I saw a canvas, the happiest tone of pink with what I believe may be poppies strewn across the surface. The paint, thick and creamy and a sporadic peppering of words like joy and in the corner was the page torn from a song book.
This, I saw when visiting my sister after a long time, this canvas at the top of her stairs. I paused in the moment of gentle surprise of forgotten inspiration for my art.
I’ve got what my friend calls an “angel ministry”. I sit in my girl’s old bedroom and I sing in an empty house, lyrics of grace and peace, of gardens and of mercy and trust.
I paint for hours. I am lost in the process of paint covered fingers and layering of color and expression. My angels are without facial features, I pray their figure brings a pleasing pause, a contemplation or comfort.
Like the pink canvas and I in my sister’s Savannah home.
Little pages torn from old hymnals are the starting point to my pieces, just one of the many reasons lately I find myself singing praise.
I’m singing “praise God from whom all blessings flow.” a whole lot more, acknowledging His gift of grace.
For he has heard my purposeful morning and intermittent recitation of the ancient prayer of a young man who felt he’d do well just to not be a burden.
Every day, I pray in different form or fashion sometimes, thinking of his expectation of nothing more than a life of hardship.
I pray the words of Jabez “Oh that you would bless me and enlarge my border, and that you would keep me from harm so that it might not bring me pain!”
And God granted what he asked.
I Chronicles 4: 10
And I have blessed, I have been given opportunities I never expected. God has enlarged my border, extended opportunities.
I decided not to be afraid and I surrendered it to Him.
This is why I sing a song from pre-Pandora or Spotify days, a CD my daughter made for me and my son and I sang along to sometimes…” Does it ever catch your eye…beauty divine?
Sometimes I sing songs to myself, quietly, affirmations.
I may sing “Jesus Keep me Near the Cross” or “I am weak though art strong, Jesus keep me from all wrong.”
The other day, I spoke to a group of women philanthropists and in detailing data and outcome, I kept circling back around to story.
I stood in front of them, some questioning, some listening, some disenchanted and some quite enthralled.
I told them, “I am a storyteller.” and some smiled, maybe thinking “Yes, you are.” Because theres a touchable lightness, a clarity I know, I can feel, when I have an invitation to tell. I have a friend who calls this the “Aura of God” He is all around us when we are being who he made us to be, the aura of God, maybe you know too.
“I love to tell the story of Jesus and His love. Tell me the story of Jesus, write on my heart every word, sweetest that I’ve ever heard. Tell how the angels in glory sang as they welcomed his birth. Living he loved me. Dying he saved me…oh, glorious day!”
I’d loved to have been there. To sit with the two Marys. I believe I would have had no need to question or speak , although there would be much to understand.
I’d loved to have simply been in their presence when they mourned the horrible death of Jesus, when they stretched out their faithful allegiance to him for as long as they could, lingering where he’d been laid.
I wonder how long they would have remained had he not risen and then walked beside them to reveal his resurrection to them, His presence.
Oh, what a comfort that must have been.
What joy, what a humbling privilege.
I cannot imagine.
I’d love to have been able to sit with them. I know they must have told the story to thousands and certainly countless times. Still telling it to me as I make markings of how I conjure them to have been.
“Early on Sunday morning, as the new day was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went out to visit the tomb. Suddenly there was a great earthquake! For an angel of the Lord came down from heaven, rolled aside the stone, and sat on it. His face shone like lightning, and his clothing was as white as snow. The guards shook with fear when they saw him, and they fell into a dead faint. Then the angel spoke to the women. “Don’t be afraid!” he said. “I know you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified.”
Matthew 28:1-6
I’d love to have heard their sharing, been captivated by their sadness and joy as they sat before me, women who told their Easter morning story of Jesus.
I met Jesus when a country preacher told me to just pray for his mercy. So, I did and every single day I feel more forgiven and I have more new and amazing stories of his mercy towards me that tells makes clear, “Yes, Lisa you are worthy of mercy and grace.”
That’s the way of my moment by minute walk, it’s a growing journey, this song I sing…
“Just a closer walk with thee” and let me ever be aware of you Lord, let me not get so distracted and independent of you Lord.
