Yesterday, G’Pa announced to Elizabeth and I that he’d never seen the creek. The land is deep and wide around their home and down in the valley on the edge there’s a pretty little creek. I said “We should go see it” and then quickly G’Pa and I said no. It seemed risky I guess. It’d be a big production to get boots on, be sure the grandbabies could be carried safely and even more to remember exactly how to get there when I’d only been once.
Back then, I was fascinated by its beauty, this secret place worth pursuing.
But, we probably made the best choice, two sixty-something year olds striking out on an adventure with a four and one year old. We’ll go maybe with extra help to guide us soon. It’s not something we should do on our own.
Life has things for us to do, scary and uncertain, maybe little secrets that require bravery.
”Don’t be afraid, for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.“ Isaiah 41:10 NLT
God woke me up with the thought of His Sovereignty, the reality that wherever I am,
He is too.
I put the thoughts together before daylight, remembering the idea of second children’s book about fear that I had kinda shelved away. It seems the idea might be calling my name to remember and revisit it.
With these new thoughts about walking into obscure and beautiful places even if scary:
I will go if you go. Through the brittle winter field
And into the forest Up the hill and down the
hill to the slippery spaces and up the hill again
Around the corner and careful
don’t step on the vines
with sticky sharp thorns and then the water round the corner will appear
December always makes me remember Merle Haggard, the hope of makin’ it until then and the days being brighter days once we’re there.
Yesterday, I thought of six words that I could call my December memoir.
Not a finish
A clearer path
There are places in the country I won’t walk with the babies.
Surprising, I guess because I’m sort of a rebel when it comes to strikin’ out on a walk.
“I’ll figure it out!” I’m known to announce.
I have memories of the year I lived with my mama and daddy, a period of seeking wellness from self-destructive eating.
I can’t tell you how many miles it was…
the circle of dirt road that began at my grandma’s house, through the peanut field, past the creek, up the hill, past the “shack”, past the farmer who wanted to date me’s house, through the weeds, around the curve to the lake where the rough people lived and past my Aunt Marie’s to be back home again.
It was way too far for a woman, young and with a reputation, to walk alone.
I was thin. I was lost. I was lonely.
Thinking back, it wasn’t health I was seeking, it was simply more self-destruction.
Trying to have my life match what I decided it was worth…not much at all.
That’s a hard pill to acknowledge. This meandering search I’ve sought, mostly taught, some stubbornly chosen.
“Self-destruction is an addictive behavior.” Rita Springer
I heard this truth last week.
And I’m kinda blown away by the resonance.
The truth that it’s not one specific or stereotypically thought addictive behavior that is addictive. Instead, it’s any and all of our choices and responses to life and our people and places in life, that lead us to this well worn and not so safe path.
I made a list. I love a list.
A list with words that may either seem too normal, not destructive or may seem like they aren’t choices that can become addictive, intentional choices we continue that are self-destructive.
I suppose I should soften this…no one wants to be told they are “self-destructive”.
How about behaviors that aren’t good for our bodies and souls?
Choices that don’t cherish the truth that our bodies are the temples of the Holy Spirit. Paul doesn’t sound too positive when he warns us.
But, have you ever noticed that he begins and ends his letters with a prayer that we’d all have the knowledge of God’s grace, His love?
“Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him. For God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple.” 1 Corinthians 3:16-17 ESV
Not so soft a warning, I thought.
So, back to the list, maybe an inventory year end of subtle and not so subtle self-destructive behaviors.
I chose a different header, kinder wording.
I chose
“What is NOT giving you quiet confidence and strength in God, in your choices these days?”
Accepting unkindness (abuse) in relationships
Taking on too much to please others and thereby determine your worth
Bad health, diet habits
Too much looking for good on a phone
Procrastination in regards to God’s nudges
Habitual time with God without reverence, sort of rote
Junk TV that takes my focus on God in me and puts it on the crazy or interesting lives of others (I love reality TV)
Clutter (mental and otherwise)
How are these self-destructive? Mostly because they have a tendency of putting God’s voice on “mute” in my daily life.
So, how do we move through our days, through December with a hope for the coming days.
