In Private

Art, confidence, contentment, courage, curiousity, memoir, painting, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Vulnerability, wonder

Pay attention to the thoughts that surface, bubble up to overflow in private.

Certainties.

Yesterday morning, I closed the door and prayed on the bathroom floor.

No magic, no set expectation, just a plea that was private.

I humbled myself and asked for ease, for help.

Humbled, but not afraid, not cornered by my delay in praying nor in my honest admission of asking for help, for grace.

And, my prayer was answered. I was without pain, still am.

But none says, “Where is my Maker, who gives songs in the night?” Job 35:10

Around 3:00 a.m, I turned and wondered, why did I stop praying as much as before?

Praying in private, mostly.

Again, humbled by the tender realization, but not all the feeling of being punished or afraid.

More like, “I miss praying. I miss the peace of honesty and of talking to God about others and things that only we know”.

I miss me, humbled and yet, unafraid.

And so, God told me so. Told me in a way, I suppose,

I miss our conversations,

I miss the heart of you.

I delivered a painted cross yesterday, a housewarming gift that according to my friend was “extra”, other gifts and favors already given. I told her I’d like to gift another, for her office.

She gave me permission to choose the color, she’d be fine with white, she offered.

I’m thinking now about the depth in her eyes, pools of thought and kindness.

How I’ll capture that color, I don’t know yet.

I’ll pray.

I can pray. I am certain in that.

Unafraid and so very humbled.

Strong But Quiet

bravery, Children, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, family, memoir, Motherhood, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

Does he not see my ways and number all my steps? Job 31:4 ESV

A family of seven walked the trail together. Up ahead they kept in a slow rhythm, a man, a toddler, a few adolescents and a woman with a stroller.

One looked back, heard my catching up to them. The man smiled and commented on the humidity. The woman pushing the stroller I noticed was empty, corrected one of the children about something. Her voice was loud, her face so serious.

I smiled and looked back at the group, told them,

“My children laughed when I tried to be mean, I was never good at getting their attention that way.”

The girls and boys looked at me and stayed in step with their mama who added in a way that her children know she can be “mean”.

Not in a fearful or threatening way, I sensed the children understood.

It’s a matter of how we’re made, how we convey our truth.

Job argued defensively with his friends and with God for whole chapters and yet, never disrespected or disavowed his Father.

He was quiet, but strong.

Distraught, but not demanding.

Frail, but not frightened.

The Book of Job is poetry for the introspective and honest. It is comfort amidst woe.

It is quietly strong.

“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.”
‭‭1 Corinthians‬ ‭13:1‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Quietly strong, a tone I love.

In the mornings, I find a smoothly writing pen and I write the names of my children side by side, circle them on their own and then add an embrace of a larger encircling together.

A quiet practice.

Strong and soft, unwaveringly committed.

A way of trust.

The way I know.

Wisdom found in quiet confidence.

“God understands the way to it, and he knows its place.”
‭‭Job‬ ‭28:23‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Think of Others

birds, bravery, contentment, curiousity, family, hope, memoir, Peace, Redemption, wisdom, wonder

Think of others today, not peers, competing or measuring up comparatively people.

Sort of an exercise in out of the norm noticing or remembering.

Do you ever think about your grandma, your great-grandma, the legacy of their strengths and stories? The untold struggles, the pains they learned to comfort in their own quiet and unique ways?

I have an image of my grandmother all layered down in blankets, lamplight to the right, Bible in her lap, a pen for cursive notes in the margin.

On her screen porch, looking towards the crops, the winding path to Aunt Marie’s.

Looking for light, was she okay?

Had she gone to bed?

I walked out in the rain to see the bloom on my mystery vine and thought how very simple a joy!

What images make you smile, bring joy that doesn’t require scrolling, effort or comparison?

Think of others today.

I’m a fan of 3 word reminders.

Do hard things. Ask for help.

Continue and believe.

You are loved.

“Pass and re-pass.” my grandmother

Think of others.

