I wonder if it’s a common feeling, the juxtaposition of two pursuits when you become a certain age…
A collector and cherisher of “small things” or an avid “go-after-er” of “limitless”, of all the longings of your heart you’d thought might not be for you, possibilities.
Maybe it’s both in a gentle and knowing of yourself as your Maker made you.
I bought myself two gifts yesterday on my 63rd birthday, a pear shaped candle and a bangle the rich color of jade, the same shade in the “Restoration” collection now available.
There was nothing I needed, I said with ease.
I just wanted those two things.
I came home to birthday cards and there were flower deliveries on the porch that were surprises and only found because my daughter asked “Is there something for you on the porch?”
And there sat two of the most boldly happy arrangements you can imagine, the colors complements of each other.
My son, my daughter ordered flowers, neither knowing the other hoped to brighten my day, yellow roses, lilies and sunflowers.
Patient, on my porch while I piddled around my solitary home, added touches to a canvas I’ll soon take away because they’re too contrived, too hard, not gentle; curled up with an actual book under my quilt and then moved with small and slow steps for the arrival of my daughter and her family.
For birthday swimming.
Dinner and cheesecake with cherries on top.
Later, I sat and lit the candle, knowing it wouldn’t be the same, the waxy drips changing the shape no longer to pear but possibly just a blob.
No telling.
My sister called, the last of my siblings to wish me a Happy Day and we talked past my husband going to bed.
About life, about children, about books, about hope.
About knowing we can never know how our lives or the lives of our children will unfold.
But we can know that to teach them not to expect to always know, only to confidently and gently continue on.
And we can live from that knowing for ourselves and we can carry on, enlightened by life in all the ways hard and soft.
So that we can be our truest selves…mamas, sisters, wives, friends, grandmothers, aunts and whatever our hope without limits leaves on our doorsteps.
We can be where we are because of all we’ve come from and all we now know.
We can love small things and we can believe in the limitless beauty of brave pursuits too.
“But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.” John 14:26 ESV
Homemade Moments
I stood in the pool, one foot in shallow, the other in the slant towards deep.
An audience of one, my granddaughter putting on a performance, her very own synchronized swimming dances from the edge into the water. Again and again, with happy pirouettes, she demonstrated the newly formed lessons with commitment.
I paused in between each repetition. I noticed her noticing me as I waited with gazing eyes to sense heaven again.
To find the Holy Spirit in my backyard.
And I did. It was a minute or less.
I sought quietly and I found the breath of heaven, the sense of the Holy Spirit in my chest, the warmth of the passing for just a second breeze on my cheek.
Willing myself to a state of “distractionless”.
In the auditorium, I sort of coaxed my mind to be where I was, to not think of things to do, to wonder less about home a couple of hours away and to practice presence, to be receptive.
I repositioned myself. I set my intentions, I reset my mind from racing to attentiveness.
I wept in worship. I raised my hand, opened my heart. Not unnatural, simply unable to resist.
A woman behind me prayed in unison with the one praying. I sat when “Amen” came, my cheeks lined, rivulets.
I wiped my face and reached behind to thank her, tapped her on the leg to say “thank you”. I noticed the touch of my hand, wet and she touched my hand, received it, my gratitude.
I was away for two days, my granddaughter said two weeks. I called to ask about Saturday’s plans and quickly they were decided, I’d be going to pick her up.
Distant Thunder
We dodged the storms. I taught her to measure the distance of thunder.
We listened. She understood.
She talked on and on and I read with incessant interruptions the book she chose.
Then the storm stopped and she slept like a 14 not 4 year old girl.
I slipped out of bed for coffee and returned to read quietly, turned by mistake to the wrong date of my devotional.
“I have no home, until I am in the presence of God. This holy presence is my inward home, and until I experience it, I am a homeless wanderer, a straying sheep in a waste howling wilderness.” Anonymous 1841 “Joy & Strength”
And moved to cherish, to hold closely the reality of God’s Spirit in me. I am a seeker of solace now, of pausing long for all other things to experience God.