I’m learning there’s one more important thing.
See suffering as fellowship with Jesus.
You may have heard all things are worked for good and you might have actually known people who say so.
But, do we really believe that they believe this?
Paul wrote about this fellowship.
“Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith— that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death,”
Philippians 3:8-10 ESV
Suffering has its gift.
Faith not in ourselves but in Christ
Sharing in His sufferings.
Becoming Christlike, a privilege really, not hardship (?)
That’s hard, not easy.
I’m not great at this. I avoid suffering with a well learned and established skill to be hyper vigilant.
Yesterday, baby Henry wanted to walk, not be strolled. He burst forward on toddling feet in socks, not shoes on the rocky path.
In the distance, a black thread laced across the path. I stood and watched, turned the baby back towards home and turned him back again. He was intent on forward, moving steady down the path.
The dog didn’t bark. The black snake made its way into the brush.
And we lingered and walked slowly in a rhythm of walking away from home and then turning back to home.
There was no need to hurry.
No need to fear. We were safe.
God was near.
There was no fight to be fought, nothing but us and the breeze and wide blue sky above us, God enveloping us and our faith in His ever present love.
“When we wrap the language of war around our suffering, it becomes a battle to be won rather than our experiences to be processed.” Katherine Wolf
I’ve never been good at fighting, only at sullenly retreating.
We weren’t made to fight, only to be faithful.
“For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.”
But you were unwilling, and you said, “No! We will flee upon horses”; therefore you shall flee away; and, “We will ride upon swift steeds”; therefore your pursuers shall be swift. A thousand shall flee at the threat of one; at the threat of five you shall flee, till you are left like a flagstaff on the top of a mountain, like a signal on a hill.
Therefore the Lord waits to be gracious to you, and therefore he exalts himself to show mercy to you. For the Lord is a God of justice; blessed are all those who wait for him.” Isaiah 30:15-18 ESV
A sentence in my post about “Listening” that was all jumbled up sounding like wisdom but really only just a pretty forming of a sentence.
I answered her.
After rereading the blog post over again.
I’m not sure what I meant…
some sort of metaphor about editing a painting and redeeming the mess(es) you make because you rushed ahead or you were led to doubt because of comparison.
Maybe redemption over our mistakes as well as our challenges comes when we are brave in our approach to life in general.
Acknowledgement of God
When I scurry out to my daughter’s porch to see the morning, I say “Let’s tell God, Good Morning!”
The grandchildren listen, go along, unbeknownst to them, a seed (even if silly in memory) will pop up for them on occasion, maybe as adults, maybe today.
Today, I woke up and thought of bravery, a good thing.
This old dictionary I like says bravery is “the quality of being brave; fearlessness…magnificence.”
Magnificence seemed odd.
I flipped to the “M’s” to see that magnificence is another word for splendor.
Bravery, less than and at the same time so much more than a jaw-clenching choice, a splendid way of living, an opportunity to really believe this life you’re living,
have been given is splendid.
Bravery is accepting slow progress as better than rushing an outcome based on others around you. To be brave is to decide the acknowledgement you need comes every morning when you open your eyes to find the morning.
Bravery is knowing yourself, body and soul, good and not so great and choosing what helps you maintain it over what threatens to wear it down.
Saying no to that second glass of red wine, so pretty in the settling down evening place, end of the day.
Bravery is not having the chocolate pudding topped with salty pecans in your daughter’s pantry…adding crumbled cookies atop a peak of whipped cream.
Bravery is knowing that this innocent indulgence felt like rebellion and subtle self-destruction and that it may not feel the same for others; but, for you it was something other than a treat.
Bravery is attentiveness to the nudge from God’s Spirit inside you that says
“You’re getting too close to the edge, be careful, be still…don’t go on without me.”
Bravery is conversations with others in which you speak your peace and truth, not turn your cheek, close your mouth with just a timid nod, “It’s okay.”
Bravery is delaying good for better.
Bravery is expressing a tender observation to someone you love, knowing they need to hear it. Most often, I’m learning, this is to the adults I cherish, my children.
Bravery is saying,
“I love you.”
