is not what happened to us as much as it is our response to it.

I wondered if avoiding what reminds us of a harmful event or period in our life is doing more damage than we ever thought.

I thought about this, sipping my tea in bed in the dark after reading “How to Babysit a Grandma” and planning matching outfits with a spirited five year old.

Thursday Night Sleepy Tea

I took my little girl self by the hand and we remembered what happened on Monday in the dental chair.

I decided to consider my trauma response, look at it closely, learn from the recognition of my reaction.

The hygienist told me there was a new approach to cleaning. It would involve an instrument blowing air with a little bit of force in my mouth. Because of that, a thin paper shield with an opening would simply cover my face.

The procedure began. It wasn’t painful. I folded my hands together and sat still. Then I began to sort of dig one finger into my thumb, an anxiety reliever, I thought.

Then, I noticed my breathing change.

Then, I noticed fear.

The hygienist finished and I felt my body unclench, my neck unstiffen and my belly exhale as she freed me from being trapped.

She didn’t know.

It was too strange.

Here I am on Friday considering the gift of small and unthreatening, albeit unavoidable reminders of trauma.

Here I am deciding that just maybe these not so scary things are meant to be noticed and acknowledged so that we over time may still have a trauma response.

But, we can make sense of it and making sense of it will only lead to even more healing than we would know if we’d silenced our thoughts.

Being held down with a hand over my mouth, my face, my eyes was decades ago.

Decades ago.

Has something deeply hurt you? Were you a child? Were you on the cusp of grown-up?

Are there reminders from time to time?

Don’t silence them. Notice how they show up unexpectedly and so very often in safe (but scary) ways.

When we consider our trauma, we’re not coddling the helpless baby of us, we’re simply honoring our story and giving ourselves and God credit for all the rewriting.

How can we rewrite such stories?

Maybe like this:

My cleaning appointment was better because I put my very own music in my ears. The hygienist was kind. She’d changed her hair and I told her two times that it was beautiful. The instrument used to remove the plaque was not enjoyable but necessary. The new technique with the air pressure in my mouth took the place of the polishing. The tissue paper circle covering my face was not pleasant but kept me dry. No changes, keep flossing, maybe go without your partial on top to ease the inflammation.

There’s trauma all over my issues with my teeth.

Last night Elizabeth, my granddaughter watched in fascination as I cleaned my dental “appliances”.

When she asked,

“How many teeth have you lost, Grandma?”

I answered “two” because the true story, the number being slightly more would’ve been too hard on her little ears.

Instead, I smiled and said “Two!”

And her little blue eyed face lit up as she grinned and said.

“Me too!”

Considering trauma, let it talk and pay very close attention when it speaks gently.

Simply longing to be heard and learned from.

You are loved.

Continue and believe.

Restoration is a process and a promise.

“I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten, the hopper, the destroyer, and the cutter, my great army, which I sent among you.”
‭‭Joel‬ ‭2‬:‭25‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Healing Observed

Abuse Survivor, aging, beach, Children, confidence, contentment, courage, family, grace, grandchildren, memoir, patience, Peace, Redemption, rest, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder

“And I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.”
‭

I’ll likely forget it but I chose “healed” on a reset of yet another password forgotten.

Such is life.

Such is the life of one grandmother on the beach walking, eyes to the crannies and nooks created by the rocky barrier.

Deciding I found the perfect golden conch yesterday.

Announcing to my daughter “I’ve never found one like this before”.

No need for new discoveries today, I just whispered to myself.

That one, a reply to a choice to “find the joy today” on yesterday morning needs nothing more.

Not a grander discovery.

No comparisons.

I’m on the beach alone under the tent erected by my kind son in law. Chairs waiting to be plopped down on remain bottomless.

Surveying all the people. Older ones strolling, younger ones strutting.

I consider their lives, curious over their stories.

I remember my self-defensive anger so many years ago when a woman who was struggling and angry over expectations of a program I oversaw,

Shouted at me,

“You don’t understand! You’ve got a picture perfect life!”

And I replied not with shouting but more of a how dare you to presume I’ve never had a “bad life”, I assure you I have not!

Today, walking along the edge of the ocean, glancing up towards our umbrella to greet my family’s arrival,

I realized a new thing.

I paused to pray for healing for typical childhood ailments, for others undergoing treatment and for pending resolutions to questions.

I thanked God for the good things already.

And I felt my breath catch in my chest and stood still to really acknowledge

The realization that maybe thinking of others, praying for others, offering open-handed surrender of others to heaven, rather than prayers and longings for self…

Might just be the evidence of one who is

Healed.

On the way to there, at least.

Farther along.

Because maybe, just maybe my life is not perfect but very

Close to the picture of what is closer and closer than I’d ever imagined.

Because of a heart that’s surrendered to softening, has opened all the locked windows and flung open the doors to hurts hidden, held onto for far too long.

Healed and still healing.

Observing.

Fragile Breaths

Abuse Survivor, aging, Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, Faith, family, fear, grace, grandchildren, patience, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, testimony, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:”
‭‭Ecclesiastes‬ ‭3‬:‭1‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Before sleep, I rethought the day. All the places and things squeezed in, the storms, the back country roads to my people, my childhood territory.

My aunt caring for my uncle, prone now to suddenly falling. His sweet conversation comparing himself to his soon to be ninety year old brother who “falls more.”

