Yesterday, on a fence by the country road, a white dove rested. I paused, but kept driving. I questioned my vision, was it really a dove or was I just hoping?
If I turned back would it still be sitting quietly, would the plump bird with the settled stance be waiting just for me?
How sweet a gift that would be.
Or not?
Later sparrows scattered away from the oak as my steps must’ve startled and a velvet red cardinal danced in a one, two…three trees step.
Bluebirds flew too, in the place on the path that’s most private.
“Blue’s your favorite color, Grandma.” Elizabeth, only 2.
Is God really near or am I just hoping?
“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me. Emily Dickinson
“And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation.
And this hope will not lead to disappointment.” Romans 5:4-5 NLT
As quickly as possible, she glided just in front of me, eye level. The robin with the determined forward facing beak and the copper like an old country barn belly intersected my path.
Colors
Last night I dreamt of white camellias mixed in with the crimson ones, a dream that followed a nightmare so vivid I sat straight up and startled my husband. He called me from work, confused over the brazenness of a bad dream occurring after I’d had such a love-filled day. He was worried.
Told him I was better. Thoughts we hide away like to come to the surface, I suppose. They refuse to go unattended. They become weapons in the hand of our enemy until we bravely surrender them to God in a lamenting letter or prayer.
So, I journal. I sit. I give God time to come and comfort.
To teach.
Wisdom
Simplicity is calling. I heard the birds waking up early outside my cold quiet home and I let my pen rest, closed my journal.
Could this be prayer?
Prayer mostly listening, uncomplicated by words or prescriptive wisdom?
I listened as the birds continued singing.
We looked for ponds yesterday and found them on the narrow country roads.
The sky was as blue as a diamond found next to the ocean.
The ponds as flat as stepping stones, little rippling at all.
“Here’s another one!” I announced to my granddaughter and she gazed so sweetly satisfied in our togetherness in noticing the water.
Yesterday, the robin met me and I kept driving to see my daughter and hers, felt the determination of a bird assuring me, better is coming.
Soon, it will be Spring. I saw other birds on Saturday, but it’s the robin I’ll remember.
The robin saying, “Set your intention. Your story is not yet finished.”
Your teachers are everywhere, saying this is the way, keep walking in it. (Isaiah 30:18)
Life is a beautiful, simple adventure.
Plump robins, blue skies scattered with white puffs, happy green fields anticipating Spring and flat fishing ponds hoping to be spotted, evidence of good, evidence of God’s intentional nature.
And interspersed in the noticing, friends I feared I’d forgotten too long remembered me, separately in the same day and I was a tiny bit amazed.
grace and love
God is everywhere. Don’t forget to notice.
Yesterday morning, I journaled a tender question. I asked God if my friends I call my “colors” are disappointed in me.
Time so quickly passing and I’d lost touch, gotten complacent with our stories and wondered if it matters.
One by one, I heard from four friends yesterday. Two of them, it had been over a year or more. I share such a tender question here so that you’ll see, along with me.
Wrapped in bright yellow foil scattered with pink and baby blue, the potted daffodils at Publix called my name.
I bought the pot of fully grown flowers and moved them into a terra cotta pot. The bird girl statue Elizabeth calls “our Angel girl” now holds a tray of potted pansies slowly wilting in one hand and the other, upward reaching daffodils on bright silky green.
They won’t last long, already full grown. What’s the use, I thought standing in the produce section staring longingly at the happy yellow flowers.
I thought of hope.
Thought of so much hope that’s in a state of deference, waiting for new life, waiting for evidence of our dreams being worth dreaming for again.
I thought of a song as I painted last week.
Like Springtime
An obscure songwriter not many will know, Chris Renzema, penned lyrics that keep dancing softly with me.
I first heard this song over a year ago. It just won’t let me go.
We will sing a new song ‘Cause death is dead and gone with the winter We will sing a new song Let “hallelujahs” flow like a river We’re coming back to life Reaching towards the light Your love is like springtime.
I walked yesterday, briefly and mostly for fresh air to cycle through my chest to move towards healing from a three day cough.
I saw the daffodils and had a new idea, hope and anticipation of Spring next year, of the daffodils the angel is holding today popping up like little joys encircling the statue.
Spring of 2023 will have me looking towards the little spot I treasure and I’ll watch and wait and laugh quietly when the flowers pop up in a cluster to say to me, see you hoped and waited and we came.
“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.” Proverbs 13:12 ESV
“We’re coming back to life Reaching towards the light Your love is like springtime
Come tend the soil Come tend the soil of my soul And like a garden And like a garden I will grow I will grow.”
