Because of Honeysuckle

Faith, grace, praise, rest, Trust, Vulnerability

Tonight I met someone offended by faith. I didn’t know right away that their belief in not believing was a factor in their frustration.

I didnt know until I had begun to say goodbye and discovered in a random few words, they were devoid of faith, had decided to go it alone, were steadfast in their rebellion of its embrace.

Last night, I read a blog written by someone who’d decided the searching and seeking for God was a wasteful plummet into never quite good enough, never ever anything other than disgrace in the face of grace. I remember that lack, that lost.

The writer had decided to not be wrangled any longer,had decided to throw off the burden of impossible aspiring towards the good grace of God.

I thought of them both, I thought of the stubborn decision to not believe…to refuse to waver in their close fisted, closed mind and closed heart deciding to be independent of God.

I know God is in my days, in my details. I know my life before believing, when fear of measuring up led me to be convinced that believing was a venture down a path with no assurance of ever having a chance of arriving.

I remember those days of looking for God but not seeing Him.

I remember searching, being lost.

Worried he might see me, unaware that he always had and that what He saw He knew already.

Seeing God, believing God is nothing more, yet so much more than can be explained.

It’s encounter. It’s acceptance of being made, fearfully, wonderfully, knowingly and purposefully.

It’s yearning to walk with Him because you’ve walked without Him, without knowing His Son and believing in His mercy, accepting Him and His grace.

But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain. I Corinthians 15:37

God is not an explanation, a reporting of data driven research.

God is relationship. God is personal.

God is a tender force, ever present, beckoning us to turn, to trust, to linger, to be at peace.

I paused to notice the flowers tucked in the shrubbery. The dog was patient as I stopped, thinking what is this bloom, not honeysuckle; there was no vine.

The fragrance of the bloom reminding of my days on dirt roads my children holding hands. I thought, how amazing is our earth that even blooms are family, even scents are in communion?

This is why I believe in God. Because my soul knows very well.

Moments like this, an evening walk, a blooming tiny flower and the timeliness of all of it

All at once to be noticed by me, by God.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. How wonderful are your works.

My soul knows it very well.

Psalm 139: 14

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee. Here’s a wonderful post about giving and generous acts unexpected:

http://jenniferdukeslee.com/

Commas, Periods and Joy

courage, Faith, Prayer, rest, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized

I write grants. I deplore asking for money. That’s tough, but an honest admission.

What I enjoy so, so much is sharing stories of our work, compelling others to come alongside in giving.

Two big grants were denied within days of each other…one large in amount, one large in significance. Two things in my “pending” file that have now been decided upon, denial…not a comma, a period.

So, I decided to Let it go, Lisa. Turn the page. Close the book.

God is in control. Walk by faith. Period.

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The monthly Faith column contributed for April:

Grammar and God

I must admit there are times I could use an editor. In life and in writing I have a tendency to overuse the comma. Quite often and unnecessarily, I pause in the middle, hanging on to an idea, taking it down some path rather than closing with a firm ending, a period. If you’ve had more than a few conversations with me, you’ll know I can talk about a variety of things all at once. I have been told it can be hard to know whether I’ve finished with one thing before jumping to the next. I jump around and then pause, circling back to the beginning. I don’t think a comma would even help there. My life sometimes feels like a series of long run-on sentences.

A friend who is a wise conversationalist shared a bit of wisdom last week. Surprisingly, this insight came from a very young woman, a patient of hers. My friend, advising the young woman through trauma and life change, had been listening as her patient recalled her hardships. She paused, looked at my friend and said, “Maybe I should start using periods instead of commas.” She had essentially realized the time had come to rest, to accept certain truths.

In my desk, there’s a folder marked “pending”. About once a week I take it out, remind myself of its contents. I may remove a paper or finish a task left undone, but I don’t hassle over the items waiting. I leave them there in the place of pending. Life is full of waiting, wondering and pausing.

It can be torment to keep looking at what we don’t know, what’s not yet complete. We have commas and long pauses of doubt all over the places of our lives. What if we made prayer our pending file? Waiting would be less overwhelming. What if our lives modeled good grammar, God’s grammar? I decided to become more disciplined in my commas by adding more periods. I made a list of truths and marked them with strong, black dots of assurance, periods at the end of each. Have faith in God. Pray, and let God work. Trust God’s plan. God is good. God is in control. Let it go, Lisa.

The Book of James guides us in times of trouble. We are to expect trouble. We’re told there will be times we feel our “sentences” will never be complete, our circumstances unresolved, and our delays will lack an understanding. We will meet trials of various kinds. Do not doubt. Ask God. Believe. Don’t be tossed about. Ask in faith for wisdom, Amen, add a period.

