Permission to Pray

courage, Faith, grace, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I prayed for her. The mama on the phone named Coretta, the one who called twice.

Crying in a way unable to stop, hopeless over her situation, her tears were heavy, her voice muffled in the strain.

Job loss, homeless, four children, the shelter is full, ours and the others.

I suggested one thing, then another, said “Let me call here. Let me try this.” She’d call me tomorrow she said, “We’ll figure out one more night.”

And I was tired.

It was late; but, I wanted her to hold on.

I told her, ” I’m going to pray for you tonight, is that okay?”

Then I sat, unable to forget her sad and defeated cry and I wondered when it happened…when did I find it necessary to ask permission to pray?

And why I never thought to grab the agency card, pay for one night somewhere…a bed for her children.

Then, help her with finding a shelter tomorrow.

It’s perplexing to me, what God would have me do and the hesitant person I’ve become. Why I question my interactions so much lately.

Why I feel so unlike myself, a woman who believes, is assured?

Longing to ask, God. How would you have me speak? Why do I silence my faith in rooms filled with those who don’t believe your Word?

How is it that, I’m surprised by the contrast of my convictions with those I’d thought read and carried your same book, used it as guide?

If I could, I’d ask you, face to face, God. I’d look up towards you, Lord, as you’re looking down towards my suddenly tentative, timid and tender heart…What is it, Lord that you’d have me to say? Because my heart says speak loudly, but lovingly. Speak unapologetically, for the times are causing much fear, much alarm, much need for a God who is longing for our return to him…longing for our belief.

When did skepticism and cautionary hesitancy overshadow my longing to be known as a believer, a woman of faith?

When did my faith get so muffled, so obscure, so unwelcome, and so much contrasted that I’m shocked by my subtle denial and longing more than anything to be known as set apart.

Longing to be standing up straight and tall, content and confident, not afraid to set my face like flint?

Tonight, I’ll pray for Coretta and again tomorrow. I’ll hope to meet her, hope to give beds and a roof to her family. I’ll pray for her each time I remember her tears.There will be no question in my voice, the voice God will hear, the one He knows, no permission necessary.

I will pray. God will hear. Regardless of the others in the room.

Because I fear you Lord, I pray. Because I believe you, revere you, trust you, and thank you,

I pray.

But the Lord God helps me;
therefore I have not been disgraced;
therefore I have set my face like a flint,
and I know that I shall not be put to shame.

Isaiah 50:7

believe

courage, Faith, grace, praise, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

When your day starts with questioning

you move forward with uncertainty.

Then you do the new thing you said you would.

You stretch your mind, your limbs, your lungs, breathing deeply and with intention…in a room filled with strangers.

And you join them in murmurs of “Namaste”, but, you’re thinking, ” Selah…It is well.”

Because the prayer you prayed when instructed to breathe, to release the heavy load you’re holding

was “Believe, believe, believe…”

You decide to believe and the late morning brings warmth in the voice of a friend.

Soft, slow, southern and sensual…she said, “Oh, Lisa…I’ve just read your letter…I’d love to see you.”

Her voice, slow like slight breeze in an open field, drawn out, long pauses in between.

Later, thinking of the day, I left the usual route.

Decided to walk through high grass and turned to notice the sway of tree, the glimmer of leaves.

Beauty catching my eye, settled.

The sunlight decisive in it’s place of setting shadows.

It is well. Believe.

Blessed is she who believed that there would be fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord. Luke 1:45

Steps and Beginnings

courage, family, grace, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I knew I’d feel like taking steps when early this morning

I noticed the sun making wide spaces on the ground

And illuminating the hydrangea.

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Coaxing color and bloom…you’ve started, now grow.

So I wrote them.

Six letters.

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Revealed my longing, invited their joining, sealed the envelopes.

The flag already up, outgoing mail waiting, I added my letters, conflicted over their opening in a day or two, maybe three.

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Colors of my Bible, women of my heart, a compilation of them of me, of God, of us.

Then, I wrote tonight, the foreword.

I began.

Wrote one paragraph, 12 sentences and saved it.

A step, just a step towards not changing my mind.

Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin. Zechariah 4:10

Because of Honeysuckle

Faith, grace, praise, rest, Trust, Vulnerability

Tonight I met someone offended by faith. I didn’t know right away that their belief in not believing was a factor in their frustration.

I didnt know until I had begun to say goodbye and discovered in a random few words, they were devoid of faith, had decided to go it alone, were steadfast in their rebellion of its embrace.

Last night, I read a blog written by someone who’d decided the searching and seeking for God was a wasteful plummet into never quite good enough, never ever anything other than disgrace in the face of grace. I remember that lack, that lost.

The writer had decided to not be wrangled any longer,had decided to throw off the burden of impossible aspiring towards the good grace of God.

I thought of them both, I thought of the stubborn decision to not believe…to refuse to waver in their close fisted, closed mind and closed heart deciding to be independent of God.

I know God is in my days, in my details. I know my life before believing, when fear of measuring up led me to be convinced that believing was a venture down a path with no assurance of ever having a chance of arriving.

I remember those days of looking for God but not seeing Him.

I remember searching, being lost.

Worried he might see me, unaware that he always had and that what He saw He knew already.

Seeing God, believing God is nothing more, yet so much more than can be explained.

It’s encounter. It’s acceptance of being made, fearfully, wonderfully, knowingly and purposefully.

It’s yearning to walk with Him because you’ve walked without Him, without knowing His Son and believing in His mercy, accepting Him and His grace.

But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain. I Corinthians 15:37

God is not an explanation, a reporting of data driven research.

God is relationship. God is personal.

God is a tender force, ever present, beckoning us to turn, to trust, to linger, to be at peace.

I paused to notice the flowers tucked in the shrubbery. The dog was patient as I stopped, thinking what is this bloom, not honeysuckle; there was no vine.

The fragrance of the bloom reminding of my days on dirt roads my children holding hands. I thought, how amazing is our earth that even blooms are family, even scents are in communion?

This is why I believe in God. Because my soul knows very well.

Moments like this, an evening walk, a blooming tiny flower and the timeliness of all of it

All at once to be noticed by me, by God.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. How wonderful are your works.

My soul knows it very well.

Psalm 139: 14

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee. Here’s a wonderful post about giving and generous acts unexpected:

http://jenniferdukeslee.com/

Student, Mother, Wife

Children, grace, Motherhood, Prayer, Uncategorized

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I suppose the teacher appears sometimes even if the student isn’t ready. If years, phases, times of learning could be measured, this year would be one of wisdom.

One of faith, hope, prayer. And if readiness of student is like gratitude, life or ability in that its all about perspective, I suppose I, the student, was quite ready and yes, the teacher…life and God, appeared.

By wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established; by knowledge its rooms are filled with all precious and pleasant riches. Proverbs 24:3

My “story wall” has new chapters. The syllabus of the first semester of empty nest complete. Greater knowledge of prayer, of faith of hope, this has been an enlightenment.

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Today is Mother’s Day. Greg gave me two plants.

I told my friend on Friday that he would. We talked about the predictability of our husbands and both agreed that’s “just their way”.

But, today Greg gave me red flowers, geraniums cascading over the basket and a big red gerber. He said, “We miss our mamas don’t we?” I said “yeah.” and gave him a kiss then opened my card.

Thinking, how could he know about the geraniums, the red, the basket.

Perspective and God and grace.

Red for my mama…for me and a card thanking me for showing him faith, love, prayer. Thanked me for blessing him.

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I’m glad he gave me plants again.

Predictable, appreciated and cherished, finally. I’m humbled.

Student, Mother, Wife.

I’m learning, a student more ready as I grow.

Cake

Children, family, grace, Motherhood, Vulnerability

I’ve never heard of it and truly can’t imagine.

Coconut in red velvet cake

Or anything other than cream cheese icing

Pecans on top.

Mama and her sister, Sue Nell, my Aunt Boo, wedding cake and keeping things straight. This was them…is them.

Or a pound cake without a pound of butter

Or chocolate cake not thin like pancakes as layers.

I talked about my mama today.

Talked about her cake.