Let me linger in the place where death held your battered body.
But, only just a little while. Because you live.
This is why I sing, “Jesus Keep me Near the Cross”
May I be like the Marys, may I know where to stay.
Tomorrow I’ll sing with our choir made up of women.
I have a few lines to myself, a solo.
“The love of God is greater far than any tongue or pen can tell.
It goes beyond the highest star and reaches to the lowest hell…oh, how he loves you and me.”
What a story I get to tell because of mercy, unmerited favor. His death sacrificial.
“Oh how he loves you and me…if we with ink, the ocean fill and we’re the skies of parchment made, if every stalk on earth a quill, and every man a scribe by trade…
to write the love of God above
would drain the ocean dry.”
“Love’s like a hurricane, I am a tree
Bending beneath
The weight of his wind and mercy.”
In Jesus name and because of mercy
I pray,
Amen.
“This is my story. This is my song. Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine.”
It’s cold in Carolina, maybe not nearly as cold as Tennessee; but, it’s cold and the azaleas I wonder, the petals that mark the season might be confused, wishing they’d not shown themselves so soon.
I understand, the exposure threatening the brilliance of a blooming, finally.
I go to open the door, looking for the sound of bird heard from my morning spot, the sound that caused the big lab’s head to tilt in the sweetest of pose. Slide the sliding door and look towards the hedge and it appears quickly, a cardinal as if waiting for me to come and see.
I prayed this morning asking God that I might be more like Jesus. I pondered the thoughts of the stories I’d been reading, found myself returning to, the stories of redemption of people who’d done wrong. I’ve been resting there with the stories of scarlet colored women, the ones who’d given up on self and on God and the ones who the onlookers judged Jesus by his lack of judgment.
These are chapters and books graced by the printers to have changed the ink to red in certain places, spectacular words.
The Samaritan woman, a small and miserly man in a tree, the young son blind and fearing he and his parents caused his disability and the woman, red-faced and expecting to be stoned, her reputation. Everyone told Jesus of her bad things; but, he said see others have them too, here’s your chance, go and live more freely.
Yesterday, there was a conversation about uncaring words spoken by those who mask insecurity. Women who long for things to meet covered up unmet needs. The conversation went too long. It tried to be one of understanding; but, became an enjoyable exchange with slight giggles of how “I’m glad I’m not like her.” with excitement in our eyes over the realization we’re different, “Hey, we love Jesus, kinda makes us better.”
Oh, my goodness.
I woke up wondering about the ones who taunted Jesus, the ones who were in charge who he met along the way. I wondered if they ever came close to making him feel less than who he knew he was purposed to be. The ones who pushed his “insecurity buttons” and if he were like me, he might have either hidden away or told them just how pompous and arrogant they were and that they too had insecurities…”why don’t you be yourself and quit trying to hide them?!.”
Silly to think, that Jesus might confront unlovingly. He is love and justice
Mercy, humility, and kindness.
and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?
Micah 6:8
He became human so he’d understand us, yet, he never once acted from the place, ugly human.
So, this morning, I prayed that I’d love the unlovable.
I’ve loved the needy. I’ve had empathy for the homeless and abused. I’ve cradled dirty and lonely children in my arms and smiled when they smiled back. I’ve helped those who cursed me and cursed at me and I’ve listened to stories of grief that make no sense at all.
But, Father, I ask you to help me love the pompous. Help me baffle them with my grace, your grace. Help me love those who cause me to be insecure, the ones who hide their own insecurities at the cost of my conclusion that I’m unlike them and unworthy
because I only wrote a story, not a book.
Yes, God, I pray I see more clearly the ones who cover their wounds, shielded by the shadows of pointing out the “less than or less beautiful than another” in hopes of being undoubtedly enough…or more than.
See, Jesus, help me to see like you, like a lone red bird
fluttering by on a cold morning calling me out.
Help me to see, Jesus.
See, Jesus
Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee here: http://jenniferdukeslee.com/learning-live-audience-one/
I woke to sounds of nothing. Certain it’s 3:00 a.m. but, I must not look to see. Lie still, adjust quietly, pray, wander your mind, turn this way or that.