My aunt with her pink soft shirt, leopard print loafers and nice coral colored lipstick lips

I remembered my daughter describing my grandson’s tumble off the porch.

I remembered her saying he cried and was scared but wasn’t hurt.

He likely will fall again.

Likely, my uncle will too,

Unfortunately.

I remembered my granddaughter’s sweet smile. I recalled her intuition.

I drifted to sleep knowing I’d need to decide on an artist trip, an adventure I could learn from the anticipated mostly younger artists.

I thought of the wavering of my feelings.

I remembered a word I read early in the morning.

“There comes a moment when you throw caution to the wind. There comes a moment when you need to go all in.” Mark Batterson

I strangely thought of resilience, of being strong and sure in “my walking” while there’s time.

Because life is so wrought with fragility, likely to include falling and deciding to remember,

The rising you’ve known.

You can rise.

You can go forward.

Continue and believe.

You are loved.

Nevertheless, Worth Fighting For

Abuse Survivor, aging, Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, depression, doubt, eating disorder, Faith, grace, Holy Spirit, hope, memoir, painting, patience, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Stillness, testimony, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder, writing

Disclaimer: There’s honest mention of eating disordered behaviors in this post. My intent is always, offer hope, not remind of harm. I pray so.

A large painting in progress leans against the fireplace. A practice of mine is to gaze over at an in progress piece or a finished one to decide if “I like what it says”.

This one began subdued and starkly pure in tones, white, ivory, subtle gold and the strong dark grey.

Now, it’s in a different in progress stage, almost done and more strong in color.

Years ago, I wrote a blog post chronicling an encounter with a man who was a splendid storyteller. He was very much a fan of the word “nevertheless”.

He shared his life story in incremental pauses introduced by the word.

I’ve since learned to love the word.

Last week, I stared at my unnamed painting. I knew its story was unfinished and I’d need to be intentional; nevertheless, not force its completion.

As I pondered the piece, a thought and words came.

“You’re worth fighting for, Lisa. You may have never heard those words, but you are and you’ve been ‘worth fighting for’ for all of your life.” Journal entry 5/10/24

So serious. Yes, I know.

Too serious to write about has been my thought.

Nevertheless, there was a new clarity in those never before uttered words.

And I saw the figures in the painting, two angelic and others onlooking in strength and love and that’s what I saw in the little brown-haired girl.

Me.

Her sweet and shy acceptance of that truth she’d made progress in believing but still had a ways to go,

To keep believing, nevertheless.

To keep believing so that she could overcome even more.

Not overcome to be bold or brave or boastful but because overcoming symbolized more.

Led and leads to more.

You are worth overcoming whatever is trying to overcome you.

A few weeks ago I had my first physical with all the bloodwork in several years. A new physician, one recommended by two trusted friends, asked me a question I’d not been asked in decades.

She asked “How is your eating disorder?”

And I sat quietly, I looked intently into her kind face and I answered.

“So good, I am doing so good. It’s been close to 35 years since I’ve had any of those patterns. I’m so glad.”

She nodded.

And waited and I added,

“But there was a moment a few weeks ago. I was home alone. I was feeling less than, feeling the rejection that comes sometimes when we are vulnerable in life and art. I was standing in my kitchen and thought, eat all the butter pecan ice cream and balance it with a bag of burgers and then just throw it all up.”

She listened.

And I added,

“But, I didn’t even though for a moment…not more, I could feel in control, I could punish myself and I could treat food like the love I felt was missing.”

I thanked her for asking. I meant it.

For believing I was worth the question.

And for the way the question led to the remembrance of this realization.

You’re worth fighting for.

What are you battling that requires the lasting embrace of this truth that God has never given up on you?

Don’t give up on yourself.

Get back in there and fight to be aligned with His sweet and sovereign idea of you.

Because I’m convinced this is the key that will unlock the door and that the big deadbolt that keeps the door barred to wellness in our bodies and souls is this…

Insecurity

Insecurity is the voice of your foe. Insecurity blocks the door. Insecurity says “You’re not worth fighting for.”

And insecurity hides in depression, loneliness, hides in a careless attitude about our unhealthy choices,

It hides in the belief that to advocate for oneself is prideful and not humble, is haughty, not meek.

Insecurity says God’s tired of me, tired of listening to me battle this thing,

Insecurity says maybe God doesn’t care anymore, why should I?

“As long as I live I’ll keep praying to him, for he stoops down to listen to my heart’s cry.”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭116‬:‭2‬ ‭TPT‬‬

I promise you, I’d not be sharing these words if God would’ve let me forget them by now.

Nevertheless, I sat in my morning spot, quiet and a little sullen and I heard deep in my soul, the words I’d never heard…

You’re worth fighting for, Lisa

And I answered, wrote him a note with a little girl tone, like a bedtime prayer.

“Thank you, God for helping me be stronger now, to decide I’m worth fighting for.”

You are too.

Believe it.

Continue and believe.

(Sermon to self always first because I stumble too. We all stumble in many ways and most every day.)

Surrender.

“The Lord preserves the simple; when I was brought low, he saved me.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭116‬:‭6‬ ‭ESV‬‬

And continues to save me.

	Under the mask.. on Held
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Seeing and Being Seen
	Ray V. on Seeing and Being Seen
	Cathy Rigg on Come What May
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Curiosity