little sayings big thoughts

courage, Faith, family, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, wonder

Closer to God

I cannot remember when, but someone complimented, noticed my faith.

I wish I could remember, just a conversation in passing I think.

I thanked them….said “I’m a work in progress.” Because I am.

Progress not perfection.

Doubtful but not nearly as often doubting God.

And lately, I say “Time will tell” about most everything.

And I’ve said “God has a plan.”

in response to unknowns so many times a day I should be constantly at rest, in submission.

And I recall my best stance, my life verse, the Lisa God knows best, God made this way.

Quietly confident…resting strongly. Isaiah 30:15

I woke this morning and thought of prayer. Can’t see, can’t touch, can’t measure…like faith it is most real in the looking back, the remembering of the written, the spoken, the thought, the mentioned to God, to friend, just to self. I thought of my frustrations, my drive to intervene, to fix, to shed light on an unfair turn of events.

My prayer, my thoughts, my surrender. God answered. He convicted. The unfair and upsetting became fair and possible.

I had rested. I had waited. I am waiting more often.

I am drawing near, staying near.

Refusing to doubt.

Doing what I can…letting God do the rest.

Little sayings.

Big thoughts.

Early morning brings a prayer of clarity:

Lord, remind me of the gift of coming back to you. Remind me of clarity and of your sovereignty. Keep me aware of the joy of quiet. Make me an example to others of the blessing of trust, of confident quiet. Give me simple, yet powerful boldness in declaring your mercy and your grace and Lord, most of all, thank you for loving me in the times my prayers are angry, rambling, frustrated, and disheartened. I thank you Lord, for the gift of quiet, for this is when I see, I feel, I recognize…

You were listening.

In Jesus name, Amen.

Morning, finally

Faith, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized

Glory

Waking to pitch black wondering of what time it might be.

Motionless body, then turning to side hoping to drift

Still as possible, don’t look at time…just drift back to slumber.

Quiet body but thoughts refusing to let up.

So, prayers begin, a mental lullaby, offered up in singsong then interrupted by alarm.

Slow, quiet progression towards coffee and foggy rhythmic sound of raindrops.

Rain falling

Prayers uttered

Begin again

So, I sit and wrap in quilt waiting for morning, finally hear them

Birds and their springtime sounds

Joy muffled by moisture landing on lush green

Journal, Psalms, Proverb, pen and prayer

Blessings and Supplication

Begin again

Morning, finally.

thread and pattern

courage, Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I surprised myself and never doubted my decision. In general, this is not me. Time has passed now and the weave and texture of each word, each encounter, I fear will become less significant.

That the beauty of the right word at the right time will be wasted and fade into the mix of my crazy busy days of late.

Two weeks ago now, I needed a place to stay and secretly hoped to be invited by my cousin.

An overnight trip to prepare Austin for college. Normally, I’d treasure time alone, hotel room, book, hot bath.

Yet, I was intrigued by the idea of meeting up with my cousin.

This is new and strange behavior for me.

I am not a “friend-ly” person.

Never one to congregate, weekend for girls, or endless daily talks with girlfriends.

Maybe it’s growing up the only little girl in a rowdy “little rascals” type neighborhood, or most likely just the cautiously introverted thinker I am.

I have lots to say, I’m just particular about who I say it to. Because it’s usually an honest conversation, I’m careful to engage.

Not much on shallow filling of conversation space with talk about the insignificant

Always been the one to think about the back scene of people’s circumstances and stories.

So, to be excited to have dinner and conversation in a home with a distant cousin and her husband on a trip to decide my son’s future…

Again, strange, atypical behavior for me that might require small talk.

Strange for her too, maybe not having seen me in about 20 years. Her husband questioned the offer.

My husband questioned my acceptance.

I imagined cool conversations about children, God, and touching up paintings of childhood memories.

I found their home and stepped onto the beautiful porch overlooking the marsh, consoling her dogs as I walked up, a stranger, and then she greeted me and we hugged, big southern girl cousin hugs and she said…stepping back

“Oh, my goodness, you look like your mama.”

I replied, honestly and without hesitation “I know. Some days that’s good, others not so much.”

And then, we began the filling in of the missing years, the misconceptions, myths and the preconceptions.

Family junk, legacy, laughter, closeted skeleton stories

Threads of our pasts more than anything at all…most of all our faith in God.

Our dinner and breakfast conversations all about childhoods both blessed and marred…commonalities and clarity.

