“Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to those with knowledge, but time and chance happen to them all.” Ecclesiastes 9:11 ESV
Monday Evening
I’m curious which city might be for me. A city, I mean a large metropolis with streets, sidewalks, crosswalks, vehicles scurrying.
A city with windows of shops inviting in, with quick pauses not gazes inward so that I don’t cause a domino type cascade of collision because I actually stood quietly for too long.
In the mornings, some days I drive to the country road with no line in middle chunky asphalt and a deep sharp turn into valley and hill to my grandchildren’s home.
The deer alert me from a distance with the flash of their pupils. I turn and drive slowly.
They stand unfazed by the approach of me in my vehicle.
They pause. I pause.
We consider each other.
Gradual is their demeanor.
They turn to move, one, two and a third and they go on their way into what they must know is a friendly place, a refuge for them.
No need to flee. There’s not even the threat of one.
I wonder where the city may be, the one I’d love to be a resident of.
I did not love Denver.
I loved the road to get there, the road that led us through flat spaces with flatter fields and a feeling as if the highway opened magically just for us.
I loved the expanse of plump green grass in Colorado in the Spring.
I did not love the congestion and what felt like an imbalance of progress and poverty.
I do not like Atlanta.
Don’t want to go.
I love the idea of Charleston but don’t like the air of superficial quests on every corner.
I suppose I’m growing older and becoming even more the child of bare feet dirt roads.
And even less a traveler.
Even day trips to bordering counties.
Still, sweetly and deeply planted, refusing to fade, is the yearning to travel to Italy someday.
It’s a yearning not born of anyone else’s story.
Maybe a part of me like air in my lungs decided by the God who knows me and who knows.
There are places yet for you to see. Your journey is continuing.
Your dreams are dreams I’ve always seen.
Perhaps, in Italy there are dirt roads sprinkled with docile animals and kindred people who yet to encounter me.
And I, them. Kind intersections of somehow likemindedness.
And in a language without words our eyes might tell a story we decide we understand.
Until then, I’ll venture out to the country. I’ll walk on rocky roads. I’ll tilt my face upward with a little boy and I’ll wonder, just wonder where the jets are going.
I’ll stop my car in the middle of the narrow road at sunup or sundown and I’ll let the window down, aim my phone just so.
I’ll be captivated as I capture the wonder of this wonderful world.
And I’ll quietly imagine Italy.
Or maybe the high peaks of Denver, Braves baseball and pink houses with garden gates covered in moss on the skinny streets of Charleston.
I sat in the back next to someone I don’t really know. We shared a casual conversation about pimento cheese spread. Surrounded by art, the meeting’s agenda would be sharing a YouTube film on “beauty”.
We were offered pencils and a piece of paper to jot down thoughts, told to prepare to share in a group discussion.
The poet/researcher in the video mentioned God’s creation, spoke of God’s intent for not only artists, but everyone, to recognize the power of beauty as a way to change us internally and then effect those around us.
The couple just in front of me looked towards one another often in a likemindedness that matched the word “bullshit” he wrote and held up in front of her (and me).
They exited early.
I listened as others gave feedback, sprinkled around the room were comments about architecture, about culture, about our community, about horses.
I thought to add to conversation, to suggest they all begin to notice color and to, if they felt led, to ask God in prayer to help them see color.
I planned to share how this practice and prayer has been a reset for me, spiritually and creatively.
No one had mentioned God.
Three times, maybe four, I raised my hand to be called on.
I wasn’t acknowledged and decided to stay silent.
That it was not a time to speak.
“ a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;” Ecclesiastes 3:7 ESV
To keep the peace I’d acquired and allow it to be a presence without words.
To possibly be peace to others without using my words.
“Did I but live nearer to God, I could be of so much more help.” George Hodges
This morning, a guest blog post on an author’s site has been shared. My words, added to her community of others writing about “beholding our beauty” in the places life places us. I was just so grateful to write inspired by Esther, her bravery and how bravery is a choice we can make every day, even if with uncertainty.
I encourage you to read not only my thoughts, but to engage in this community that Deborah Rutherford is so intentionally building.