Storms Pass
I completed a survey of the experience, the conference “She Speaks” for women.
I added my takeaway, my thoughtful remembrance of weeping in worship (this is not my normal), of joining hands with other women and of feeling a belonging that was without typical female comparison or judgment.
I slept softly with a girl, four years old, who dreamt something only she knows.
Coffee in Bed
Thinking, I pray she continues to be receptive to what’s not earthly…for that’s where the gift is, the seeking that must be practiced.
When she was a baby we stood at the window and she gazed fixated, seeing heaven in a way I’m incapable.
It doesn’t come naturally. We must remember to long for it with intention.
“Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life…”I Thessalonians 4:7
Peace
A slender gentleman, likely in his 80’s, glanced my way and offered me his spot in the checkout line.
Ninety plus degrees outside and I notice his soft sweatshirt hoodie was all the way zipped and baggy around his crisp but loose khakis.
Hardly a wrinkle in his thin face, I noticed as he smiled sweetly and asked again if I’d like his spot in the long line at Publix on senior citizen day.
He began to talk about kindness and how we need a resurgence of it. He moved on to politicians and I did my best to lead him back to kindness, respectfully agreeing with him that misuse of money or promises of wealth made by politicians isn’t what this country needs.
I believe he said what we need and I drifted in thought because I’m not one to engage in a discussion over the next potential President.
I’m not smart that way nor interested in debate.
Lines moved and he moved forward. I left my cart and went to tell him
“We keep our light and peace so that others get a little light when they’re near us.” LT
He smiled and added, “Seeing you blessed me today.” I replied, “and you for me.”
He paused to talk to another cashier, pushed his groceries past the exit to chat and lingered. I found my car and loaded my bags and turned to head home to see him engaged in another chat with a man gathering buggies.
I hoped they weren’t annoyed, the others like me interrupted by the kindness of this gentle man who spoke softly about life.
Who brought light and peace and just a hint of politics wrapped in age and wisdom.
This morning, I’m remembering a conversation about my father, about the longing for him to have lived longer.
Somehow I know God told the man in Publix to notice me, to take a chance on a grocery store conversation.
To gift my afternoon an encounter of peace.
To send an angel dressed in baggy but crisply ironed khakis, a thin face like my daddy’s and the same hair, only gray.
I brought my “grandma” mug outside. It’s quiet. The cats are being cats, deciding which one is the favorite, staking their claim, one in a chair beside me, the other at my feet.
Quiet and Hidden
I remember my mama had her coffee on the porch. Soon, I’ll hear the sliding door open. My husband will wonder where I am.
Not cushioned in my morning chair in the corner.
Now the birds are strengthening the chorus of their choir, all the chatter becoming less harmonious.
Too busy, I softened the borders and the colors on a trio of paintings last week.
Now, they are more soft-spoken, their message more a hint than a demand.
“Sea Glass” trio
Soon, I’ll not be hidden in the quiet place shielded by too tall hedges.
Last week, walking, I found a new explanation for my tendency to retreat, to isolate, to stay small and unnoticed.
Why the resistance is so strong in being seen, known, unhidden.
It’s because, I gave myself permission to accept, hiddenness is a skill set, a talent I finessed as a child.
Being hidden is a pattern I’ve perfected well.
With Joy
But, less often even if difficult.
Deeply recessed is this go to behavior, a way to protect even though protection is not necessary.
I am safe. I am loved. I am not limited any longer by the required skill of self-protection.
I am safe. Salvation is my story.
Hidden and loved.
Noticed by God as I notice His Spirit in me.
Quietly seeking him in places that are hidden in a good way, the way called peace.
“But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord God my refuge, that I may tell of all your works.” Psalm 73:28 ESV
I haven’t joined other writers in a while, been hiding there as well. Today, I’m linking up with Five Minute Friday here:
I found a photo of my daddy today. He’s a barefooted little freckle faced boy with a perfect part in his hair.
He is grinning.
He looks like me. My children look like him. I see my grandson, Henry.
I ask myself honestly, really…do I or am I hoping it could be?