This night time thing that I refuse to accept, this pain that is mean and creepy and wakes me up, an angry spasm.
Try this, try that.
What on earth is a rotator cuff, anyway? I’m a stubborn woman. Do not like meds. Do not favor surgery. I will fix this off kilter place in my arm. I know I can.
Try not doing this, not doing that.
Yesterday was splendid, I laid there and thought.
The weather, the walk, the determined abandonment to art that’d been promised.
Colt, unleashed, ran ahead and looked back to be sure of my follow.
Two grown geese courting mid pond, took their time swimming away, no worries, we’ll take flight if need be.
Big happy dog swam towards them and they flirted just slightly ahead. He came when I called. His hip, knocked out of place by car, before we found him having been discarded by another,
mIght hold him back, might fling out of socket, a crazy thing.
I called him back, worried he might get too far, refusing to accept he was not as able as he hoped.
Yesterday was splendid.
He turned from the geese, close to the other side and with slowly ummph-like movements, he emerged and stood with me on the bank.
He shook, looked back, shook again and we climbed the big hill back towards the road.
Keeping him close, we strolled and paused, strolled and paused. I patted his head and said. “It’s a good day, Colt” two, three, maybe four times. Oddly happy over my talking to him and knowing he heard, I said it again.
Thinking, how beautiful a day, to be taught by a dog and to be noticed by another.
Someone surprised me and said, “You’re a very good writer.” and I replied “Thank you so very much.” hoping they knew their significance in my newly and decidedly splendid day.
I woke today, had been waiting.
I heard, finally, the morning. Dark still but, the birds beginning to sing.
Made my way for ibuprofen, caffeine and quiet meeting with birds and Bible.
“It’s a good day.” I thought.
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning. Lamentations 3 : 22 – 23
I’m writing, attempting to limit my world and words to five minutes worth. I woke with thoughts carried from the day before and the prompt is “Breathe”. Here I go.
There must be more of this, to sit with quiet, to lie with rain. There must be more of this serene.
I thought of being jumbled yesterday, of the days’ comingling of its junk with my good.
I shared with another, “I don’t believe we remember to think for ourselves anymore…everything seems so decided for us, we limit ourselves like an choosing to take the test with multiple choice, guessing answers a, b, c, rather than the essay question, our voice and words.
We get drawn in to excitement or furor and we become a member of a club that intices our membership through big noisy words and characters.
Leaving us to decide, is this loop one I’m in? Surely. I should jump right in.
I’m either captivated or entranced by the seemingly perfect pursuits of others.
until I remember where I’m standing, where I’m sitting and I pause.
I breathe the breath of peace of mind.
i sit with art, words or Bible and I am drawn to listen. Birds, an owl, the dog’s sigh.
But, I get torn on occasion with the jumbledness of should, could,oppose, support, despise, adore, follow along or
rest where your mind has you, has brought you.
Breathe, pause, stay.
You are here in this place I have you. Stay.
You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness, that my glory may sing your praise and not keep silent. Psalm 30:11
Linking up with Kate Motaung for Five Minute Friday http://katemotaung.com/2017/02/02/five-minute-friday-breathe-lisa-jo-baker/
I’ve resorted to setting my alarm again. There was a time it wasn’t necessary, I’d wake cause my body knew it was time and moved, alert and following my mind.
But, lately I linger in the place I’ve come to rest. The place where the light comes in, I linger here, a chorus has stirred me slowly.
It’s a funny thing, I hesitate to tell.
Ive been waking with a song. I’ll remember an old hymn or new praise and I suppose God is setting a tone. On Monday, it was “leaning , leaning, safe secure from all alarm.”
I reached for a cup realizing I’d postponed putting the dishes away. All the plain ones in the front, like a song upon waking, I look for a vessel for my coffee. I’m mapping my day.
Oh. I see it, pushed to the back.
A gift from my daughter, one of the many.
Thoughts and little gifts, sparking a recognition of my need, subtle sayings that say, “Get over yourself or get through this, you can.”
There are three funerals of good people who lived long, good lives this week, the week of the day remembering of my mama’s passing.