“So now we draw near freely and boldly to where grace is enthroned, to receive mercy’s kiss and discover the grace we urgently need to strengthen us in our time of weakness.” Hebrews 4:16 TPT
When we wake with the woe of what was imperfect the day before or with what we tripped and fell over in our wayward walking, we can acknowledge it all. We can feel all the feelings.
We can accept the mercy of Jesus, reach up and stand to go on the way again, the way to freedom, freedom that waits to save us from ourselves again.
Waiting
We can acknowledge that if it were just ourselves trying to recover, without the knowledge and embrace of His incomprehensible love, we’d not be who we are today.
I might not be here at all.
The smallest amount of believing in the promise of God’s love and mercy leads to overcoming life’s troubles, failures, and sorrows just as much as it does for the one who has never doubted at all.
Mercy meets us where we are.
The Veil
The ones at “the bottom” they’ve hit are just as cared for and cherished, significant in God’s eyes as those who’ve never known “bottom” experiences at all.
Can hardship, shame or regret be good for our souls?
Maybe, if we handle them gingerly like tiny little jewels worth sitting with and quietly considering the value of them in the exchange for the mercy that’s waiting there.
Waiting, always for our timid and tender open minds
Open hearts.
Open hands.
“Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” Hebrews 4:16 ESV
To see more clearly, I must simply gaze more faithfully.
I’ve just completed an application to be an artist vendor at an April event.
I have a list of other places I and my art may “get to be” and one I was selected for and am a day late on the paperwork. I’ve just emailed the coordinator and said a solid silent prayer.
It’s okay if I’m not there. There are other places I should be and you know these, Lord.
Tiny Words
I’m of the age I can see far away only with my contacts in and to read I suddenly am learning neither glasses nor contacts are beneficial. I toss them off, they are no help.
I see best up close, reading or painting with simply my naked eye.
I see what is needed to be seen by me, nothing more and only what’s very close.
I see just enough.
My Place
My focus is on what is near.
What is now, not in the distant future, not beyond my reach or my vision.
And so, I can give myself grace and permission to simply and quietly do what is mine to do in my “present place”.
Cakes, Mamas and Remembrance
“Act faithfully according to thy degree of light, and what God giveth thee to see; and thou shalt see more clearly.” Edward D. Pusey
Walking, listening, with an attentive ear and vision only committed to faithfully see what’s not too far to see, only just in front of me.
“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
I’m joining other writers today in the Five Minute Friday community, prompted by the word “Far”
It’s the time of year that God allows a sprinkling here and there of soft green woven “pillows”. I know there’s a name for them. I can’t remember it. I just find them so pretty. I tiptoe around them, aware of what I see as fragility.
We walked carefully over the tangled vines and fallen branches. Toddler, Henry in his little boots smaller than my hand. I let him venture barely three steps away from me then wrapped him in my arms to be sure he didn’t high tail it to the place his curiosity was calling.
I heard the water, the creek too shielded by overgrowth to see and too uncertain for us to go seeking. So, we just circled round and round, he intent on going deeper in and me, scooping him up to walk where it was more safe and clear.
He resisted yielding again and again.
The unknown and interesting was a steady call to his little investigative mind.
As if to say, I need to know, I need to see, it must be really special, this place I can’t see, these things I don’t yet know.
Yet, it was too risky for us to go, too unsafe for him to go alone.
I wonder why there’s such resistance to yielding. Why I’m so prone to striking out on my own in fits of figure it out or fix it before it’s too late.
When all that’s required, all that’s an absolute undeserved gift,
Is to yield.
This morning, I flipped to today in “Jesus Calling”, a kind and beautifully patient collection of words I’ll carry as I go, one open hand to heaven and the other secretly imagining my hand like a child’s reaching up again to the suggestion of my Savior,
“Hold my hand.”
“As you keep your focus on Me, I form you into the one I desire you to be. Your part is to yield to My creative work in you, neither resisting it nor trying to speed it up. Enjoy the tempo of a God-breathed life by letting Me set the pace. Hold My hand in childlike trust, and the way before you will open up step by step.”