Especially those gone on.

You Can

Abuse Survivor, Art, bravery, courage, Faith, hope, mixed media painting, painting, Redemption, sons, Vulnerability, wonder

I cried on the back road to Target.

I cried because the mean old thing called fear has been catching up, wrapping its arms around me like a stranglehold suffocating and silencing my wildest, most wonderful hopes.

I cried a little on the trip to find shelves to organize my paint (again).

Tears that said “not again”.

I’ve been hoping I was wrong about what I giddily decided was just right for right now.

I cried because my jaded conclusions drawn because of past hurts, harms, manipulative grooming and demands is putting me in the corner again.

I’ve been hoping I’ll hear they decided it was not right for me to paint and speak after all.

Then, I can sigh and sit quietly hidden in the identity that is me after all.

Alone and isolated, but safe on my own terms.

So, once the quiet tears stopped on their own, I reread the invitation to be photographed and have my artwork possibly featured with others in a future exhibit.

I reread, researched and respected the questioner, trusted it and him.

I said yes because my tears were not from fear, instead from fear that I may again be trapped in my decision to hide and that would mean

I wouldn’t go on.

Again.

It would mean ignoring how far God has brought me and that would be dishonorable.

Dishonoring myself and the one who made me to walk through doors I didn’t even knock on,

“You were not made to cower. You were made to create and to share what you make. You were made to be authentically brave.” me

Why do I write about such things, things like declining invitations because trauma triggers say “stay safe, stay humble, stay nothing, be nothing other than afraid and small”?

Because tears on the way to Target may be sweeter than you think, might be a tender gift.

Good tears, friends, very good.

I write because it helps me see the tears on the way to Target were not sad tears at all, rather than were cleansing, clarity, another swash of the trauma residual slate washed clean.

Tears that say okay, now

Take a breath, check your mascara, dab a little color on your lips.

Take a breath, say a secret prayer.

Go on.

You can.

I assembled the shelves from Target remembering the time I felt so excited. I put the bed frame together for my newly relocated to Colorado son. He’d gone to run some sort of errands, returned to realize I’d done it all wrong.

This son of mine who invited his mama to accompany him cross country, the gift of this will not, does not, has not escaped me.

I lined all my pastels, pencils, watercolor acrylic and oil tubes of paint in their own places and threw the dried up paint away.

Then, I painted.

Not as planned or expected, but I painted.

I’ll paint tomorrow.

I’ll keep on.

“For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.”
‭‭Romans‬ ‭8:15‬ ‭KJV

No Regret

Abuse Survivor, Art, courage, doubt, Faith, grace, hope, memoir, mixed media painting, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability

“He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭23:3‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I woke with thoughts of Peter, the one who sat with the skeptics, naysayers and contrivers to crucify Jesus and said “Hey, I don’t know him, I’m not one of “those”.

So, I thought “Peter had a lot of stops and starts”.

I can relate. No big deal, you might think; but, I went very light on dinner and then caved around 10 because I really wanted my favorite comfort yummy thing.

Crunchy peanut butter on slightly toasted grainy yet soft bread and a tiny dollop of jelly, folded over, cold milk on the side.

And I slept like a baby only to wake with regret and “start again, start again, jiggity jig little fat pig!”

Regret.

Imagine if Jesus told Peter “I’ve had it with you! I mean, I even told you that you’d cave under pressure. You’d deny knowing me.”

You’d decide this calling I called you for was not possible. You’d deem yourself incapable.

Peter’s life wasn’t defined by regret.

Nor is ours. We are marked by love, by beginning again and continuing.

By redemption.

Creamy coffee in hand, I open my emails to see a reply. An online magazine is asking for photos of my art, specifically the Psalm 23 collection from over a year ago along with a newer piece, “Pool Party”.

The publication requires a bio and they pointed out what must have been a typo in the original submission.

The bio you added is pretty short – and also a little confusing? I think there’s a typo. It reads:

Artist and Author, hoping to regret redemption and hope through my words and artwork.