I get word of a young man who gave up and tragically died and I read the obituary of a mother without hope.
Both, only a quarter of a century of life lived thus far, that far.
” It’s happening a lot.” she said, meaning family members and older people.
I agreed, “Yes.” thinking, more by suicide. This is work; still it is my life, life.
It is morning again, the one after I woke to drink from the cup of peace and I feel as if I’ve toiled all night, I wake early for fear of sleeping too late. Today’s cup, paisley pink and purple swirls, a gift from my son.
The message, even more subtle, a boy on a trip with his buddies, used his spending money and thought of his mama, “Got something for you.”
And I sing a song for the day as I turn towards work, thinking yesterday I cherished quiet and I was thoughtful and trusting.
“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!”
Today, more celebratory in early morning blue sky, suddenly bright with joy and tomorrow…
Tomorrow is yet to see and be seen, to be partaken of.
I’ve got the coffee ready for my rising.
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided,
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!
Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide,
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!
Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee to “Tell His Story”
I’m updating this blog to share again a story of a gentle man who danced and prayed, a man who is loved by many and is sadly under hospice care. I’m not related. I have relatives who are. I imagine the legacy he will leave his family is immeasurable. His prayer about believing God sees us, hears us and even listens when we talk, and talks right back, it made a forever impression on me. I am grateful for that.
Join me if you will in praying for the family and friends who are surrounding this sweet prayerful dancer under the care of doctors who are saying, Soon his dance will be heavenly.
I am remembering this story from 2017.
I’m gonna tell this sweet story here because it’s just too precious not to be told. It’s all about dancing and desire and the way God listens and waits for our asking, God waits to dance with us. For our rhythm to be one of agreement, our desires to be fulfilled.
seeing, hearing, knowing, our Father who art in Heaven
Oh, he danced. We all danced at their wedding. I watched him for awhile, looking at the young people as they jumped up to dance, his face bearing a sweet smile as the couples made their spots on the floor their own. I watched as he shimmied his shoulders and tapped a little tune with his cane. Finally, he got up and he danced. And just like the first time I saw him, heard him pray, the whole room took notice and we all got the chance to see a life lived fully with wisdom and desire. I was glad to be in his presence again, the man who told me God listens.
Two weddings this year, my daughter and the love of her life, my niece and her’s…two chances to dance with the ones we love. Two chances to see the fulfilling of desires.
Sweet Dance of Desire – Heather and Benji
Take delight in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.
Psalm 37:4
I didn’t expect it. I don’t know if any of the others did.
Of course, I didn’t really know them, this family of sisters and cousins about to be my niece’s family.
We all sat semi-circle in pale floral upholstered chairs in the church parlor. It’s been a long time since I sat in a parlor, I thought.
We’d joined hands earlier, a stranger and I next to each other and the matriarch said grace as we sat ladylike. We filled ourselves with pineapple cheese ball on salty Ritz crackers, watermelon, little sandwiches and homemade cheesecake.
Where I’m from we call these foods “Nic-Nacs”. We talk about the recipes and we go back for thirds, not seconds on the tiny little plates. We look around to see who’s first to indulge. Southern ladies allowing themselves a little extra, smiling slightly towards one another, our lips lined brightly with corals and pinks.
Gifts were opened, names recorded by my daughter, oohs and ahhs were like lyrics, a pretty little melody, bouncin’ about the parlor.
Then, towards the end, the granddaddy walks in. A handsome sweet face, feeble but, determined and just glad to be with us. His walk was slow and uneven, one leg causing a struggle, he leaned on his cane, his body resting in a slanted way. Still, he had a confident swagger in step, sportin’ his dress pants and crisply ironed shirt.
I thought he must have just come alone, must live close by or had been waitin’ in the car for his mate. In the South, men don’t get to go to bridal showers, it’s pretty well known and understood.
He joined the circle for a bit then his daughter introduced him,
“Daddy wants to say a few words”.
He took his time as he stood, waiting for us all to stop our chatter. It was a treasure to him, I could tell, to just be with us and to “talk about the Lord with you ladies for a few minutes”.