I had a moment where happiness became a tightening of my chest

And a catching in my throat.

A filling up of dampness in my eye.

But, mostly love.

Mostly honor.

The most amazing baker of cake I know, no disputing.

To my mama.

I miss you.

I love you.

I talk about your cake.

Talked about it last week with your sister, my Aunt Boo.

And today with two women who will

Never bake cake like you.

Coconut’s for birthdays, not red velvet.

It’s big tall cakes, fluffy white, opulently rich.

Special, it was mine.

Every year.

Your granddaughter, my daughter, bakes cakes.

Cooks with love like you.

That’s the secret, you said.

Love.

Happy Mother’s Day in heaven, mama.

I hope you’re bakin’ cakes.

Coconut, caramel, red velvet and pound.

Extraordinary Monday

Children, family, grace, Motherhood, wonder

On a Monday like today I might do more laundry, ride my bike or change my mind about healthy, jump in the car to ride across town for milkshake, burger or both.

‘Cause it’s just us, me and the dogs anyway.

Then, a question in a text after working late…”Come out for a walk?”

“Sure.” I say.

Stop by, quick as I can, change clothes, grab dog and leash and we go.

Twenty minutes or so, all it takes, big fields on both sides and big sky all around.

A slow ride for the sake of the view and the windows down.

Labrador ears flipped back with the wind.

We round the curve, the big Brown Lab and I, welcomed by the open fields and my daughter.

We stride, dogs excited, through the peach orchard, down a rough paved road, turning back… back through sandy fields with tractor tire ruts and trees.

The dogs are more sporty, their walk a saunter, happier in the soft earth and rows of peachy beginnings.

Almost there, we turn towards the yellow house. I notice there was once a chimney.

“Remember, it was a shotgun house.” she says, then points out where there had been pigs and a place for a fire pit, but we didn’t get to see the cows today.

Always loved cows and country roads, my girl.

They walk ahead, my daughter and the dogs. “I’m coming.” I say and pause to wonder where a new path might lead.

I’ll wait. Soon, enough I may know.

But, not now. The place amidst the peaches and sky is the place where love lives.

Where love grows.

A place of treasured invitation to take a walk on an ordinary Monday

Now, extraordinary.

Mud Rooms and God

Faith, family, grace, rest, Trust, Uncategorized

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I cleaned the mudroom/dog’s room/art studio last night. It was an absolute mess! There was green paint, pale in places on the wall I hadn’t seen before.

I remember the painting, large and vibrant sunflowers against muddy muted green.

My hands and my fingertips I’d used to create the raised center of flowers and then with sandpaper and a metal tool, I’d distressed the background, removing paint, exposing the old wood underneath.

Art is tactile. Life and God, too.

His hands all over our lives, we in His hands.

We, the clay

He, the potter.

Us, the work of His hand.

I thought of my painting style, a bit impatient, erratic.

Calm, but with fury in my focus.

The potter, though, has a gentle hand. The potter is slowly creating, no rush all rhythm.

Giving and grace-filled, a light tender touch.

Taking away, adding to or starting again.

A blob of clay held steady near the lap of the potter becomes a beautiful vessel.

Every circumstance, a question about what’s ahead, whether happy, disappointing, or unfolding is a molding of me.

If I truly believe God’s hand is ever on my life, then I’ll not be afraid.

I’ll not worry.

I’ll not live with the anxiety that compels me to know everything all the time.

I’ll stay there, okay in not knowing all, His potter hands on my life, my heart and I’ll surrender.

I’ll sit still there, accepting what He has in mind for me, for those I love, all vessels made from clay into a beautiful design of the hands of the potter.

Yet you, Lord, are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand. Isaiah 64:8

Tell His Story

Under Heaven

Faith, grace, Trust, Uncategorized

On a rainy day, exhausted for good and really happy reasons.

I walked.

It’s good for me, so I walk.

Reluctantly, I walked.

Grey sky under puddled ground, I set out and noticed the beauty of grey against green all around.

To me, just as beautiful as the clear, bright blue.

The trees, feathery leaves offering

pink and white distractions.

I thought to myself; feeling odd, I love the sky no matter its color.