I smiled.

Smiled because they didn’t disqualify me because of a typo, smiled because I could never regret my redemption.

I mean, I’d be long gone, succumbed to regrets long, long ago.

It’s my redemption that calls me forward, beckons me to keep trying, put myself in places that invite my story.

Mostly, I’m smiling because all of this “reflects” the redemption and grace of God.

(Reflect not regret, the typo)

Clearly, I am imperfect; but, not unable.

Starts and stops, I can’t even begin to tell you how many.

Beginning again and again.

This is my wondrous story.

I was lost, but Jesus found me
Found the sheep that went astray
Raised me up and gently led me
Back into the narrow way

Yes, I’ll sing the wondrous story
Of the Christ who died for me. Frances H. Rowley, 1886

Only one of the five “Psalm 23” series sold. One is in my den, three are packed away and one is on display in a restaurant.

Now, I get to share how painting them connected me with the psalmist’s words, how my paintings came together to tell the story.

No regret, only and always

Everything has been and is being redeemed.

Sunday Seasons

Art, Children, confidence, contentment, daughters, Faith, family, hope, Peace, Redemption, sons, wisdom, wonder

With the songs and sermon, prayers and passages, I had church today while I painted.

The thought came to do both just as I’d decided to stay home. You’ve been running, racing and getting to do lots of things.

You’re learning, that kind of running will catch up, put you in slow motion.

Take your peace away.

Funny thing, I’d never painted while “going to church”. But, I felt compelled to do it and so, I listened as I prepped tiny canvases for color.

Just as I’d listened to a new take on an old favorite, Psalm 139. Whole house silent and I heard it differently, more clearly.

The Holy Spirit’s presence.

My soul knows it very well.

I wrote just these words beside my name in the margin. This beautiful psalm is one we read to remind ourselves we are known beyond our mind’s comprehension by God who made us.

Mostly, I’ve read this psalm to remind myself of God’s intentional love and to confirm that I’m here on purpose, not an accident.

Today though, in the quiet, I saw a little deeper meaning. God knew and knows that it’s our soul that guides and informs us, that the things we need to “hear” from him, we will hear with the nudge of conviction, correction and the deepest of joys that can’t be described in words, only the pure reaction in our core/our soul. Some say gut or conscience.

How do you describe the most intimate joy of being surprised by the ease of something you feared would go wrong?

How do you describe the peace in an unexpected emotional response to something as simple as a hug from a child?

A greeting at the door with a flower and a request for a jar?

How do you describe knowing what God wants you to know that you’ve been avoiding or are afraid it can’t possibly be true?

It’s close to impossible to fully convey the soul.

That may be why David ended this Psalm this way. Sort of a brave request of God.

I’m often afraid to ask such a question.

“Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭139:23-24‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Because God knows all the beauty of us, He also knows the ways we get wrong.

Since He knows us so very well, wonderful creations, complex and complicated, we can trust that we’ll see the parts we sometimes get wrong.

If we’ll simply ask Him.

We don’t have to be afraid of the answer. It will come gently. After all, our Father is the maker of our very tender souls.

Today, I took my time, walked outside to breathe in the coming season, check on the mysterious morning glory and just because.

I stayed home.

Remembering lunch with my daughter and son on Saturday, rounding out my birthday celebrations, I recalled the sweetness of togetherness and the ways they’re so very different and deciding that’s quite okay.

Wonderfully made.

My hopes for them, always been the same, are the very evidence of that very thing, hope.

“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭139:14‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Rather Resilient

Abuse Survivor, anxiety, confidence, contentment, courage, fear, hope, memoir, Redemption, Vulnerability, wonder

Behind the grill, in the corner there’s a collection of leaves, dirt, dust and a moth or two.

I paused this morning to see the sky. The air fixated, it seemed on one leaf. Brittle fern fronds on the floor like rose petals left for a lover and the one leaf, edges upturned and a little bigger than the others,

Sort of shimmering.

