grace
Citron Pines and Simple Sentences
Faith, grace, rest, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder
I’m dying to paint again; yearning to be effortless for a few hours.
To capture on canvas the color of the pines as the late day sunlight landed on limbs.
To somehow convey the joy of veering off my normal walk to be surprised by the happy color of citron splashed on a row of young pines.
To express the way my day turned for better because of this happenstance encounter of tree.
It was a beautiful sight.
To spread the old sheet over the dining room table, fill the mason jars with water and line up the tubes of paint and brushes.
To have no preconceived ideas or projects, just to express.
That is all.
I’m prone to striving, to determined effort and attempts.
I write because I haven’t written.
I focus on approval of reader rather than simplicity of sentence.
I catch myself. I should probably trash it; but, I trod on adding to, saying more, thinking it may sound different or prettier, just a maze of overstated circling of whatever it is I meant to say.
See, I’m doing it again.
But, painting is different. I can cover a botched painting and stubbornly continue until what I get is what I know to be true.
The difference is the effort.
To be effortless is to be genuine.
Because effort is akin to striving, pushing, forcing, refining, fighting for a perceived perfect outcome.
Effort is not joy, not from the soul.
Effort is unrest. Unrest no one may ever see, ever take as less than good enough.
But, the heart of the writer, the painter, the poet, it knows.
So we try again, less effort this time.
And we are at peace because we know, our good never comes by force.
We are satisfied in splash of color or semblance of sentence.
Cease striving.
Know that He is God.
Psalm 46:10
Prayers Left Alone
Children, courage, Faith, grace, Prayer, rest, Trust, UncategorizedMary loved Jesus.
She’d wiped his feet with her hair.
She’d spent time in worship while Martha was bitter, angry and anxious over his presence in their home…worried she might not be good enough still.
Martha and Mary both struggled over the delay in Jesus coming to help their brother. He was dead.
I imagine they felt, “Well, not all my prayers and struggles matter to Jesus”
I’m the same way.
One prayer spoken can bring what seems an immediate resolution while another lingers unresolved for what feels like years, sometimes is.
Mary waited quietly.
Martha, still anxious and panicked, ran out to ask “Why so long?”
Mary had the same question; but, with a surrendered approach, a desire to understand and grow, she went out to welcome Jesus.
I want to be like Mary; to hear Jesus say “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” John 11:40
Most days I’m so uncertain of prayer it’s almost a passing thought.
A passing thought like early yesterday morning.
My daughter called. Her wallet was lost; somewhere between job, soon to be new home, and her bedroom here. We’re transitioning, a wedding very soon.
She will be moving out.
My house is in total disarray. Doors are closed to rooms that have become storage units and pretty little spots are unorganized and off kilter.
I searched everywhere, finally the laundry room.
Standing in the center of a spot only big enough for my feet. Two laundry baskets overflowing and shelves covered in socks unmatched, towels, things waiting to be hung or thrown back in to fluff, I ran my hands though the clothing and searched for a wallet I had no idea how would haved ended up here.
Stopped then, giving up the search and said a silent prayer, really just a thought, “Lord, please help Heather find her wallet.” and then decided to just go on with my morning.
Texted her to say, “Sorry, no wallet here anywhere”. I expected to hear later she’d found it.
She replied, “I just found it.”
I told her I had prayed. “Power of prayer” she replied.
I’m praying for bigger things than misplaced wallets lately.
I’m praying with big lumps in my throat and with an honest pleading of surrender.
Praying so much it feels like angst, like work, like frustration.
Prayers that I know God is hearing; but, maybe wondering why I’m hesitant to believe.
Why I’m ranting so, when help is on the way…in time.
Maybe not as immediate a response as a laundry room prayer.
I’ll believe and I will see, soon.
As soon as I continue on my way, resolute in His glory.
As soon as I decide to stop my diligent search for the answer, like a wallet left at work that was never in any of the places I looked, after all.
If I’ll let go, sit quietly and wait to welcome the arrival of the one who heals.
If I will believe.
Have faith in God. Mark 11:24
I’m linking up with others who tell stories of believing.
Stumbling Into Morning
Children, courage, Faith, family, grace, rest, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized, wonderYesterday, I drank from my son’s cup. Paisley flowers, curlicues, creamy colored. A cup, bought by a still chubby, middle schooler on a church trip with his friends. He came home, announced, “Here, I got you something.”