Vickie called it a “thread”…such a tender strand of strength we both held.

A powerful acknowledgement of ” what messes our lives have been…but grace…

But, Faith.”

She prayed the right prayers, said the right things. Words just bounced between us, meaningful ones I grasped like a quick reaching up with hand to embrace, hold softly and tightly in my palm.

“Keeping this one.”

At church, I was greeted by a woman who said.

“You’re growing. I can see it.”

Years ago, this same person anxiously approached me offering an embrace. She sensed and I believe, was told that I’m not so open to hugs and attention and overwhelming questions about myself, my life. Over time she honored that, yet continued to greet me with a handshake and a smile…still though strong words of encouragement and of reinforcement of my faith path.

Saying things like…”God has great plans for you.” or “I love to read your column. God is using you.”

I smiled and said ” Thank you.” Still sort of awkwardly feeling as if her eye was constantly on me.

The closeness made me feel oddly inadequate. So, I avoided her and she retreated, until one Sunday. One sentence.

She and I, in the church bathroom, washing hands together. Miss Bobbie, a thread in my pattern.

“You are growing. I can see it.” Miss Bobbie

Several days ago, I commented on a blog post by Jennifer Dukes Lee about being homesick, about her struggles to find her way as a college student. Jennifer’s struggle to find her way resonated with me in a way much broader. My struggle was about prayer.

My struggle was simple, but, oh so destructive. I did not believe God heard my prayers, therefore I had decided it was too hard to pray for fear of delay or disappointment.

I bravely commented on Jennifer’s blog.

” I have a tendency to pray half-heartedly to avoid disappointment.”

And Jennifer Dukes Lee responded to God’s prompting, just for me at just this time with:

“When I get weary of praying I remember that one day I will be in Heaven and when I get there and meet God, I want Him to recognize me as woman who was persistent in prayer.” Jennifer

A thread in my pattern, Jennifer, a woman I’ve never met.

And early this morning my friend Debra greeted me via Facebook and coffee together, but miles apart.

” I pray for you daily.”

Debra, a thread in my pattern

My growing pattern.

And like Jennifer, I want to be recognized by God and even now in my earthly, chaotic, doubtful days I am hearing Him say so, so clearly…

“You are growing, Lisa. I see it.” God

Thank you Jennifer!

Meeting Martha

courage, Faith, family, Motherhood, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized

The sifter and the sifted

If I had the chance, I’d like to meet Martha. I’d tell her about my Children’s Sermon with the old sifter and grater. I’d explain how we talked about grating cheese for macaroni and sifting flour for baking a pound cake.

Martha would understand the point of the rusty grater and the sifter…the laborious process of being changed for better, refined, finer, softer.

Martha, who was frantic and frustrated

Preparing the house and the dinner for Jesus.

I wonder if I’d vacuum or wait peacefully expectantly.

Would I, like Martha go a little crazy?

Become the martyr of housework, miserable and bitter?

My family, like Mary, off in a corner letting my mood run its course.

Watching dogs, feeding dogs

Washing clothes, folding clothes

Working hard at work and hard at home.

Methodical sameness of effort.

Early mornings and late nights.

Then quiet time feels like striving, pushing, forcing

And love feels like work

The bitter seed of pity grows big and strong roots and I’m stuck in a place of distress and discouragement.

Where are your blessings, Lord and where is my joy?

I can see Martha in me.

Martha, and me, sifted and refined by the words of Jesus

Reminded to lay her burdens down

Martha, who felt her efforts went unnoticed.

That her words mattered little and her sacrifice was nothing more than expectation that someone might notice.

Martha, who had a hard time

A very hard time believing that her crazy, frantic efforts were nothing more than distractions and anxious control.

I’d love to meet Martha.

The Martha who was reminded to wait.

The Martha who gave up on Jesus.

I’d ask her, what I believe was true of me and of Martha

“Was it hard Martha, to lay it all down to surrender?”

“Did it get easier to trust…to be more like Mary…or was it something you had to work on every day?”

I’d ask about her brother Lazarus, because I wonder

“Did you feel responsible, you with the inconsistent faith, for Jesus not showing up soon enough?”

Most of all I’d like to know,

“Did you finally embrace faith that can’t be seen when your precious brother came to life with Jesus’s loving hand of healing?”

“Martha, did you finally let go of control when Jesus said?”

“Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”

And then, I’d say with a tight and teary hug…

“Thank you Martha, for being you and for being me.

my good walk

Faith, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

Somebody must have come along early that murky morning.

Made a little bridge from boards to ease my step to the shore.

To the skyline of blue over pinkish orange sunrise and smooth sand.

So, I stepped lightly over the little dune and glanced towards the water, then lifted my head up towards heaven to begin my day.

To begin my walk.

My good walk. Hopeful and clear.

Somebody saw the muddy, grown up mess and bridged it with cast aside boards to beckon me to the shore.

To encourage my steps towards good

I’m remembering my grandma and her marked up Bible and the vision of her in the lamplight every night, steadfast and determined.

Remembering the traveling pastor who taught me of grace and welcomed a single mama to the tiny little generations of family run church.

Remembering the Easter egg hunts and the grace of the little ladies who loved on me because they loved on my children.

The black station wagon that pulled up to the house and picked Heather up for Sunday School at the home of me, the single mama, trying to make it alone.

Feeling scarlet and scorned. But a bridge was built towards my good walk because of a little black station wagon and a grandma and grandpa.

Heather loving little Poplar Springs Baptist Church, a bridge to my good walk.

And Austin a toddler, sitting as quiet as a little old man.

Another bridge…a clear and easy path to my good walk.

Friends like Debra who never rejected, always prayed.

Family who waited to see my good walk, the walk of faith and strength.

So many bridges to the good walk…path clearing people, beckoning me lovingly to follow along in their following of Jesus…on the good walk.

Good Friday, what a good walk, a long and torturous walk to the cross.

Jesus, miraculous, beautiful, merciful Savior

Saver of lives, redeemer of scorned and sinful, friend of sinners and thieves, followed by many as he walked on earth and then followed by few as he chose the surrendered walk, ultimate sacrifice to bridge our wrong, to make clear the good way, the good walk.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. John 3:16-17

Siblings, dogs and love

Children, family, Motherhood, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

Brothers and sisters

6:00 a.m. sounds wake me.

No alarms necessary.

Our house is noisy and scheduled.

It won’t be like this for long.

Abbie’s up ’cause Heather’s up.

Routine, Abbie likes routine.

Her house, her bowl, her place on the couch.

I get that.

I hear her fancy little beagle steps (we call it trickling) making her way to check her food bowl then on to her soft place in the den.

Bed to couch, what a life!

Then little, big brother wakes.

Low moan growl heard from my end of the house becomes….”Oh, time to get up…Yay…come get me” bark!

Good pup, outside to pee, checks his bowl, then back inside slips into the kitchen slinking around to check sister’s bowl.

Not time for food yet, okay.

Grandma’s doing her quiet thing…. I’ll wait.

Colt, Austin named him…somehow not knowing a colt is in fact a small horse.

Name fits, trust me.

A Christmas request…last Christmas before college from Austin.

Craziness, yes.

Doing crazy, unnecessary things for my quite self-sufficient children is a choice for me, a choice I call demonstrating love. What better send-off I say, into their own little nests , than to plant remembrances of intentional love my priority ? Creating little things that upon recall might elicit a response of

“Mama didn’t have to do that, but she did.”

Things like getting Colt, the big Brown dog much like that red one he loved named Clifford.

Sweet, goofy, yet obedient to treats, chocolate lab flopping into the kitchen on big feet spread bigger every day.

Abbie, frustrated with her new brother, takes his place on soft, old quilt I have added to protect my mama’s old chair.

Fresh, clean and crisp.

I smile and

Cover her with quilt. She likes safe, close cover. Rub her back as she answers with a little sweet beagle Abbie sigh.

Abbie decides this place, this chair, “It’s mine”.

Sweet Abbie. She’s adjusting. She’s keeping up.

She’s trying to understand.

Barking in rhythm protecting me last night when a big black cat was spotted by Colt.

Loud, strong, get our of our yard barking, both warning the stoic and stubborn cat “Get out of our yard! My grandma’s home alone!”

Abbie barking louder and longer as if to say, “Hey, I was here first.”

Abbie waiting in the window for Heather, taking turns sitting for treats and demanding soft head rubs from Austin or reassurances from Greg.

Abbie is adjusting. We all are.

Colt is a lesson in transition…in love

and tolerance

and acceptance

and grace

and patience….

Colt looks towards his chair, head tilted, careful not to upset Abbie…just curious about why she’s moved to the chair.