Count it all joy when you meet trials. The testing of your faith produces steadfastness. James 1:2

Turn the page.

Close the book.

Re-read your Faith column.

Live what you believe.

Count it as joy.

Tomorrow’s another day.

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee as she reminds us all of the miralce we are, the miracles within and around us…http://jenniferdukeslee.com/miracle/

Mud Rooms and God

Faith, family, grace, rest, Trust, Uncategorized

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I cleaned the mudroom/dog’s room/art studio last night. It was an absolute mess! There was green paint, pale in places on the wall I hadn’t seen before.

I remember the painting, large and vibrant sunflowers against muddy muted green.

My hands and my fingertips I’d used to create the raised center of flowers and then with sandpaper and a metal tool, I’d distressed the background, removing paint, exposing the old wood underneath.

Art is tactile. Life and God, too.

His hands all over our lives, we in His hands.

We, the clay

He, the potter.

Us, the work of His hand.

I thought of my painting style, a bit impatient, erratic.

Calm, but with fury in my focus.

The potter, though, has a gentle hand. The potter is slowly creating, no rush all rhythm.

Giving and grace-filled, a light tender touch.

Taking away, adding to or starting again.

A blob of clay held steady near the lap of the potter becomes a beautiful vessel.

Every circumstance, a question about what’s ahead, whether happy, disappointing, or unfolding is a molding of me.

If I truly believe God’s hand is ever on my life, then I’ll not be afraid.

I’ll not worry.

I’ll not live with the anxiety that compels me to know everything all the time.

I’ll stay there, okay in not knowing all, His potter hands on my life, my heart and I’ll surrender.

I’ll sit still there, accepting what He has in mind for me, for those I love, all vessels made from clay into a beautiful design of the hands of the potter.

Yet you, Lord, are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand. Isaiah 64:8

Tell His Story

Outside with Blues

grace, rest, Trust

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Citron Pines and Simple Sentences

Faith, grace, rest, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

I’m dying to paint again; yearning to be effortless for a few hours.

To capture on canvas the color of the pines as the late day sunlight landed on limbs.

To somehow convey the joy of veering off my normal walk to be surprised by the happy color of citron splashed on a row of young pines.

To express the way my day turned for better because of this happenstance encounter of tree.

It was a beautiful sight.

To spread the old sheet over the dining room table, fill the mason jars with water and line up the tubes of paint and brushes.

To have no preconceived ideas or projects, just to express.

That is all.

I’m prone to striving, to determined effort and attempts.

I write because I haven’t written.

I focus on approval of reader rather than simplicity of sentence.

I catch myself. I should probably trash it; but, I trod on adding to, saying more, thinking it may sound different or prettier, just a maze of overstated circling of whatever it is I meant to say.

See, I’m doing it again.

But, painting is different. I can cover a botched painting and stubbornly continue until what I get is what I know to be true.

The difference is the effort.

To be effortless is to be genuine.

Because effort is akin to striving, pushing, forcing, refining, fighting for a perceived perfect outcome.

Effort is not joy, not from the soul.

Effort is unrest. Unrest no one may ever see, ever take as less than good enough.

But, the heart of the writer, the painter, the poet, it knows.

So we try again, less effort this time.

And we are at peace because we know, our good never comes by force.

We are satisfied in splash of color or semblance of sentence.

Cease striving.

Know that He is God.

Psalm 46:10

Prayers Left Alone

Children, courage, Faith, grace, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized

Mary loved Jesus.

She’d wiped his feet with her hair.

She’d spent time in worship while Martha was bitter, angry and anxious over his presence in their home…worried she might not be good enough still.

Martha and Mary both struggled over the delay in Jesus coming to help their brother. He was dead.

I imagine they felt, “Well, not all my prayers and struggles matter to Jesus”

I’m the same way.

One prayer spoken can bring what seems an immediate resolution while another lingers unresolved for what feels like years, sometimes is.

Mary waited quietly.

Martha, still anxious and panicked, ran out to ask “Why so long?”

Mary had the same question; but, with a surrendered approach, a desire to understand and grow, she went out to welcome Jesus.

I want to be like Mary; to hear Jesus say “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” John 11:40

Most days I’m so uncertain of prayer it’s almost a passing thought.

A passing thought like early yesterday morning.

My daughter called. Her wallet was lost; somewhere between job, soon to be new home, and her bedroom here. We’re transitioning, a wedding very soon.

She will be moving out.

My house is in total disarray. Doors are closed to rooms that have become storage units and pretty little spots are unorganized and off kilter.