Because it’s not the honor of claiming resemblance, rather it’s the purity in the pose.
The abandonment to being a child.
Today was a grandma day. While the baby napped, I sat across from my granddaughter on opposite sofas.
Captivated by “Eleanor Wonders Why”, she laid on her tummy with legs bent and feet taking turns tap-tapping on the couch.
I sat and watched her contentment and her little lying on her tummy sort of secret dance.
I paused to remember when I’d last laid on the floor or the ground like that, a motion that says I’m in my own little world and it’s so happy here.
She caught me watching, smiled and brushed wild blonde bangs from her cheek.
And I’ve been thinking all evening of the next pretty day I shall grab my grandmother’s quilt, spread on the shaded cool grass and lie on my tummy with a book or with nothing and just think, think, think as I lift my feet up and with no time to consider, just keep doing it.
Countless times I’ve known “goodness by surprise”, things continued and finished and left alone to develop or fizzle actually come back around to close the circle in response to that sort of open-ended question.
…let us run with patience the race set before us. Hebrews 12:1 KJV
in green pastures
I lifted the kitchen window. I’m home alone and it’s a Sunday morning rainy song.
Which do you think matters more
Skill or endurance?
Pursuit or acceptance?
I’m not a runner but I’ve heard pacing yourself is important.
Last night I dreamt I was running. It was a dream layered with threats and pursuit and one that ended with comfort.
Deeply personal and I guess likely will never be fully understood.
I opened my devotional to read an unknown author’s letter of encouragement to Christians during trials…words about endurance and about the things of life that entangle us and impede our ability to run the course set for us with peace and ease.
So many times, scripture seems nonsensical.
How is it humanly possible to run with patience?
I mean, isn’t the point of running to get there more quickly with faster dropping feet on the ground or pavement, of pushing past everyone else?
Or maybe the reason we run with patience is because there are no competitors in our race of life marked by our faith. It’s just us on our own pre-decided by our Maker trail.
The spirit of God invisible to others, but within and beside us.
A solitary race, an especially intense one not because of its importance, rather because of the very tender and personal reward.
Peace, often by surprise.
Peace that sometimes awes.
Run with patience the path that has been set for youalone.
Now, here’s the story of this I know.
Grandma, your angels…
This painting came to life after being layered and pondered many times. I’d been asked to “live paint” as an accompaniment to my artist story for a women’s event.
I was wise enough to choose the better, to not talk and paint at the same time. I’d tried that before and I decided to learn from what was not me nor easy.
So, this large piece traveled as a backdrop to my story of what had been not so easy lessons in my artist as business endeavors.
I spoke of how God was teaching me that my value was not acclaim, gallery shows, representation or sold out collections.
Rather, my value is my story of continuing.
Fast forward, I get all excited and choose this piece for a prestigious exhibit and am thrilled and a little too obviously excited when a couple decided it should be in their home…and then reconsidered.
Then, I submit “Of Lasting Value” as a part of my portfolio for an Emerging Artist Show.
Again, giddiness over the possibility of acceptance and “fame” convinced me I’d be “in”.
Not selected though and I’d actually decided not to enter this piece in a local show. I was so confident, I’d decided…well, I can’t enter it if it’s committed someplace else.
A simple decision, an afterthought led to entering it in the local show because of the tenderness of its story and it came full circle, a tearful surprise.
Of Lasting Value, detail
My husband and I entered the gallery for the opening reception and I scanned the room to find my paintings.
“There’s a ribbon on one of mine.” I said quietly, almost a whisper.
Then discovered and later heard the juror’s reason why
My painting had been selected, “Best in Show”.
Congratulatory chats continued and I told a friend, “There’s such a bigger significance to this for me.”
Later, I made a promise to myself, or I guess I should say a request of God.
Don’t let this fade, the blessing of this honor, the many layers to the story of me written by You
This affirmation clearly that I am your beloved, that I am loved by you, God.
I don’t know where the story of this painting will go from here, whether I’ll stop by the gallery to see a red dot saying she’ll be gracing someone’s home or whether she’ll be coming back to me.