And then he meanders over to her spot, settles there as if to say ” Oh, okay, this works.”

Dogs and siblings…Siblings and dogs.

Love and transitions

Most important of all, continue to show deep love for each other, for love covers a multitude of sins. I Peter 4:8

Mercy prayers and stories

Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

Lord, have mercy…

What makes some of us anxious, even excited to share our days before coming to Christ while others keep their stories hidden? My grandmother, “Bama”, the daughter of a Methodist minister would start up conversations wherever she found opportunity.

A petite woman, dressed in crisp blouses and slacks, she found joy in engaging with others. She always found a way to listen and make others believe she completely understood.

She was merciful. She gave mercy. Had received mercy.

She was an interested listener, so people shared. She didn’t have to be in church to talk about Jesus, about her faith and sometimes about us, struggles she was praying about or had made it through.

The favor she’d been shown, inherited, carried her through to a place of unashamed sharing her story of redemption and drawing out the stories of those she met.

Some said she shared too much information; was nosy and annoying but, she kept right on connecting in the beauty shop, the dime store or the fellowship hall. She was telling and listening to testimonies, stories of Jesus.

One morning last week, praying before the workday, I thanked God for my salvation through His Son, Jesus Christ. And then, thoughts becoming prayers, I prayed “God, thank you for saving me long before I asked.”

Isn’t this the prayer of every person who has finally come to Jesus?

The story of every person who like Zacchaeus, wanting to know Jesus; but, believing too much wrongdoing and greed made him unworthy. Or maybe like the Samaritan woman, shamed by wrong choices, yet welcomed by Jesus in the presence of those who scorned her. Or the leper, discarded and avoided, yet embraced by the love of Jesus. Wouldn’t it be amazing to have testimony Sunday and hear Zacchaeus telling, excitedly about Jesus wanting to dine with him, wanting to save him! Imagine the Samaritan woman standing behind the pulpit in your church, and tearfully describing the welcoming salvation of Jesus despite her sins. I can hear her telling of the love she felt when Jesus defended her against the comments of onlookers who labeled her unclean and even reported to Jesus her record of sin. What a touching and beautiful time it would be to see the horribly disfigured and cast aside leper standing in your sanctuary, healthy and radiantly smiling describing the healing hand of God, through Jesus!

Every one of them could proclaim, the Psalmist’s words

Praise God, who did not ignore my prayer and did not withdraw His unfailing love from me! Psalm 66:20

Jesus was saving them before he even encountered them, for His best, waiting to offer redemption in simple, yet intentional encounters.

I learned about the struggles of two friends in our church recently. Both shared, through tears, and shaky voices glimpses into their lives before they were walking with God. Both caught me by surprise. Powerful testimonies and disclosures of damaging choices and paths wrongly taken, spoken as examples of grace. It would make sense to wonder, “Why are they sharing so much?” or “How can they admit their mistakes in front of a church full of people who really did not need to know?”

Because, they know what it means to Tell the Story of Jesus, the story of His truth, “Truth Telling”, I like to call it.

I sometimes think I have a bit of my grandma in me. I am drawn to the stories of others. I love to share stories of His place in my heart, my life.

And just like the redeemed in the pews or in the parking lot or waiting in line at the checkout, I’m comparing notes, comparing encounters with Jesus who saved me.

Answered my prayer, seeking mercy.

I’m remembering a time of failure and devastation when the preacher from the tiny little white church stopped by to visit…he’d heard my story…everyone had.

And when I asked, “How can I get through this?”

His kind and gentle voice answered firmly,

“Just pray for mercy.”

I did. I still do.

And now, like my grandma. I love to listen and tell.

Stories of Jesus and His mercy.

What’s your story of Jesus, your redemption story, your truth?

Your “Lord, have mercy” story ?

Come and listen, all you who fear God, and I will tell you what He did for me. Psalm 66:16

Before I forget what I realized

Children, Faith, Motherhood, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

My heart

I realized a parenting truth last week.

Time has not been kind to my writing joy.

I must record this truth. I must remind myself of its clarity.

The only writing this past week has been penciled in thoughts about prayer, faith, rewriting and remembering.

Busy times, baseball season, lingering, annoying cold and cough.

So, my writing has been non-existent.

Last week, I scripted a prayer that came to me with ease.

My prayer, Lord, help me to know what to say and when to say it.

Give Heather and Austin the clarity they need and make yourself known to them daily, because I know you are there…in their hearts.