And bravery is believing in God, the Creator who chose to give up His Son, Jesus so that we’d spend eternity in what Eden was supposed to be.
Bravery is asking yourself (and others if you have opportunity)
Why are you afraid to believe?
“God always makes his grace visible in Christ, who includes us as partners of his endless triumph. Through our yielded lives he spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of God everywhere we go.” 2 Corinthians 2:14 TPT
Bravery is telling your redemption story, often rambling and more often grammatically errant.
In a time when objects catch your eye, welcoming at times and at others, a shockingly unwelcome stealing your gaze, it is good to be captivated by surprise.
The light landing on places, causing leaves to glisten, overgrown weeds or wildflowers to shine.
I thought to write about the goodness of dark chocolate with almonds since my “good” yesterday was a little heavy,
But, today with a baby boy in a stroller, I’ll stick with “beauty by surprise”.
Beauty you can’t stop looking for, beauty you know intersected your day because God saw your secrets, knew you needed to see something beautiful and untainted by humanity.
Baby Henry kicking his little feet and learning early, Grandma stops often, pauses on our walks and stands still with her eyes closed or sometimes just looks long at the sky.
Talk is swirling, bad things are coming, violence and threats and better be prepared warnings.
Friday the 13th. A day I used to dread for other reasons, a few of them evidence of crises that in looking back weren’t just on a day with a horror movie predictability.
Horrible things don’t only happen on days called 13.
So, I avoid the warnings.
I pay attention to other occurrences.
The geese just flew over. My mind went to my mama’s voice, no more and no less than a simple acknowledgement to me as a girl and later my children,
“Here they come.”
So, day 13 of the 31 days of taking account of good things is celebrated not with an egg, no bread. Instead, a cranberry orange scone, buttery.
Yesterday, I listened to a conversation about worship music, more about worship than songs.
I learned that worship is not me standing side by side in an auditorium with a stage lit by changing colored lights.
Worship is not necessarily outward celebratory gratitude or praise.
It can be quite the opposite.
Worship is the tears that come when someone shared a kindness or the tears that come when someone is honest about their fears and their eyes begin to glisten, a mirror of mine.
Worship is me sitting in my mamas chair and honoring her and my God by settling my self for barely a few seconds to simply listen.
The geese noticed.
Noticing God.
And worship is me opening my hand, always the right one and saying countless times a day,
I surrender all and all is well.
And worship is the allowance of good things, rather than constant critical condemnation.
A cranberry orange scone for breakfast.
How will you worship in small ways today?
Yesterday, I was surprised by generosity. Someone purchasing art as gifts for others.
Twice in a day this happened.
I gave the giver of gifts a hug, got in my car and she in hers and I sat for a second and I smiled and shook my head in a questioning of such goodness kind of way.
And I said tenderly in a worshipful whisper,
“What a day, all this goodness, thank you, thank you God.
Once again, you’ve surprised me, wow.”
Continue and believe.
“So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him.” 1 John 4:16 ESV
Sweet boy startled for some reason around 8 and began to cry.
Really cry.
Upset.
Grandma tried to let him have the infant resolve to resolve his fear or big emotion.
I caved.
We sat together after the sweetness of a sway that became a firm embrace and he was awake and it seemed thinking until I laid his little body back down.
Sleep continued until 6:13.
He woke happy, ready for the day.
Still dark outside, we walked about the house, down the hall, to the kitchen and with one hand clutching coffee and the other balancing baby, we decided to say good morning to the day.
I walked into the twilight, looked up and said, “Look, Henry, a morning moon just for us.”
Soft peaks of clouds broken and scattered and in the center filtered through the shifting, a very bright little moon.
And I was awed in a sort of tiny way when I thought about the serendipity type occurrence.
Sovereign God knows me so very well.
Knew the baby and I would walk into the dark of a Saturday morning and I would glance up and stand still until my glancing became a soul tending gaze.
Henry mirroring my face towards heaven.
This 31 days of good is I’m afraid not keeping its promise for light and “less, Lisa”.
Still, today very, very early, there was this moon and because I believe in a God who is very near, not at all far away.