I don’t know yet. I’ll be patient. I’ll keep walking with a stillness I can’t create or maintain on my own. I’ll be shepherded on this path I am on.
“He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.” Psalm 23:2 ESV
We stopped by the gallery, my granddaughter and I. We love to decide on a “favorite”.
We had the whole space to ourselves and after she’d pointed out “my angels”, said “Hurry, hurry, look” and turned the corner to gaze long at a brilliant painting of the ocean.
A textured piece with vividly and perfectly rendered sea grass with a background of water and sunset.
And this one, she told me was her favorite because it was “shiny”.
And I told her, my little artist and watcher of all things, just how spectacular I found it to be too.
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up.
And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.” Hebrews 12:1 NLT
Run with patience the path made for you.
Others are watching, not following, not chasing you.
Walking, exhausted and walking, I thought about a storm I must’ve missed.
Fragments on the pavement, objects fallen and scattered.
I’d been away for three days.
Fern fronds, one facing upward the other folded, wilted. Similar, of the same family
Yet, different.
I’d just gotten home from two days with family, the aunt like my mama, cousins, siblings, nephews, nieces.
Grandchildren.
Shown off on social media, the celebration.
It happened again.
Someone said “she’s your mini me”, referring to my granddaughter, Elizabeth.
And it prompted me to think again
About resemblance.
I have two children, a daughter and a son.
One is fair, blonde hair, blue eyes and porcelain complexion prone to freckles.
The other, dark almost coal hair, brown eyes and a more easily bronzed complexion.
Still, I’ve heard through the years.
Oh, he/she looks so much like you!
Of course, I love the assessment.
Last week, I smiled as I saw the light in the eyes of an adopted child on her birthday.
This child, brown in complexion, parented by blondes I was fortunate to meet and be a part of their story.
I saw her mama’s smile. I recognized her father’s confidence in her shoulders.
Not genetic, not inherited.
I see my granddaughter and I see the glimmer of her grandmother, “Gamma” in her eyes. I see her daddy’s expression in her confident answers. I see her cousins’ smile in hers.
I see her mama in the freckles sprinkled across her nose and in her stubborn tenacity.
I see my heart when I see hers and I also see the heart of others.
And that’s what I’ve decided about resemblance…
It’s the heart that shows and the heart that knows.
One child can be seen as the echo of so many all at the same time.
Cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers, caregivers and protectors.
All of us, imparting resemblance.
It’s not the curve of the cheek, the tip of the nose, the color of the eyes or the way the lips turn above the chin.
Instead, it’s the imprint of love.
Less severe the likeness, more sweetness and nuance.
Love is the reason for the resemblance.
And resemblance is the evidence of that love.
Wildflowers, oak leaves and children.
The remnants of rhododendron.
All the same and on their own on display.
When others say my granddaughter is so much like me in her sweet little face
I know the resemblance is so far from physical and every bit
Spiritual.
The heart of me in her alongside the heart of others who love her.
A high compliment, I was once given and until now have kept secret,
“Your Bible could be in a museum one day.” D.W.
I paused in awe of his assertion, this skilled photographer who discovered me through the sketches I share from the margins of my Bible was quite convinced of this possibility.
I can only hope that if my Bible is found by someone when I’m long gone, that the gift of it finds them in the same lasting way.
That their response to God’s word catches them by surprise, that their reaction is a quiet and lasting one, a reaction that resembles mine.
On page 576 of my Crossway Journaling Bible they will find a sketch of a figure facing forward, she’s not small and her shoulders are bent in either thought or simply aged posture. Her hands are cupped in front of her and cascading behind her is a flow like a river that curves and grows larger.
She is pouring out all that’s within her, joy.
“With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.” Isaiah 12:3 ESV
She is giving to others what she has gone searching for, drawn up from deep wells.
I pray I resemble her.
That I focus less on the outer aging, conflicted and overly burdened by activity me and that I consider the gifting inside me, not my gifts, talents, words or physical abilities.
Instead, I hope my life is a resemblance of joy.