I love the vast openness of sky, anticipating my arrival.

God, offering up the wide sky like a flip chart meeting, a strategic gathering of bird, tree, sky, God and me.

Walking with intent or just in meantime

I stop, look down before opening gate back home.

Fixed on the beauty of a fallen camellia amongst scattered petals of pear tree blossoms.

Pausing there and feeling content

Regardless of storm.

Time, season and purpose under God’s heaven

Ecclesiastes 3

Fridays and Good Mornings -Seeing Jesus

Faith, grace, praise, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

I could have more morning time and be elated, really I could.

My Bible, pencils, coffee and big dog waiting patiently.

As I read, journal, think and thank.

Happy about it or contented in the ease of moments doesn’t really express how much I’d like more morning.

I’m in the Book of Numbers, refusing to skip it along with Leviticus this time.

It’s passage and passage of muddling through; if, but, sacrifices and rules, regulations and particulars.

When I was a teenager, I dated the preacher’s rebel grandson. We sat in the back of the church and changed the words of the hymns to dirty songs.

What a sinful rebellion, I followed along.

We loaded up the church van on Saturday mornings and we all had palm-sized booklets, stories of Jesus we’d been coached to share.

I wanted to be there. I wanted to be a follower of the rules, a follower of Jesus.

We told the story of Jesus because the preacher told us to.

Most of us, I believe not knowing Jesus really at all.

At least not me.

Still, we were good pupils of the teachings.

We were compliant. We were afraid. We were forced.

And so, I’m reading Numbers, a Psalm, and now the Book of John.

Because I want to.

Psalms recalling the greed of the people led from wilderness, through a parted ocean sized sea, fed manna from heaven and water from a rock.

Safe, rescued and led; yet, longing and discontent.

These followers of law, empty, defeated and angry unwilling to subsist in the provision of God through his reluctant leader, Moses.

Never able to attain enough, be enough, walking straight, stubborn and stoic enough to see themselves worthy of the ways of law.

Following rules, striving for perfectly, afraid to believe in grace.

I’ve been there.

A child in church with an angry leader who wanted us all to go to heaven, but didn’t really believe we could.

I wonder now, who formed his shame-filled mind.

Caused him to preach shame and remorse over mercy, love, acceptance.

I came to know the love of Jesus in my thirties.

A desperate need has become a peaceful seeking.

I’ve been confounded to understand more

The grace and favor that require no merit at all.

Yesterday, I read about Judas bringing the soldiers to Jesus. He’d spent time with the Twelve, handpicked to follow. He was despondent, yet calmly submissive over the coming day of His sacrificial death.

Some had slept when asked to watch and pray.

Peter promised allegiance, then denied being acquainted with Jesus.

3 times.

Judas brought the soldiers to the quiet of the garden and Jesus calmly told them all, I’m the one you are looking to capture.

Then Jesus, knowing all that could happen to him, came forward and said to them, “Whom do you seek?” John 18: 4

I imagine his arms open, as if to welcome their violent intrusion.

I hadn’t thought of Jesus as courageous before I thought of dark, angry soldiers intent on his arrest.

I sat in the quiet and filled the margin of my Bible.

Sketching a lush garden of flowers, Jesus facing an army of men seeking to destroy.

If you had told me I’d be coloring in my Bible 30 years ago, I would have denied it.

It would be one of those rules I’d be terrified of breaking.

I would still be telling the story of Jesus, a good story from a little booklet, afraid to get it wrong.

I’d still be telling a story, prompted by shame.

I’d be telling the story, cautionary, spurned by forceful warning of Hell.

I’d be telling the story of one who never knew grace herself.

Never believed in the courageous, sacrificial arms wide open love of Jesus.

It would not be my story.

My story of now.

Of mornings with Jesus.

Answered prayers in His name.

And simple, graces and glimpses unexpected of heaven.

Like Mary Magdalene searching an empty place on a hopelessly longing and grieving morn.

Looking up to recognize the Savior as he said “Mary”.

Her story is mine.

I have seen the Lord. John 21:18

Linking up to Tell His Story

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	juliedibblewrites on Embracing
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