My good thing today is the miraculously unable to comprehend, only celebrate.
Sovereignty,
the God who designed the riddle of me, being sovereign over me.
Singing like a whisper.
I painted today, covered over another abstract and just let it be and not be until it told the story I was holding.
I had a dream that felt sort of silly. The blip of remembering was simple, I looked in the mirror and saw myself having a day of “good hair”.
My hair is super thin and greying. My hair and I have always had an unhappy relationship.
What an odd dream, likely birthed from two conversations.
The first, a fun exchange, the second an honest answer.
I arrived early for my appointment with the doctor. I had my information and privacy forms completed in advance. The receptionist sort of celebrated that and smiled.
“I need an insurance card and her I.D.” she added. I provided both and she said…
“Tell her to have a seat and we’ll call in a few minutes.” One last question,
“Does she have an emergency contact, is it you?”
I answered yes and sat back down.
In a minute or two, I went back to the counter and in a sort of hushed tone I said…
“I’m Lisa.” And she was clearly puzzled.
I added quietly still, “You said “she” and “her” and I’m just curious why…is this a new protocol?”
And then to my surprise, she raised her eyebrows and mouthed an “Oh”.
She didn’t think I was the patient, she did not think I was 63 years old.
We both smiled and continued to chat about age and wrinkles and I told her so excitedly, she had “made my day”.
To know that I had been seen in a different way was the sweetest thing.
The kindest conversation.
Not like one that questions your age in a flattering way; no, one with sincere surprise that I was the patient, not the companion to an elderly parent.
“Lisa” they called and I was escorted to the scales. I slipped my shoes off, had to step off and on twice, the nurse said the scales were “being difficult”.
Mismatch Socks
I acknowledged the seemingly unchangeable number was the same at home and casually said, “Good to know.”
And I had my check-up, scheduled another and went on with my day.
I bought a new bathing suit, one size smaller but seemed it may fit, lined in lavender and covered with painterly abstract flowers.
It was a bargain, really pretty.
Bought groceries, caught up with a friend and her husband who are grandparents to their second, a two-week old.
Then home to cook supper.
Decided to ask my husband a question, a sort of curiously brave wondering.
Not sure why, he’s super late to the game and needed a little education, but he decided to create a Facebook profile.
Now, he’s all in.
I warned him, it’ll draw you in. It seems he’s reviewed as far back as a few years ago, all of my posts, all of my content.
No worries, he’s often read this blog and he knows I can be a little deep, sometimes pitiful and I hope, always honest.
He mentioned a particular post of him recording a little song for one of our granddaughters on her little karaoke toy.
It was sweet. It was a few years ago.
Knowing he was familiar with my Facebook presence, I asked
“I post a lot about my faith, my struggles, my hopes, my learning to trust…The things I post are mostly about faith.
When you read those things, do you say to yourself, they don’t know the real Lisa, or she’s not really that way?”
Brave, right?
He answered, “No, not at all. It’s good that you’re that way. It’s good.”
Grace, right?
Just last night, I complained about something trivial and apologized for being “hateful” right away.
And last week, I came clean about my in general self-centeredness. The me that had become miserable and often, mean.
I’m learning to catch it quickly, see it for what it is, the enemy trying to taint the essence of me so that my light is too dim for others to see,
my story fading back to grim rather than walking towards the brilliance of light and living water worth sharing.
Healing from old mindsets is not a snap of the finger,
(I hope you know that)
It is a choice to choose the work of being a participant in healing, not a parader of our trauma as a reason to be hopeless or an excuse to be hateful, the darker side of you enveloping you.
A meal, a sort of gesture
When I bought groceries on the day my age was mistaken, I had in mind a gesture.
I cooked a meal for my daughter’s family, the meal (one of them) my mama was famous for.
My grandson and I sampled it.
It was lovely.
It was a small thing.
It came from that reservoir of grace God placed in my soul, the bubbling brook of mercy I don’t deserve, and the meandering path of my beautiful inheritance through salvation that I sometimes veer from because I get caught up in the before of me rather than the moment, the day.