They were words of instruction and love and of his hopes for the soon to be wed. He was happy that his family is growing, he said. His words not just a platitude. He talked about prayer, and about desire.
We all sat quietly, my daughter across the room, glanced towards me, her face, sweet as if to say, “I know you love this, mama.” There was a sense of the significance of this time, his words, our chance to listen and hold on.
He talked about his life, his trials, his troubles, his God and his telling of stories to whomever he meets. A variety of people, I thought who have been captivated by his curiously wise dialogue.
Long pauses, between sentences, he was thinking, figuring, preparing what God had for him to say. His time in the church parlor he considered an opportunity, meaningful, worth something, I could tell. So, he paused a long pause before saying one thing clearly, his voice commanding our attention. He paused to make sure we all were captive in our seats.
“I can hear God. He talks to me all the time. I tell you one thing, people don’t believe me, that I hear him; but, I keep telling him how I feel, what I need. He answers me. If I had one of those contraptions that measured…what’s the word…decibels, I can assure you I hear him all the time. I’d have something to show the ones who don’t believe me, don’t need it, though, I hear him. It’s real clear, too”
“You can too and you can tell him anything.” He added.
“But, just make sure that if you desire something and you tell him, that you really, really desire it, because he will give you what you desire.”
Then I listened as he prayed for the soon to be married couple and for all of us ladies and I waited, still and attentive to his sweet voice.
I listened, longing to hear more.
I made sure to see him at the wedding, be sure my husband had a chance to meet him. My niece asked me to pray before the meal and I did my best, all the time wishing I’d been able to hear his prayer instead. I wish I’d suggested it, I thought, before the final plans had been made.
But, I prayed a prayer about love and family and looked over at the granddaddy after my “in Jesus’ name, Amen” to see his encouraging nod as if to say “You did fine, He heard, he knows the desire of your heart, remember? He just told me so.” And then a smile that felt like love with just the slightest wink of Southern gentleman.
And then, we dined and we danced knowing our desires were very known.
We lived in a cute apartment in a sort of upscale community, my baby brother and I. Our apartment was above a retired couple.
Their comings and goings always together, I’d glance down at them from the kitchen window, he gently helping her from the car and carrying one or two bags of groceries.
Occasionally,he looked up, his expression a contrast in wisdom and frustration.
Yet, they never complained of our late hours, our trash piling up or our completely haphazard life.
Both of us single, both of us sowing wild and hapless oats.
Every Sunday, they went to church. Sharply dressed and contentedly methodical were their steps back home.
On one particular evening, we ended up close enough for words. I asked the gentleman, “How can I know God’s will for me?”
Surprised by what he must have seen as a lost and careless young woman, he just stood there. “I’m sorry if we are loud up there sometimes.” I said, ashamed I’d asked the question.
Still, no words as we stood together in the shade of stairwell. Do I wait, do I leave him be? Should I not have invited his sermon? Will he rightly point out my sins?
He answered with a book. I’d love to say it lives on my shelf; unfortunately, the patterns of my life were not abruptly changed that day.
But, a seed planted, oh my goodness and I’m so glad God allowed me time enough for it to grow.
There are many who will not believe there are big portions of my life not well-lived.
Who may think I talk of redemption and wonder how on earth do I really think I needed to be redeemed.
Last night, a text came. I was painting and cleaning my art room. I’d walked the dog in the mist and fog, praying hard and quietly demanding as I walked.
The old heavy and annoying albatross of anxiety had begun to linger above my head.
It’s such a dull and cumbersome feeling, the one that cooks up chaos, confusion and confoundedness in the heart and mind.
I decided, after listing all my anxious taking of responsibility for plans gone awry to God, to head home, be quiet and paint. “I’ll paint. I’ll listen to Alison Krauss and I’ll just paint.”
So, I’m painting in silence because the air has cleared, my mind unfurled and open.
My painting, not furious, but an easy comfort.
My prayer was heard, my heart was made free.
I needed to answer her text; a young woman, mother of precious girls and one little boy is worried and has been crying for days, she said.
I’d given her a reference for a job. She didn’t know. She desperately needs one.