A couple of weeks ago, a gallery employee commented on what she loved about a painting. She gave a detailed and thoughtful expression of why and I agreed with her, that I loved the same detail in the piece, in the colors.
I thanked her for going a little bit farther than necessary. Rather than just saying, “I like that one or that piece is nice.” she articulated in a way that gave power to the painting, even peace.
I told her I believe that’s a treasure, when a person notices something and expresses in words the evidence that you have been truly “seen and known”.
That’s a true gift to me. Something that sticks.
Just telling someone the truth you’ve observed.
“Angel Girl”
Yesterday, after the most beautiful walk with the music of Andrew Peterson to add to the mellow of me, I paused in the yard. I moved the withered pansies from the statue and I noticed the weathering of the cement, the spots brown from age and the places cracked by icy days or maybe summer heat.
I put the birds together, the dove and the cardinal, thinking stoic and a little unpredictable, a story I kinda love.
A Menagerie
As January invites, there are inventories I’m taking. Quietly considering where this journey should go, art and writing, writing and art.
For the life of me, I can’t bear to let one go.
More importantly, I don’t think God is telling me so.
Instead, I feel a different pull toward a different audience. So far, really just a handful of people who relate to what I feel is courageously honest in my painting and in my essays or posts.
I created an Instagram post to determine “my ideal client”. I asked a couple of questions as a way to go forward.
What would you like to see more of ?
I added photos of each, women/angels, landscapes and abstracts?
And this:
the most valuable question
I left it all there and the algorithm based traffic and responses were a bit of a tiny ripple.
On my walk, I thought about it all. About my tendency to only go just so far in connecting because of fear of not connecting, fear of rejection.
Fear of showing up and showing up prepared and yet, not being seen.
I thought of the wisdom of my children who are keen observers (often honest).
One saying “show up confident” and the other saying “don’t be negative when you talk about your art”.
Thought of the morsels of truth they add to the big barrel of not so true, just always realities of this work, this calling to “offer hope”.
I woke with clarity this morning as the sun gave my window a welcome glow.
I slept well and there was a redemptive arc forming in the story I’ve been telling myself.
I discovered more beauty in the words of others.
Words prompted by my IG question:
“You know what keeps me coming back? Your honesty! I enjoyed our brief talk at the She Speaks conference this summer. You have a very open and transparent way that makes it easy to relate and connect with you! I enjoy seeing the artwork (all different kinds) but I’m not a passionate lover of art. As someone who is struggling to find my own way in my own areas, I can however relate to the highs and lows that you openly share! I followed then out of curiosity about the work which you spoke about, but now I follow because I’ve really enjoyed seeing the winding road that is your journey. It is interesting to see your processes. As well as where the Lord might be moving in you next.”
Other comments were just as kind. An equal mix of people who like the mix of subjects I paint.
Interesting, so very.
The landscapes were referred to as “soulscapes”.
One comment suggested whatever I paint, continue to paint from the soul of me.
A couple more commented on the honesty in my sharing of my honest thoughts stemming from times I hear from God.
So Blue
Yesterday, I saw a friend at church, a fairly new one. We connected and hugged and she paused mid-sentence.
“Your eyes are so blue.” She said sweetly.
I smiled, told her I used to believe that, adding it’s been a while since I loved the blue.
She smiled.
I painted into the hours of dusk. A piece I put to the side, entitled “The Offering” was lacking a story I noticed.
It was dull.
I changed the position and posture of the figure, had her cradle the vase more gently and on a whim, her gown went from ivory to blue.
More confident and still quiet.
Still herself despite the critics or the questions of her own.
Strangely, I’ve never given the name “Quiet Confidence” to a painting.
She may be the one.
And while he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over his head. There were some who said to themselves indignantly, “Why was the ointment wasted like that? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.”
And they scolded her.
For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me.
She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for burial. And truly, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the whole world,
what she has done will be told in memory of her.” Mark 14:3-5, 7-9 ESV
Maybe…no, surely that’s a word for us all.