So, I drank my coffee, turned my back from the window, the morning so heavy with fog, no desire to gaze towards sunrise.
I read of a man in the Book of John, unable to move towards the water, to be healed.
Scripture defining him as “an invalid’.
Him and many others, others who’d decided to go down into the water, to believe they might see change; to be an invalid no more.
To be valid.
But, he couldn’t figure out how to move towards healing; he didn’t believe he could move what must have been just steps away.
He couldn’t step. He expected he’d fall, an invalid, after all.
6 When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had already been there a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to be healed?”7 The sick man answered him, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am going another steps down before me.” 8 Jesus said to him, “Get up, take up your bed, and walk.” 9 And at once the man was healed, and he took up his bed and walked.
John 5: 5-9
I thought of all times I’m paralyzed, unable, unwilling to try, until I stumble back towards the water.
I thought of the invalid; vowing to never to use the description again, recognizing how low a feeling it is to doubt one’s validity.
Walking outside with dogs as morning requires, I noticed in the lingering fog, the pear tree beginning to bloom.
The blossoms barely there against the full of a bland sky, insignificant on this less than optimistic day.
This morning I’m drinking from a different cup. It’s lined in the color of bluebird. It’s a funky little cup, my daughter’s. A big, healthy hog etched in the center of its round edges.
My daughter loves pigs, goats, cats, dogs, cows, livestock, in general. Her bridal portrait on Sunday will have a backdrop of peach blossoms and trees spread so far and wide, for miles it seems.
This morning, I sat with her cup.
The sky spoke, saying…”You can’t imagine the day I have for you, Lisa!”
So, I moved towards our big backyard, looked up and knew it was true.
Not just today, but so many more to come.
Stumbling, prancing, walking slowly or simply standing still in the early morning
If I could, I’d count these birds of this morning, their voices all a flutter.
I’d touch each blossom of the white flowers of pear tree and I’d know undoubtedly the significance, the validity of my every day.
I’d write on my heart, in my palm with a sharpie or somehow remember more strongly…the beautiful mercy of believing and stumbling into morning to be healed.
Count on it
courage, Faith, family, grace, Motherhood, praise, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
If I get a little sense of ugliness
Of resentment, longing for different, for better…
Mad about why them, not me.
You can be sure, I’ll be faced with opportunity to redeem
All the ugly.
Run into someone, somehow acquainted with my ugly.
You can be sure of it.
I’ll be humbled and graciously welcome their joy in us crossing paths.
Because, I’ll see the lesson.
I’ll notice the providence.
And to be sure, just as sure, I’ll walk at day’s end with extra time thanks to Spring.
Frustrated over buffered songs sought to comfort
I’ll round the corner.
Climb the hill.
Song begins; continues, meets every longing.
Speaks what I long to hear.
To tell another.
I can count
on it…walking at day’s end and being reminded of grace.
Listening to Third Day…”When the Rain Comes” and wondering if it’s too much like a love song.
To send to someone having a hard day.
Sending anyway, saying you can count on me.
Thin Layer Chocolate Sundays
courage, Faith, grace, praise, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder
a satisfied heart
If you went to my mama’s on Sunday, there was always cake.
There might be roast beef, butterbeans, corn and biscuits.
There would be mashed potatoes, thick and creamy, with a little place where the butter sat in a little hollowed out center.
Some gravy on top and sweet, glazy carrots, onions.
We’d eat together and we’d talk. Maybe walk to the pond or nap.
Waiting for time for a piece of cake.
Maybe caramel, coconut, pound or “thin layer” chocolate.
The one with the yellow softness of 16 or so tiny layers, thin and spongy.
Striated like zebra, chocolate, layer, chocolate, layer, chocolate….
The dark, dark sweet chocolate cooked stovetop and then poured on top of layer, one by one, smoothed with big, flat knife…slowly, gingerly.
Layers baked on the old black griddle and then eased onto a towel spread on kitchen counter.
Easy talk about life as I watched my mama bake, so lovingly and at peace.
She’d gently take the layers, one by one, placing carefully on a pretty cake plate as she added the rich, chocolate, shiny icing, still warm from the pot.
Chocolate icing so thick with sugar, melting like warm grains of sand on the tongue.