And I find myself by the slightest ugly little pull, questioning the details of my life and I focus on what I don’t want to accept, the dark days of me and I’m prone to plop down in that dark dank place of not remembering good, only horrific
until I pray and count the gifts of today.
And I walk in the light, the place where my story, the lightness of it may give a little light to others on my way. And I notice and cherish unexpected light that came my way.
I felt old, a stranger blessed my day.
I felt hopelessly overweight, I was met by my own acceptance and a bathing suit that fit.
I felt ashamed of my self-centeredness. I apologized quickly and I cooked a meal with a nine-month old playing “drums” with a spoon at my feet.
All of my life, I have been loved.
I’ve often slipped and come close to falling.
I’ve been kept.
This is my story.
“The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand.” Psalm 121:5 ESV
“The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away.” Psalm 90:10 ESV
Changing Days
In the night, I’m awakened by deep pain in the upper right arm. I turn to the other side, feed my arm though the pillow, let my hand rest against the headboard.
For a few moments, who knows how long since sleeping either feels like a long long time or only just a minute.
The ache returns. I shift. I reposition.
I sleep.
My trainer says it’s likely the tendon that has some tearing. So I choose a lighter weight.
I don’t stop lifting.
She adds it’s likely the baby carrying and pauses and with no regard for my emotions, concludes…
Also, the painting, the steady and repetitive motion of the brushing of paint on a canvas.
And I’m startled in a serious way.
“Ohhhh…” I say.
Meaning, “Oh no!” but keeping that tinge of grief to myself.
Then the advisors advise.
“Rotator cuff”, “tough surgery”
“You don’t want to mess with that.”
“A supplement is what you need, CoQ10 is wonderful.”
So, yes. I’m now a supplement(s) consumer.
Talking About Leaves
Because I’m painting still and I’m still holding the baby.
I’m growing. I’m aging. My arms are past sixty years of good and meaningful use.
Moving towards 70.
Contemplatively beginning to number my days.
“So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12 ESV
I’m walking with my grandson in the same morning way I walked with my four year old granddaughter. She loved and loves talking.
He likes music.
Soon, he’ll be running.
I’ll be teaching him about the “stay in the middle, middle, middle, middle.”
To keep his eyes on the road, to distinguish between a root and a snake.
Soon, he’ll be sprinting.
My legs will need to be able to keep up.
So, I keep moving.
I keep using what I got.
Around The Bend
And I’ll keep growing.
I’ll make sure the soil of my soul is fertile.
My arms connected like branches to the nourishment of the vine, my Savior.
Because like the worn out tendons, the much used bones, the hands and fingers used to hold and to create and to cherish the objects I’ve been gifted to make.
I must care for them.
I must nurture my growth.
Wisdom comes in knowing.
In knowing, God’s not finished with me yet.
I’m still growing.
The majestic oak that cushions the curve is sheddingits bark. Brownish grey paper size pieces of bark are scattered in the weeds. The thick and arm like branches from the hefty trunk are now a pristine color.
“Favorite” Tree
I told myself last week
“Your branches are brittle, your reaching has distanced you from the vine.”
I’m less than seven years from seventy.
My mama was buried the day before her 70th.
Hers and my health are not close to the same but our stories are marked by similar trauma, a similar tenacity and I believe, a comparable hope and a love for living.
I thought of her in the fog of today’s morning. I have things I want to say.
“It’s unfair”, I said to no one within hearing.
“Yes, it is.” I answered and continued into my day.
Knowing she’d say “Choose life today, Lisa. Choose life. Keep turning the page.”
Keep growing.
Continue being brave.
Walking
The pains you’re noticing are proof.
Proof of your choosing life despite pain, despite unfairness and in the midst of necessary change.
Keep returning.
Returning to rest in me.
“This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says: “Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved.
In quietness and confidence is your strength.” Isaiah 30:15 NLT
When my children were babies, we walked to the creek, the clay road with deep ditches, one holding my hand or running fast ahead, the other held tightly in my arms…one hand under the booty and the other around the chest.
Holding tightly.
Holding on.
Without limits or conditions.
Love keeps us strong, letting go while embracing new.
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 