I searched everywhere, finally the laundry room.

Standing in the center of a spot only big enough for my feet. Two laundry baskets overflowing and shelves covered in socks unmatched, towels, things waiting to be hung or thrown back in to fluff, I ran my hands though the clothing and searched for a wallet I had no idea how would haved ended up here.

Stopped then, giving up the search and said a silent prayer, really just a thought, “Lord, please help Heather find her wallet.” and then decided to just go on with my morning.

Texted her to say, “Sorry, no wallet here anywhere”. I expected to hear later she’d found it.

She replied, “I just found it.”

I told her I had prayed. “Power of prayer” she replied.

I’m praying for bigger things than misplaced wallets lately.

I’m praying with big lumps in my throat and with an honest pleading of surrender.

Praying so much it feels like angst, like work, like frustration.

Prayers that I know God is hearing; but, maybe wondering why I’m hesitant to believe.

Why I’m ranting so, when help is on the way…in time.

Maybe not as immediate a response as a laundry room prayer.

I’ll believe and I will see, soon.

As soon as I continue on my way, resolute in His glory.

As soon as I decide to stop my diligent search for the answer, like a wallet left at work that was never in any of the places I looked, after all.

If I’ll let go, sit quietly and wait to welcome the arrival of the one who heals.

If I will believe.

Have faith in God. Mark 11:24

I’m linking up with others who tell stories of believing.

Stumbling Into Morning

Children, courage, Faith, family, grace, rest, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized, wonder

Yesterday, I drank from my son’s cup. Paisley flowers, curlicues, creamy colored. A cup, bought by a still chubby, middle schooler on a church trip with his friends. He came home, announced, “Here, I got you something.”

So, I drank my coffee, turned my back from the window, the morning so heavy with fog, no desire to gaze towards sunrise.

I read of a man in the Book of John, unable to move towards the water, to be healed.

Scripture defining him as “an invalid’.

Him and many others, others who’d decided to go down into the water, to believe they might see change; to be an invalid no more.

To be valid.

But, he couldn’t figure out how to move towards healing; he didn’t believe he could move what must have been just steps away.

He couldn’t step. He expected he’d fall, an invalid, after all.

⁶When 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?”⁷The 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.” ⁸Jesus said to him, “Get up, take up your bed, and walk.” ⁹And at once the man was healed, and he took up his bed and walked.

John 5: 5-9

I thought of all times I’m paralyzed, unable, unwilling to try, until I stumble back towards the water.

I thought of the invalid; vowing to never to use the description again, recognizing how low a feeling it is to doubt one’s validity.

Walking outside with dogs as morning requires, I noticed in the lingering fog, the pear tree beginning to bloom.

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The blossoms barely there against the full of a bland sky, insignificant on this less than optimistic day.

This morning I’m drinking from a different cup. It’s lined in the color of bluebird. It’s a funky little cup, my daughter’s. A big, healthy hog etched in the center of its round edges.

My daughter loves pigs, goats, cats, dogs, cows, livestock, in general. Her bridal portrait on Sunday will have a backdrop of peach blossoms and trees spread so far and wide, for miles it seems.

This morning, I sat with her cup.

The sky spoke, saying…”You can’t imagine the day I have for you, Lisa!”

So, I moved towards our big backyard, looked up and knew it was true.

Not just today, but so many more to come.

Stumbling, prancing, walking slowly or simply standing still in the early morning

If I could, I’d count these birds of this morning, their voices all a flutter.

I’d touch each blossom of the white flowers of pear tree and I’d know undoubtedly the significance, the validity of my every day.

I’d write on my heart, in my palm with a sharpie or somehow remember more strongly…the beautiful mercy of believing and stumbling into morning to be healed.

Life and Papers

Children, Faith, family, grace, Motherhood, praise, rest, Trust, Uncategorized

Vignette of my life

My day was all over the place; my mind, too.

This first, then what? Work list, home list, wedding list

to do.

Starting, stopping, pausing, pecking at everything, but finishing nothin’!

I sat, disorganized and discouraged, looked up and over the scattered

stacks sorted just yesterday; making no sense now.

Paused at this little vignette. (I use that word to excess, ’cause I love it. So, no apologies for my pretty little indulgence of word.)

I saw it then, the little thing making sense of it all…

Oh, okay….this is the problem. The paperweight’s upside down.

Smiling then, accepting the now of my life.

But, I left it there; because for some reason it makes more sense this way….at least for now lightens the mood a little.

My baby girl is getting married 4 Saturdays from this very day.

My son is almost done with his first year of college. He had pancakes his sister cooked us just now.

A grant I wrote for our homeless shelter was approved.