It occurred to me that being mama at this point is so much more about availability than ability.

So much more about staying back, yet being there when called upon.

More like waiting to be inquired of, being in tune with Quick to Listen, Slow to Speak way of love, of mothering.

Waiting to advise, to direct…so un–motherly.

Just to be there… waiting on sidelines, in background

And ready to answer with love.

Holding closely, loving wholeheartedly, pointing towards Jesus.

So, I must remember this parenting epiphany

I must record this knowledge to carry through the approaching moving away.

Be available as needed.

Only as needed.

They are able.

They have been trained.

Be there…love with availability, as needed, requested.

Train up a child in the way he should go…when they are old, they will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6

Half-heartedly saving daylight

Children, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

A suggested response to Monday after time change

Where is the daylight?

Abbie and Colt have both nestled back in.

Moved from sleeping place to lounging place.

Both loud sighs intermittent with snores as I journal God’s word.

Day 8 of Jabez. A challenge today.

Not embracing my morning, more like a lazy, slack rebellion of morn.

Requesting of God to be blessed, to be kept safe, be kept from the evil of bad things, choices, even bad thoughts, this is my prayer now.

Lethargic and zombie-like, I ache as I move towards the coffee for cup number 2.

Feeling 54 this morning, sounding 74 as I grunt upon rising.

Back to bed would be reasonable, not an option.

Heather suggested, I agreed. Still, we navigate the morning.

Her gathering to leave, Austin still in bed. Quiet house, dark and tucked in.

She murmurs “Bye” as she leaves in pitch black to teach precious minds, anxious to know things.

Yesterday, I looked towards the sky, wondering what mama would say…longing to know somehow.

Day is opening up now and I am slowly, unraveling blips of my colorful disconnected dreams, 3 scenes.

I woke, half-heartedly, the anesthesia of dreamwork…of hidden away pieces of mental ramblings on life on family.

Dreams of what-ifs and what might not.

Mama was there, in a dream about a big house overlooking fields.

Giving advice, talking up a storm. Being Bette. Colorful, loud, laughing.

Now, I see!

Wholeheartedly, I see.

The thoughts unwound, I can move to morning.

The sky has turned to a light grey-blue and birds have awakened, chirping sharply, rhythmically.

Austin rises. I reach for pen and journal and wait for bright sunlight.

Sunlight, like glory, like beginning again!

His mercies are new every morning. Lamentations 3:23

humble believer – the one believed to fail

Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

Pretty soon, I’m taking a trip down country roads.

A neighboring county where the roads become pretty hills and valleys, oak trees and old barns, daffodils blooming freestyle.

I’ll be looking for an old country cemetery that might have one headstone marked with the name belonging to an ancestor on my daddy’s side.

An ancient military man named Jabez Hendrix.

My brother, connecting and seeking, a habit of his.

A longing, perhaps to understand more, to fill in missing pieces and endings to stories that might be clearer, happier and hopeful.

Just so happens Jabez Hendrix is buried close by.

In the meantime, I am fascinated by Jabez of the Bible.

Just a few sentences about one son in a family of several sons.

Likened to the runt of a large breed of pups.

The one that caused mama dog pain, scrawny and most likely not the pick of the litter. The son whose name meant “bore in pain”.

Yet, he believed and trusted God for more.

Was bold enough to grasp the possibility of a God who created all.

Was confident enough to request more than just enough

Was humble enough to ask for God to stay close by, to ask for God to keep his hand ever present.

Yet, he knew of frailty and falling asking God, “keep me from evil.”

Jabez, born to fail, believed in more.

Asked for more and received.

I’m praying like Jabez going on four days now.

Thinking of the blessings God has for me.

The blessings I never thought to ask for

The people he wants to place on my path

The broadening of my territory, my influence and influencers.

His hand, at my humble request kept securely close

Keeping me from evil.

Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil…So God granted him what he requested. I Chronicles 4: 9-10

The one who was most shy, most awkward, most likely to hide away.

The one searching for identity and getting lost in life, disconnected, disowned, discarded

I am the one who believes, finally in God.

His hand upon me.

His placing and planning of my territory.

His keeping me from evil.

Loved by God, the one with less than hopeful beginning and rebellious crazy, scary middle.

Fascinated and acquainted with God’s Jabez

The humble believer.

A courageous soldier, ancient uncle, laid to rest in a country cemetery a country ride away.

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