Today marks the date of a phone call twelve years ago, my baby brother’s voice saying softly,
“She’s gone.” and the memory of my woeful sobbing, my head dropping heavy to my desk.
Mama, I’ve grown.
I’ll keep growing and hoping and looking heavenward. It’s hard to fathom, but impossible not to believe.
I’ll see you again. Like Springtime, it will be a beautiful day.
Until then, I’ll have a piece of coconut cake tomorrow and I’ll remember your truths.
“Lisa, never take backward steps, only move forward.” Bette (Elizabeth) Jean Peacock Hendrix 1939-2010
Once I was a member, although not fully eligible to join, of a community of people who gathered over grief.
I was the leader, though never feeling equipped. Often, I thought to advise or redirect which led to empty gazed expressions from those mourning a loss due to suicide.
It was simply better that I just sit with them, that I listen.
Often listening lasted too long for me.
Moments between a gut-wrenching story and the responses of others stretched out long around the conference table.
Still, sitting still together in silence was best.
On Tuesday, my granddaughter who’s two and a half going on twenty asked to get closer, get closer to the little birds.
I saw one bird on a thin branch. She spotted its companion nearby. We walked carefully, me instructing her, “Step up high, high knees, watch your feet, be careful!”
We walked over limbs, pine tree remnants and broken up soil in the place where the land is being cleared for changes, her future and her family’s.
I thought of, am thinking of David, of the psalms. One in particular I cling to and others so honest we’re reluctant to say we can relate.
“I lie awake; I am like a lonely sparrow on the housetop.” Psalm 102:7 ESV
We found our footing atop a little high place she called the mountains and we saw the sparrows before they flitted away.
In the margin of my Bible there’s a sketch here, a rooftop with a solitary bird brings me comfort, tells me others understand.
I have a very old Bible, an estate sale find. Once I thought to find the owner’s family, now I have decided it’s mine.
In this old Oxford Bible, a leather woven cover soft over the thin yellow pages, I find papers, a teacher’s identification card, and a lesson plan marked “January”, a typewritten script for 5th grade students on the color wheel.
The owner of the Bible I found was an art teacher.
Underlined in faded red, she must’ve wanted to express the importance of colors developing, merging, being strengthened when placed alongside or blended together.
I found it fitting to tuck the funeral pamphlet of my mama’s service here.
Here in January.
“Though I walk in the midst of trouble, thou wilt revive me: thou shalt stretch forth thine hand against the wrath of mine enemies, and thy right hand shall save me.” Psalm 138:7 KJV
Today, I journaled prompted by more ancient words, the quote in my “Joy and Strength” devotional.
Let them be strangers, your dark thoughts. Believe them not. Receive them not. Know them not. Own them not. (Joy and Strength, Isaac Pennington)
“For the Lord is the Spirit, and wherever the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” 2 Corinthians 3:17 NLT
Continue and believe. Share your sorrows. Listen and agree.
After a very long time, I pulled the stubby stems from the dirt. The four times or more repotted “lipstick plant” was not thriving.
The plant sent by my fellow choir members at the time of my mother’s death. Inside, then outside, repotted and revived, try and tried again until it was decidedly time to let it go.
The forest like ferns in the window box were just there, not thriving either. My master gardener cousin suggested them and I liked that she called them “Fall ferns.” To me they looked like a walk in the woods, a reminder of creeks and pine trees.
My husband’s recent hospitalization (he’s greatly improved) reminded me not then, but yesterday, I’m good at operating on auto-pilot.
I’m skilled at begin subtly hyper-vigilant, of draping myself in sort of an emotional bubble wrap.
And praying throughout it all, praying believing in the power of prayer and the nearness of God,
Until I’m not.
Until I remember, “this feels like that”.
While I believe in my healing because of my faith in Jesus, the physicality of past trauma and memories are remnants and threads in my tapestry. I’d love to believe I’ll one day not be affected, but I’m more hopeful in knowing my hopefulness in this regard is real progress.
Is peace, is going forward in peace.
Again.
Still, conversations about options for life, long days hoping for turnarounds, ICU waiting rooms with siblings taking turns to visit and calls with the announcement “gone” are realities I have experienced.
No wonder it all came back to knock me off my feet when I quit trudging forward in a fog, when I finally slowed down.
Grief catches up. Trauma is skillful in its tactics.
It’s best that we not avoid it, rather go down the road again and again to the place where the view is more clear, better, an invitation to known peace and comfort.
Allowing the intellectual revelation that my life has been affected by trauma and loss, I have an understanding of the fallout rather than falling apart because of it.
I am in tune with myself.
I can grieve what happened back then in a way that brings a tender resurgence of sadness, but not one that destroys me.