I know it’s strange, to be fascinated by a dried up leaf on a sleepy Saturday morning.

Was it healthy or close to decay? Was there a notice of it over the others that caused it to be the lonely one taking in the breeze

While the others were still?

Had given in to decay.

I turn 62 next week.

There are unforeseen health things.

All in a matter of a couple of weeks. There’s the dental stuff that triggers childhood shame. There’s the inflamed knee that pains me and odd or maybe not, I’m unable to kneel to pray.

There’s the diagnosis of high blood pressure that I’m disputing, watching and waiting.

Because I think it’s anxiety.

There’s all this stuff that points to aging and old things and to the trauma of losing parents before they were old.

Someone I love told me of an emergency room visit and how it triggered her. I told her “no wonder” and asked how she recovered.

She told me it was just a few days ago. She’s getting better.

And not by crazy shaming of self “get it together” because

It’s not the same and that was so long ago.

Instead, by accepting her emotions and not shaming herself about them.

Letting the sorrow and fear revisit and then go their way.

This is now.

You are here. This felt like that, but it isn’t.

All the leaves have now been swept away together. The resilient one mixed in with the ones unbothered by the wind are in the yard with the pine straw and mulch.

Strange that I’d notice a crinkled leaf first thing.

Or not strange at all.

Rather,

resilient.

Stilled

Angels, confidence, contentment, Faith, grace, hope, memoir, mercy, Peace, Redemption, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

“because of the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high”
‭‭Luke‬ ‭1:78‬ ‭ESV‬‬

To ease into the end of yesterday, I sat on the steps of the pool. It’s one of “my things”.

I let the cool water calm my aching legs, notice my toes.

The clouds and tops of trees, a mirrored reflection for filtering my thoughts and pausing.

I listened to a meditation that led to being brave enough to believe in right next to me nearness of God.

I prayed, longingly and admittedly a tad half-heartedly

maybe it will be.

Eyes tightly squeezed, I felt warm tears stream down toward my chin. I opened my eyes and a butterfly danced then rested, yellow and payne’s gray paint color bordered.

The meditation ended.

I lingered, amazed yesterday evening.

The presence of God in a butterfly on an old overgrown shrub, the softness of its appearing, the grace of the the Amen,

It’s because of God’s tender love that you cried.

Were stilled.

Be still.

Stilled.

Remember and rise.

Be expectant. God is near.

Here’s the guided meditation app.

https://www.pauseapp.com/

Stories Told Lightly

Abuse Survivor, Art, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, hope, memoir, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, testimony, Vulnerability, wisdom, writing

“And he said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
‭‭Luke‬ ‭7:50‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Given the choice, I prefer the quiet space alone. I love words, but prefer writing over speaking and even more so as I’m older and it’s showing evidence in both my appearance and ability.

I saw the sun on Monday morning and I thought of passages of Jesus coming to the gatherings, houses, and rescue of so many.

Healing as they welcomed him, restoring as they let Him in. Something about the sun on Monday caused me to wonder if Jesus ever wondered or even went back to say, “Who have you told about your healing?”

I wondered if the woman who had to stay home because of her bleeding happily began to sit and interact with others in the light of day. I wondered if the widow with the sparse amount of change she gave away kept living on little but with more happiness than any success could bring.

I wondered if the woman Jesus stopped the scribes from stoning spent all her days comforting other women who lost their way and needed to know life could change.

I’ve kept a piece of paper in my Bible since 2016, a sketch of an open book and a bullet list of why we all should tell our story.

Six years later, I’m surprised to even be asked.

But, I have and I have said “Yes.” The story is a more gentle one, not spattered with sorrow or bitter questions of why…it’s one of the tapestry of comfort in the form of art inspired by faith.

I’m grateful. I shared this morning as I move into this season of sharing and of learning.

Studying the lives of Sarai (Sarah) and Hagar is humbling me. Quick to be critical of Sarah and compassionate towards Hagar has always been my response to these women integral to God’s story. I even have notes in my Bible, all directed at mean old Sarah and as expected, feeling connected to Hagar, the one abused and shamed. I’m learning about culture back then, about many things.