This past Sunday, we talked about the bread of life.
How we all try to fill ourselves up, seeking to be content.
Jobs, cars, clothes, burgers, fries, recognition, acclaim and appearance.
I thought this morning of the insatiable seeking for more, for better, for as good as him, as attractive as her. Wondered if joy were measurable, if contentment could be calculated, would it even be a ripple in the sea of our heart’s deepest desires.
To never have cake again on Sunday at mama’s is just a tiny little longing.
My heart knows the scene, holds the image, keeps safe the memory. It’s just as sweet, sweeter maybe.
To never be famous, have my art only on the walls of friends and family is unimportant, really.
As long as my heart knows the abandonment of paint covered hands and the chance to step back to gaze for a long time at an image known by my soul alone.
To write on this little blog, almost 300 times now… yet, never place a book of my words in the hands of my children.
Is not so tragic as long as my words get to come together occasionally in a way that reflects my soul.
My heart…that’s contentment.
Satisfaction, fully.
Because your love is better than life,
my lips will glorify you.
I will praise you as long as I live,
and in your name I will lift up my hands.
I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;
with singing lips my mouth will praise you. Psalm 63:5
Linking up to Tell His Story with Jennifer Dukes Lee
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Life and Papers
Children, Faith, family, grace, Motherhood, praise, rest, Trust, Uncategorized
Vignette of my life
My day was all over the place; my mind, too.
This first, then what? Work list, home list, wedding list
to do.
Starting, stopping, pausing, pecking at everything, but finishing nothin’!
I sat, disorganized and discouraged, looked up and over the scattered
stacks sorted just yesterday; making no sense now.
Paused at this little vignette. (I use that word to excess, ’cause I love it. So, no apologies for my pretty little indulgence of word.)
I saw it then, the little thing making sense of it all…
Oh, okay….this is the problem. The paperweight’s upside down.
Smiling then, accepting the now of my life.
But, I left it there; because for some reason it makes more sense this way….at least for now lightens the mood a little.
My baby girl is getting married 4 Saturdays from this very day.
My son is almost done with his first year of college. He had pancakes his sister cooked us just now.
A grant I wrote for our homeless shelter was approved.
I didn’t trip in my heels yesterday in front of a fancy audience of women.
The sun is shining. I’ll go for a walk.
Later ride to the country, my daughter’s new home soon.
Oh, the little, big things worth noticing.
Good day, friends and family.
Good day!
Be still, the Lord is Working
Children, Faith, family, grace, Motherhood, Trust, Uncategorized
The sky this morning was dark.
Dull and heavy gray, the color of dirty mop water left in kitchen sink.
Unpleasant dark gray, dirt, dust and murk.
Grandma mopped her floor at night.
She dusted little mahogany shelves lined with tiny puppies, angels, bells, and kittens.
Pretty pink ceramic roses, so many little “nic-nacs”.
Forgot to drain the sink after hanging the mop from a nail on the back screen door.
She’d say, “Look at that, you better not be trackin’ dirt in my kitchen again.”
Early this morning, the trees were bent to their sides by the wind.
The kind of morning, at my grandma’s we’d have been real quiet.
All of us, cousins at grandma’s, the little white house on the hill filled with love, pancakes and butter cookies.
We’d have moved to the settee and sat straight up, feet dangling over edge, stiff and still.
Knees touching, a straight line of cousins, staring out the picture window, through the corn field towards Aunt Gloria’s.
We’d have sat there until the rumbling sky was a whisper not a jolt.
Until the wind no longer wrapped around us, sang its whistling song of swirl.
Because, my grandma would say, “This is the Lord’s work, be still.”
So, I wanted to cancel my trip today; wanted to be still.
Worried over my daughter driving before dawn.
Uneasy about the wind, the rain, the roads.
Prayed for her, journaling “Keep us safe, Lord…help us not be anxious.”
The little girl in me, round freckled face, crooked pixie cut bangs shielding shy blue eyes
Remembered her grandma’s instructions,
Remembered her grandma.
Be quiet.
The Lord is working.
The storm will pass, she said.
And it did.
Earth and Heaven – Dirty Feet and Peace
courage, Faith, grace, praise, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, VulnerabilityI wondered about the soles of my feet yesterday.