Do confidently what you can. These choices and gifts will be told in memory of you.
Yesterday morning, Christmas morning all misty and mellow, I walked early with Colt, the Labrador.
It was early, phone in my pocket and no pods in my ears, the world was whispering like sounds from a distant violin.
It was not noisy.
The birds sang, the trees ready for rain, rustled.
As a walk often does I was walking to unravel my thoughts, to shake off the embrace that had decided to grab hold, the worry for no reason, the sneaky attempts of changing my hope to dread.
The ways we walk, have walked in our lives…some of us, for most of our days left deep and muddy almost cavernous ruts we gotta decide to step up high and get on a new, undamaged by weather road.
I consider myself late to this learning.
That’s okay.
There’s grace for late in life learning and even more than that, there’s glorious celebration.
A few days ago, it occurred to me that I so less often “thank Jesus for helping me” than I do plead and moan consistently, “Jesus, help me. Jesus, help me!”
And I sort of quietly decided with tears to simply change the wording.
“Thank you, Jesus, for helping me.”
and so I said this on my walk along with the acceptance of “I am weak, you are strong”.
I don’t want to speak too soon (as I’m prone to do) but there’s a change that’s been coming in me and for me and I’m welcoming the newness of it.
The life lived from an embrace of the truth of being RESCUED.
December always makes me remember Merle Haggard, the hope of makin’ it until then and the days being brighter days once we’re there.
Yesterday, I thought of six words that I could call my December memoir.
Not a finish
A clearer path
There are places in the country I won’t walk with the babies.
Surprising, I guess because I’m sort of a rebel when it comes to strikin’ out on a walk.
“I’ll figure it out!” I’m known to announce.
I have memories of the year I lived with my mama and daddy, a period of seeking wellness from self-destructive eating.
I can’t tell you how many miles it was…
the circle of dirt road that began at my grandma’s house, through the peanut field, past the creek, up the hill, past the “shack”, past the farmer who wanted to date me’s house, through the weeds, around the curve to the lake where the rough people lived and past my Aunt Marie’s to be back home again.
It was way too far for a woman, young and with a reputation, to walk alone.
I was thin. I was lost. I was lonely.
Thinking back, it wasn’t health I was seeking, it was simply more self-destruction.
Trying to have my life match what I decided it was worth…not much at all.
That’s a hard pill to acknowledge. This meandering search I’ve sought, mostly taught, some stubbornly chosen.
“Self-destruction is an addictive behavior.” Rita Springer
I heard this truth last week.
And I’m kinda blown away by the resonance.
The truth that it’s not one specific or stereotypically thought addictive behavior that is addictive. Instead, it’s any and all of our choices and responses to life and our people and places in life, that lead us to this well worn and not so safe path.
I made a list. I love a list.
A list with words that may either seem too normal, not destructive or may seem like they aren’t choices that can become addictive, intentional choices we continue that are self-destructive.
I suppose I should soften this…no one wants to be told they are “self-destructive”.
How about behaviors that aren’t good for our bodies and souls?
Choices that don’t cherish the truth that our bodies are the temples of the Holy Spirit. Paul doesn’t sound too positive when he warns us.
But, have you ever noticed that he begins and ends his letters with a prayer that we’d all have the knowledge of God’s grace, His love?
“Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him. For God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple.” 1 Corinthians 3:16-17 ESV
Not so soft a warning, I thought.
So, back to the list, maybe an inventory year end of subtle and not so subtle self-destructive behaviors.
I chose a different header, kinder wording.
I chose
“What is NOT giving you quiet confidence and strength in God, in your choices these days?”
Accepting unkindness (abuse) in relationships
Taking on too much to please others and thereby determine your worth
Bad health, diet habits
Too much looking for good on a phone
Procrastination in regards to God’s nudges
Habitual time with God without reverence, sort of rote
Junk TV that takes my focus on God in me and puts it on the crazy or interesting lives of others (I love reality TV)
Clutter (mental and otherwise)
How are these self-destructive? Mostly because they have a tendency of putting God’s voice on “mute” in my daily life.