“I’ll pray for you, that a breakthrough will be soon.” I said. She answered with something like you are so great, I really appreciate it. I wish I had your faith.
I told her that the things I say to her are the things I say to myself quite regularly.
I’m not who I was, still not all I should be. Closer every time I surrender, a thankful trusting heart at rest.
Told her I get the blues too. I have to pray, get quiet and trust.
I hope she knows it’s true, that the mess I am is not nearly as much a mess as before.
That, the will of God is for her a good and settled mind; but, we have to seek it.
That’s what he said back then twenty plus years or so, the kind and patient gentleman who gave me the book.
“You have to seek God’s will and keep seeking it in the quiet place of prayer. ”
This morning, I’m reading scripture from II Samuel. A devotional about setting goals for fruitful living, talks about spending time alone with God.
The passage is called “David’s Prayer of Gratitude”. It was written after he was the least likely to be chosen, after he defeated a giant with a stone and before he strayed haphazardly distracted again by lusts of life.
“Then King David went in and sat before the LORD and prayed, “Who am I, O Sovereign LORD, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?”
2 Samuel 7:18
He’s the good shepherd; he kept his shepherd boy who he chose to be a king.
He keeps us too, reminds us where he found us and where he’d like to help us go.
On the first day of new, I wrote a prayer and called it “Winter”, knowing that what I write, I might retain.
I found it beautiful then. It was descriptive and true.
Grace found
Pausing to look it over, gray lines and loops on thin white paper, I pondered the seven days since I’d already begun to fear.
Welcome, Winter.
May your arrival bring new things.
May I be unafraid of your truth
and of mine.
May I hold fast to a promise uttered for others and for me,
a breakthrough is coming, it’s about to be time.
This morning I sat in a dim space. The morning faded by moist and thick fog led me to linger. I read and wrote, three or four lines at most. The quiet of the morning, too much of a calm nothingness for me to move.
I listened and heard a dove in the distance. Its coo was quiet, then more clear, then quiet again. The notes of its song danced like black squiggly shapes on sheets of music.
I listened and thought of grace.
Grace, manifested, making itself evident, the only other sound the tick of the clock on kitchen wall.
The cooing of the bird becoming conversation, for me, I decide.
I waited. It continued.
It quietens, so I move, unfolding the quilt from my bare feet.
I think of seeking the sound, the sight of grace.
For months, I walked almost daily with lens pointed towards the sky. Random shots of clouds that called me to notice. The sky, like dove song, I’m certain was always for me.
Grace, manifested. Grace, rediscovered.
Had never moved, not been removed nor withdrawn, I’d just stopped looking. Maybe I’d become comfortable in the apathy of apprehensive unknown.
Sometimes we do these little things like “quiet time” and journaling and they’re nothing short of cliched habit, practicing a trendy social sharing, searching for a word to declare will carry us through the day…like wearing our badges of honor to mark our fading faith.
Then, we see grace.
We feel it. We hear it because it was not of our making, we got silent and still enough to see God.
I’m looking again. I’m noticing again. It’s a quiet and private practice.
Earlier today, I was captivated by a presentation. Watch and listen:
A video created by a photographer, the intent to capture the emotion of 2016. It’s hard to watch. Hard not to watch. The voice of the narrator is reminiscent of the sweetest teacher a Southern girl may have ever known. It’s a voice that is somber in its serious tone, broken in its cadence.
If voices were visible emotion, her’s would be the drawn face of sorrowful acceptance.
It was hard to watch, such an accurate commentary of our time, our distress.
Hard to watch, yet, impossible not to take notice.
I watched and still, I thought of grace.
I thought of Job and his refusal to give up on God, his dismay, his defeat and his holding out and holding on to see grace again when they all told him it was not to be found.
No more grace for you, curse what you’ve decided to count on for good and accept that your doubts have come true. His wife, his friends, the bodies of his children cried out. Job 2:9
I thought of the sky that I turned to notice once the fog had cleared.
The open spot where the blue came in.
That’s the place that reminded me of my Winter prayer
and eventually, again, of grace.
Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer; listen to my plea for grace. Psalm 86:6
Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee to Tell His Story.
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 