Because I know Jesus told many “to go in peace because you’re now well, you are healed”, but the brain often rebels.
I’m not a clinician.
I believe understanding leads to disciplined healing and I don’t think remembering our hard things is always detrimental. I believe it leads to both understanding and to gratitude for who we are now
Despite what happened then.
Remember my mama’s broken pot with the miraculously spreading succulents from her funeral?
Well, they withered like an old flattened tire. The December frost took them. I brought the pot inside, too late, maybe.
I ran my fingers across the soil and tried to help the plants perk up.
Just one tiny plant like a miniature palm is standing. I’ll wait before adding more. I’ll hope more will rejuvenate on their own, find the nourishment to keep on.
The window box ferns are limelight green in the terra cotta pot. They’re happier on the porch in new soil. They must love the chance to grow in the place where death was accepted to invite new flowering.
Life continues. Life reminds.
New days bring new acceptances of our responses that hinder our acceptance of hardship or hope and invite us to know which are best.
To be brave enough to know ourselves and even braver to invite a new perspective.
Or not so new, just remembered.
Redeeming our days, because we’ve been redeemed.
Knowing ourselves in light of knowing the God who knows even more deeply and says I’m with you here, I was with you there.
Go in peace, daughter.
Go in peace.
Be gentle with yourself. Keep growing.
“For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.” Isaiah 55:12 ESV
As Martha was met by Jesus, distraught over the death of her brother, she told Him she still believed in His goodness, in the purpose of Him.
Then, she went to get her sister Mary.
“She said to him, “Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, who is coming into the world.”” John 11:27 ESV
Mary stood next to Jesus and asked why he waited so long. Jesus wept.
Then he told the sisters to take him to their brother although it had been four days.
“Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?”” John 11:40 ESV
Lazarus was raised. Jesus told them both and all who had followed out of grief and curiosity, that this was the way God intended it, so that all would believe, not just the sisters.
All, like all of us.
“So they took away the stone. And Jesus lifted up his eyes and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this on account of the people standing around, that they may believe that you sent me.”” John 11:41-42 ESV
I woke up early, got my journal, books and pen and then felt the need, like a gentle call to read my (actual)Bible.
The Mary and Martha story is good. Always.
God’s timing is not ours. Don’t give up hope. Don’t stop believing in the grace, strength, mercy and presence of Jesus. Look at your life, remember times you asked for help and help came. Times of desperation because of delay of some sort.
Sometimes I pray “God, show us your glory today, come through in a way that it’s clearly you…’cause I’m not able on my own.”
And Jesus has come, has remedied, relieved, given me strength when I am weak.
These words gave me permission to consider my wandering, validated a truth I see in myself and wondered how many others wrestle with the same question.
Where is God today?
Why do I feel I’m in this battle alone?
What if my faith is fleeting?
Faint, yet pursuing. Judges 8:4
This verse describes a throng of warriors’ commitment to battle with their leader, Gideon.
“And Gideon came to Jordan, and passed over, he, and the three hundred men that were with him, faint, yet pursuing them.” Judges 8:4 KJV
I jotted down three verses from my Bible one day last week, folded the paper and put it in my “to do list” book.
The passages were from Psalm 42, Luke 2, and this Old Testament text.
Often, a trio like this will wrap me in its embrace of understanding, acknowledgement of question, and offering of clarity and peace.
Gideon, David and Mary share a theme that resonates. They wavered in their confidence and faith, maybe in a way like me, asked God to be near, asked Him to show evidence that their faith wasn’t without hope. That they can wander away and wonder in a questioning way and they can be themselves.
We can be ourselves.
God welcomes that.
David gives countless templates for questioning conversations with our approachable God.
“Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.” Psalm 42:11 KJV
Today, I pray you notice the Christmas around you. That you feel a nearness with Jesus, God’s intentional gift for us.
Nearness, more near than any humanly possible things.
Jesus Christ, the baby, little boy and man who dwelt among others and now, if you’ll allow Him dwells within, His Spirit
Strength and peace.
I pray that you believe in Jesus Christ as your Savior, not just the idea of Him, although it surely is the most beautiful idea on its own.
A baby born to then die for us. A baby born without sin to become a man crucified cruelly although without sin.
I pray you believe and that you begin to pursue and never stop pursuing even on dismal days, days when you’re battle weary and days when you being invited to participate in such a miraculous truth seems unbelievable.
“And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord.” Luke 1:45 ESV
Continue and believe. If life leads you to question, continue and be at peace.
The orchid, delicately teasing me with the buds barely visible, has been nothing other than knotty branches since I (read the instructions) shook the dust off the gnarled roots and repotted it.
God will help her when morning dawns.