Bare feet, pointed towards my friend, a yoga instructor, I remembered the callouses from my days of fancy shoes and I thought of the hardness of my heels. Hesitated there only a second, purposeful in my breathing, the intent of this new thing for me, a practice in resting my mind.
Earlier, my pastor mentioned dirty feet in his sermon.
He glanced my way when he spoke of the method of travel in those days. He spoke of Jesus washing feet. Feet on the ground. The earth uncushioned, the dryness of soil showing no mercy; yet, feet followed closely in their seeking of Jesus, of heaven.
For just a few seconds, I was there. I was one of those women, my dress touching the earth, like a curtain, full and billowing on a dining room floor. My feet, dusty and tired. The soles and heels hardened by my journey; but, not yet weary in my pursuit of peaceful destination.
Others there, dusty brownish gray hard feet, all of us witness to His cleansing.
Seeing the blind see.
The lame walk.
Walking with Jesus, pausing because a desperate father has brought a child to be healed or to be with a sister waiting for Jesus, almost hopeless for a brother to live.
My thoughts were there; my dirty, earthen feet longing for Jesus.
To be one of the throng of followers, surely weary from watching.
Circled round the cross in mournful lament,
Our dirty feet holding up our weary hearts.
Hearing Jesus say, “It is finished.” John 19:30
Maybe falling to filthy, tormented ground to join in bellowing grief.
And later, to be standing with Mary, to have seen the scars and believed in His promise…the way of peace.
“Peace be with you.” John 20:26
I sat with hands folded towards my heart yesterday. This new thing I’m doing, not faith-based necessarily but, beautiful in the mingling of my faith.
Bare feet, yoga pants not quite covering waist of panties and uncertain of the meaning of “Namaste”, I prayed in warrior pose and I prayed in victor’s breath; practiced what’s called soul breathing, eyes closed and heart towards heaven.
Dirty feet and cleansed soul.
Earth and Heaven
Joined together in bare feet. 
I’m linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee and am treasuring the truth
of her words today, “your critics don’t own you.”
http://jenniferdukeslee.com/what-we-all-need-to-know-about-our-critics-tellhisstory/
Messy, Pretty, Good
courage, Faith, grace, rest, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder
There’s paint spattered on the wall, a greenish blue ocean color.
A canvas a while ago, I was intent on the texture of sky and sea, large brush strokes, attacking white canvas…until I got it right. Kept at it until satisfied.
Until I could step back, look towards color and be content with what I’d made.
If it’s good, there’s peace and rest. Not good, its surface gets painted over, propped up to dry and I’m torn between trying again or letting it be.
I’m always certain of plans for a painting, intent and abandoned in the process.
I’m hard on myself, denying I’m meant to create. What is talent, who decides?
Just like that, I leave it for a time…let it go.
Then, an afternoon frees itself and I’m covering the table in sheets, laying out paint, filling mason jars with water and bringing out the piece I gave up on, maybe a blank canvas too.
And I paint. I change black to blue, textured with thick layers like silk, reds, bright and full.
Poppy-like blooms, strong and long green stems barely able to support the fullness of blooms.
Later, it’s dry and I can hardly stop myself from staring. I turn it to its back and sign, “LT…Quiet Confidence…Isaiah 30:15”.
Called it “Joy”.
Joy
Yesterday. I woke with recall of the sweetest and smallest of unexpected good. Today, as well.
I looked over towards pine tree tops and saw sunlight peeking through.
I sat there, with that sweetness…yesterday and today.
Remembering how I’d pushed for perfect.
How I’d given up, defeated and despondent until like a child pitchin’ a fit, I’ve done all I can do and I traipse away to my corner to accept life as it has been given, my perceived pitifully unfair lot in life.
Until, like a sullen and sulking child, I begin to let go and let it be.
And God, like a parent who saw that special thing hoped for; but, held back knowingly, softly walks back in and says. “Here, child. This is what I had for you. It’s better than what you wanted.”
It’s the unexpected and gloriously beautiful, like rich red and peaceful blue paint on a discarded old piece of wood.
Merciful grace to those tripped up by hastened and erratic desire.
Messy made pretty, made good.
Return to rest, my soul. The Lord has been good to you.
Psalm 116:7
Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee, Tell His Story
Lisa Anne Tindal 