Babies are born and bystanders ooh and ah as they decide who the nose, the eyes, the hands are from like a fun little challenging trivia game.
What matters less is who they resemble and more the ones God puts around them to contribute to the best of our ability what joys and gifts and graces deep within us that we embody and get to give them.
When someone says “ELB” looks like me, I smile because I know in that moment caught in a photo it’s not at all that we resemble.
Rather, it’s that the person who caught the moment on film also captured my joy and it was joy, not looks that were mirrored in a toddlers face.
Who resembles you?
Who do you resemble?
Years from now, a grandchild may flip through the thin pages of my Bible and I hope they find a drawing in the margin and say sort of quietly to themselves.
That’s me. That looks like me in that same story.
And rest in their hearts in this,
“Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord, the Lord himself, is my strength and my defense; he has become my salvation.” Isaiah 12:2 NIV
“Endurance is not a desperate hanging on but a traveling from strength to strength.” Eugene Peterson
Why am I less moved by the sky, the clouds fluffed or swept like a feather?
Out walking yesterday, I wondered.
Just a few years ago I was moved by gnarly branches on an old pecan tree, scattered white blooms on the asphalt trail or maybe a solitary leaf dried so completely by the sun it glistened metallic.
Noticing God, I called this.
Why so hurried in an irritable way now?
A daily habit that over time seems to be sort of furious?
Walking too fast, too angrily hurry, hurry, hurrying to some better destination.
Better days?
The place with no remnants of pandemic.
The better place, the place with no residue or remembrance of what happened or who or what didn’t come through.
Couldn’t be counted on.
On Wednesday, my path crossed a Target shopper leaving. Her phone on her cheek, she passed me, quick as a rabbit and I overheard her tell somebody “what the Republicans did today!”
And I wondered, when did we ever in our lives finish up a midweek shopping trip and urgently report to someone what a Republican did today?
A woman, about my age, distressed on a pretty day about the government.
We are different now.
I am learning.
Learning still. I can embrace a thought that now makes my response to trauma make more sense.
I can befriend these surprising revelations.
I can toss them over in my mind and see the value in finally beginning to understand my own tender heart and behaviors.
I can allow truth to make sense.
Today, the sky was striated pink and to the right rested the remnant of moon, a crescent.
I couldn’t look away.
It kept getting better.
Too splendid to capture in a photo, I stood solid footed and I watched.
Unhurried, only noticing.
Noticing God again.
Maybe that’s what obedience is and not some frenetic race to keep on, keep on, keep on.
Maybe obedience is noticing splendor, noticing God.
Knowing that where you are in this very never to be repeated moment.
You are loved.
Continue and believe.
Pass it on, this slow walk called noticing.
“And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, “This is the way, walk in it,” when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.” Isaiah 30:21 ESV
On the morning the editor of Fathom Magazine emailed me saying she loved the requested rewrite of my article, I found myself thinking about how I hoped my grandchildren and children would remember me.
I imagined young adults now toddlers saying, “Grandma was brave.” I imagined their parents saying “She sure was.”
The final edit echoed that very hope. I wrote an article prompted by the theme of Affirmation”.
You can read it here as well as so many other compelling essays, poems and articles.
I lean towards the serious, it’s the design of me. Someone asked, “Why do you always look so sad?” I answered, “Not sad, just thinking.”
But, I sure did think about the candid observation.
sometimes serious one
Yesterday I positioned myself on a piece of cardboard alongside a three year old. We’d played Cracker Barrel tic tac toe over lunch and annoyed the other shoppers by giggling over a plastic toy chicken.
Last week, I sat on the driveway and played “marbles”.
Together, we slid down a high slope of a backyard hill moist from humidity.
Our faces glistened with the warmth of a Sunday in November. We giggled over choosing which puppy we loved best and we decided on the brown one, the one that nuzzled most.
Not so serious me later (on purpose) fell off the yoga ball repeatedly while being serenaded by Elizabeth’s uncontrollable cackling.
Laughter prompted by toddlers, puppies and Sundays.
I’m not so serious, thought you readers should know.
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 