While the dollar store Christmas cactus is popping out fuchsia shoots.
Left alone, barely watered since a Christmas last year with no blooms even hinting.
I thought “cease striving” last week, worried over the decision to order an extra 100 calendars from the printer.
I told myself, based on your history, forget about it, let it go, it’ll come back around, the interest in the calendar with your art.
Today, I woke at 5:00 and thought again, “cease striving”.
Let come what may.
Let things grow in their own time and way, not yours.
These are words I tell myself with regularity.
I opened my Bible to find Psalm 46:10 to read the psalmist’s same recommendation.
It wasn’t there. Instead, the words are “be still” in every translation I searched for comparison.
Somewhere I, and I believe others decided we may need a tone more disciplined, more direct.
“Cease striving”…with perhaps, once and for all added for emphasis, at least for me.
Psalm 46 is about rest. It is an exhortation to remember the strengths of God, his handiwork and plans.
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling.
Selah
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God will help her when morning dawns. The nations rage, the kingdoms totter; he utters his voice, the earth melts. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.
Selah
Come, behold the works of the Lord, how he has brought desolations on the earth. He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear; he burns the chariots with fire. “Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.
The psalmist, David, is speaking of himself when he speaks of glory. Our stories of overcoming are what contributes to our glory? I’m on day two of contemplating this.
Monday Morning
Last week I used Romans 8:28 as a password then quickly thought oh, you better not do that, you’ll invite trouble or sorrow to solidify the verse…all things work together for good for His glory.
This errant thinking is the thinking of one who sometimes forgets grace, healing, forgiveness and it is a ploy of the enemy of my soul.
I’m remembering now, a helpful self-thought.
Jesus would never talk to you this way, would never stir such fearful, worrisome, dreadful emotions. Be certain.
Twice in the past few days, my words have been few. I typed and deleted, moved pen from the paper, decided a little was enough.
A card with the words “Psalm 23” printed and underneath, “love, Lisa”.
I woke at 2:48 on Sunday night, the mystery of 3:00 a.m. again. My chest was heavy, but sorrowful, not startled.
There was no rapid beat, only a noticeable bearing down.
I was still as I acknowledged all the recent conversations that God was sifting in my sleep, helping me make sense and accept His peace.
I told a friend about a conversation with someone in fresh grief. They asked “How are they?”
I replied, “Well, when I left, I paused in my car, looked forward and saw that my face was lined black with mascara.”
Then I told them I don’t cry easily. This surprised my friends.
On Monday, I searched for a favorite Psalm, one I’d read aloud some years ago, tears not stopping the verses’ promised song, Psalm 30, a psalm of David.
Many are mourning. I’m only an observer touched by the sorrow of others.
I know the promise is true, the one that promises dancing from mourning.
I know it’s a long journey, one of patience with self because of our patient and loving God.
I know that healing comes. Quite often, I require a reminder.
Psalm 30 is that.
For me, maybe you.
“I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up and have not let my foes rejoice over me. O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me.
O Lord, you have brought up my soul from Sheol; you restored me to life from among those who go down to the pit. Sing praises to the Lord, O you his saints, and give thanks to his holy name. For his anger is but for a moment, and his favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.
As for me, I said in my prosperity, “I shall never be moved.” By your favor, O Lord, you made my mountain stand strong; you hid your face; I was dismayed. To you, O Lord, I cry, and to the Lord I plead for mercy: “What profit is there in my death, if I go down to the pit? Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness?
Hear, O Lord, and be merciful to me! O Lord, be my helper!” You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness,
that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!” Psalm 30:1-12 ESV
A second friend whose father was a friend and a father figure to me spoke of her grief in this season. I’m no expert on grief, I assure you.
But, she said what felt like truth and comfort and evidence of her patience with herself in her journey. I may not quote her exactly, just the gist of it.
Grief never goes away, our lives just become more full around its center.
I wonder if I’m more observant of the light because of darkness so early or if it’s a needy seeking of quietness with myself leading to peace with God.
I found a feather next to the pretty bottle we store our found feathers, my granddaughter’s sweet solution I adore.
Left for Finding Light of the World Known
“In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1:4-5 NIV
And God said, “Let there be light.” and there was light. Genesis 1:3 ESV
Thinking of light and darkness like knowledge vs. mystery or questions vs. answers, certainty vs. doubt, I found John 1 and had a quiet little cry.
We don’t know it all, but we do know light, love and hope.
Light is trust.
“We are conformed to Him in proportion as our lives grow in quietness, His peace spreading within our souls.” T.T. Carter, Joy & Strength devotional
In quiet confidence is your strength. (Isaiah 30:15)
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 