I didn’t trip in my heels yesterday in front of a fancy audience of women.

The sun is shining. I’ll go for a walk.

Later ride to the country, my daughter’s new home soon.

Oh, the little, big things worth noticing.

Good day, friends and family.

Good day!

Earth and Heaven – Dirty Feet and Peace

courage, Faith, grace, praise, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I wondered about the soles of my feet yesterday.

Bare feet, pointed towards my friend, a yoga instructor, I remembered the callouses from my days of fancy shoes and I thought of the hardness of my heels. Hesitated there only a second, purposeful in my breathing, the intent of this new thing for me, a practice in resting my mind.

Earlier, my pastor mentioned dirty feet in his sermon.

He glanced my way when he spoke of the method of travel in those days. He spoke of Jesus washing feet. Feet on the ground. The earth uncushioned, the dryness of soil showing no mercy; yet, feet followed closely in their seeking of Jesus, of heaven.

For just a few seconds, I was there. I was one of those women, my dress touching the earth, like a curtain, full and billowing on a dining room floor. My feet, dusty and tired. The soles and heels hardened by my journey; but, not yet weary in my pursuit of peaceful destination.

Others there, dusty brownish gray hard feet, all of us witness to His cleansing.

Seeing the blind see.

The lame walk.

Walking with Jesus, pausing because a desperate father has brought a child to be healed or to be with a sister waiting for Jesus, almost hopeless for a brother to live.

My thoughts were there; my dirty, earthen feet longing for Jesus.

To be one of the throng of followers, surely weary from watching.

Circled round the cross in mournful lament,

Our dirty feet holding up our weary hearts.

Hearing Jesus say, “It is finished.” John 19:30

Maybe falling to filthy, tormented ground to join in bellowing grief.

And later, to be standing with Mary, to have seen the scars and believed in His promise…the way of peace.

“Peace be with you.” John 20:26

I sat with hands folded towards my heart yesterday. This new thing I’m doing, not faith-based necessarily but, beautiful in the mingling of my faith.

Bare feet, yoga pants not quite covering waist of panties and uncertain of the meaning of “Namaste”, I prayed in warrior pose and I prayed in victor’s breath; practiced what’s called soul breathing, eyes closed and heart towards heaven.

Dirty feet and cleansed soul.

Earth and Heaven

Joined together in bare feet.

I’m linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee and am treasuring the truth

of her words today, “your critics don’t own you.”

http://jenniferdukeslee.com/what-we-all-need-to-know-about-our-critics-tellhisstory/

Messy, Pretty, Good

courage, Faith, grace, rest, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

There’s paint spattered on the wall, a greenish blue ocean color.

A canvas a while ago, I was intent on the texture of sky and sea, large brush strokes, attacking white canvas…until I got it right. Kept at it until satisfied.

Until I could step back, look towards color and be content with what I’d made.

If it’s good, there’s peace and rest. Not good, its surface gets painted over, propped up to dry and I’m torn between trying again or letting it be.

I’m always certain of plans for a painting, intent and abandoned in the process.

I’m hard on myself, denying I’m meant to create. What is talent, who decides?

Just like that, I leave it for a time…let it go.

Then, an afternoon frees itself and I’m covering the table in sheets, laying out paint, filling mason jars with water and bringing out the piece I gave up on, maybe a blank canvas too.

And I paint. I change black to blue, textured with thick layers like silk, reds, bright and full.

Poppy-like blooms, strong and long green stems barely able to support the fullness of blooms.

Later, it’s dry and I can hardly stop myself from staring. I turn it to its back and sign, “LT…Quiet Confidence…Isaiah 30:15”.

Called it “Joy”.

Joy

Yesterday. I woke with recall of the sweetest and smallest of unexpected good. Today, as well.

I looked over towards pine tree tops and saw sunlight peeking through.

I sat there, with that sweetness…yesterday and today.

Remembering how I’d pushed for perfect.

How I’d given up, defeated and despondent until like a child pitchin’ a fit, I’ve done all I can do and I traipse away to my corner to accept life as it has been given, my perceived pitifully unfair lot in life.

Until, like a sullen and sulking child, I begin to let go and let it be.

And God, like a parent who saw that special thing hoped for; but, held back knowingly, softly walks back in and says. “Here, child. This is what I had for you. It’s better than what you wanted.”

It’s the unexpected and gloriously beautiful, like rich red and peaceful blue paint on a discarded old piece of wood.

Merciful grace to those tripped up by hastened and erratic desire.

Messy made pretty, made good.

Return to rest, my soul. The Lord has been good to you.

Psalm 116:7

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee, Tell His Story

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