So, how do we move through our days, through December with a hope for the coming days.
I’m learning there’s one more important thing.
See suffering as fellowship with Jesus.
You may have heard all things are worked for good and you might have actually known people who say so.
But, do we really believe that they believe this?
Paul wrote about this fellowship.
“Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith— that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death,”
Philippians 3:8-10 ESV
Suffering has its gift.
Faith not in ourselves but in Christ
Sharing in His sufferings.
Becoming Christlike, a privilege really, not hardship (?)
That’s hard, not easy.
I’m not great at this. I avoid suffering with a well learned and established skill to be hyper vigilant.
Yesterday, baby Henry wanted to walk, not be strolled. He burst forward on toddling feet in socks, not shoes on the rocky path.
In the distance, a black thread laced across the path. I stood and watched, turned the baby back towards home and turned him back again. He was intent on forward, moving steady down the path.
The dog didn’t bark. The black snake made its way into the brush.
And we lingered and walked slowly in a rhythm of walking away from home and then turning back to home.
There was no need to hurry.
No need to fear. We were safe.
God was near.
There was no fight to be fought, nothing but us and the breeze and wide blue sky above us, God enveloping us and our faith in His ever present love.
“When we wrap the language of war around our suffering, it becomes a battle to be won rather than our experiences to be processed.” Katherine Wolf
I’ve never been good at fighting, only at sullenly retreating.
We weren’t made to fight, only to be faithful.
“For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.”
But you were unwilling, and you said, “No! We will flee upon horses”; therefore you shall flee away; and, “We will ride upon swift steeds”; therefore your pursuers shall be swift. A thousand shall flee at the threat of one; at the threat of five you shall flee, till you are left like a flagstaff on the top of a mountain, like a signal on a hill.
Therefore the Lord waits to be gracious to you, and therefore he exalts himself to show mercy to you. For the Lord is a God of justice; blessed are all those who wait for him.” Isaiah 30:15-18 ESV
There wasn’t time for a deeper conversation. There wasn’t the space nor would the talk about the state of my heart, my mind have been able to find space in all the other chatter.
Someone I love and who loves me and is wise, told me later on the phone…
“You looked so tired that day.”
And I did my best to decide whether to say that I was in fact tired, to share with her all the reasons of how I had just been pushing through
or to wait and see if her observation may have invited
a more beautiful conversation.
If she might have time to listen, if I might be brave to clarify. If she might be courageous enough to share her own heart.
Being honest is risky.
I try to recall that day. Was I exhausted or was I just me at 63?
Likely a combination.
But, wouldn’t it be beneficial in a loving way, I thought if she’d have said,
“How’s your soul, what’s on your mind, what’s causing you to feel unwell, what’s brewing underneath that’s about to boil over and you’re trying to keep it under wraps?”
“What’s the thing under the thing”
Then, I would have sensed an offer of hope.
This morning, before I threw off the covers, responded blurry eyed to a ding on my phone, I thought of this longing…to be seen,
to have a sweet conversation about why she thought I “looked so tired”.
I thought of Martha.
I thought of what Jesus told her and how women especially, decide even if in secret, “Mary was his favorite.”
And we know that Jesus was simple telling her to see her sister’s choice to rest as a better choice and still, I wonder…
Could he have elaborated, could he have spoken with more clarity and could Martha have used different language?
“And she went up to him and said, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.” Luke 10:40 ESV
Could Martha have been more vulnerable?
Could she have simply asked the question that prompted warm tears on my cheeks today?
“Jesus, do you see me?”
We likely don’t know the entire conversation, Jesus beckoning her from the kitchen to sit beside her sister.
What if what he meant was simply…you seem so tired, I know your gifts are serving, working, preparing and fixing…
So, come and rest with your sister and I and if you’d like to tell me more I’ll listen.
Many beautiful conversations have been had with the one who pointed out what she saw as my exhaustion.
I know she sees and saw me.
We’ll talk about it soon.
So, today’s good thing?
Being seen.
Who can I truly see today and in an honest exchange allow them to truly see me and then in a conversation that offers hope.
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 