I’ve got lots to learn as I prepare to follow through on a couple of requests I said yes to…neither of them sought by me. One in September and a second in October, sharing my story of how women in my Bible brought me back to painting and how their stories are teaching me.

I’ve got a whole lot more to learn, (I know I already said that 😊)how the love of God is not just for the beaten down women, but for the women who participated with words and actions against other women. It’s all about the power of God to redeem and the gentle call to us all…Come back, daughter.

There’s a bigger purpose for it all…pain, heartache, anger or regret. Hagar and Sarah experienced God’s love in equal measure. They were seen by God, completely.

I’ve got much more to learn and I’ve occasionally been corrected. That’s okay. I’m learning. But a sort of knock on my door came in the form of unexpected questions…can you guide women in your process of painting and speak on how connecting your art and faith has and is strengthening and changing you? Public speaking, live painting.😳

Honestly, it is frightening. I can write vulnerably about my journey and at one time I spoke quite often about the struggles of women, mental health and other things…it’d be a whole lot easier to keep sitting on the couch quietly drawing in my Bible or painting in the corner room in solitude or blogging occasionally.

But, maybe Jesus knocks and we let Him in and then He knocks again, saying come on out, let’s go and share, together let’s tell the story of the two of us in relationship. Let’s go and tell.

(I’ll be sharing more about the two events as the dates draw nearer.)

Continue and believe, learn and go.

Go in peace. You’ve been made well.

You have a story to tell.

Here Now

Abuse Survivor, anxiety, contentment, courage, memoir, Redemption, Stillness, surrender, traumatriggers, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder

I pulled the brittle brown fronds from the weary looking ferns in the heavy heat of the day.

I’d watered the hydrangeas that bloomed rich cobalt blue last summer, but not so this season. I paused and looked out at the open field of green grass that was a sandy field last year. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but it seemed my granddaughter was instructing the dog “Eli” in some sort of life lesson.

And a thought came to me about me.

This season will soon be past, this Fall you’re gonna see its worth and it’s going to feel like an end to your grieving.

The thought seemed important, the timing of it unexpected, but welcomed.

I’m weary of myself. I think it’s time to acknowledge, I am here. This is now. I am not there or back then.

I am here.

Yesterday, God had me thinking about the man who couldn’t walk for 38 years and couldn’t get in the water to be healed. Today, I woke thinking of this healing after a night with a crazy/heavy dream…a dream that caused me to wonder (again) why “those things” happened to me.

“One man was there who had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had already been there a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to be healed?” The sick man answered him, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am going another steps down before me.” Jesus said to him, “Get up, take up your bed, and walk.” And at once the man was healed, and he took up his bed and walked.”
‭‭John‬ ‭5:5-9‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Just because I’m curious, I always want to know things like…well, once he walked after all that time did he think he might be a cripple again or like the woman bent over with a disability or the woman with the flow of blood for so many years…did they ask Jesus…why’d you allow this horrible thing in the first place and why’d you let it handicap me for so long?

These questions are nowhere (at least I haven’t found them) in my Bible.

Maybe the reason is simple, these questions are not beneficial to our strength and sanctification.

Maybe it’s that God knows we waste the purpose and value of our redemption when we gaze at our damaged places so much more than our deliverance.

When we think of our deliverance instead of God’s delay, we can live out our own healing and that healing offers hope to others…it never hinders their believing in that very same hope for themselves.

God is changing me here, sometimes it feels like I’m kicking and screaming in a gentle sulky rebellion; but, it’s a change that’s needed, a change that forgets the former and believes in the truth of promised new things.

One last thought, it’s not easy to stop focusing on your self in a time and culture that promotes self-obsession, self-promotion to be the best, and for me, self-absorption with the ever looming “why me?”

You are here. That was then. You’re not there.

Continue and believe.

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