I just asked the Lord, wrote him a morning note in my journal.
How is it that I feel so close to you Lord, every morning, yet, by day’s end I’m worn out and walking, looking for you in the sky? What draws me back to the middle, the hollow place between fervor and fading, between living and languishing?
And he answered me with the pencil in my hand. Lean in, listen more closely. Don’t stay in the background questioning your value. Don’t stand at a distance afraid of what might not come true. Lean in, Lisa, I see you believing. Don’t be like the skeptical and uncertain ones who rejected me in the synagogue of my place of birth.
Thinking there’s no way, his father is just a carpenter and aren’t his brothers just common men? They wouldn’t believe, maybe they were pompous or possibly just afraid, thinking themselves unworthy or incapable of what believing might bring.
So, Jesus carried on to draw near to ones with open minds and desperate hearts in need of a Savior.
May I not so grow so confident or accomplished that I neglect to lean in and believe.
May I not be afraid because of who I’m not, to be who Jesus knows I am.
And He did not do many works there, because of their unbelief. Matthew 13:58
Linking up with Kate at FMF http://katemotaung.com/2017/01/12/five-minute-friday-middle/
I was enthralled by her retelling. Her hand holding her daughter’s. Her husband took his life. She did not know why.
I listened and agreed, there is yet, no reason why. They’d unraveled, retold, no answers. Nothing to have known.
The pauses are long sometimes. Have they more to say? Are there replies that might heal? We pause.
The room is still; but, not uneasy.
She reaches into her purse, I figure to fill empty space, maybe look for Kleenex or phone.
Instead, she finds a book and she reads to us about grief and the only thing that has brought comfort, she adds.
“Grief” she read aloud, is hard and it is unpredictable and onerous in its coming, occasional going and coming again.
Still, if there is the opportunity to notice beauty, then there are moments that feel less like grief.
Oh, I thought, the noticing makes the difference…yes, me too.
I lead the meetings and I’m awkward at times and I’m sad later, not during,
having heard their stories.
I take them with me home.
But, I listened as she read from little green book and my eyes welled up as she offered hope to the ones who were there to make her hopeful, help her make sense of her senseless.
So, I cried a little in the presence of her bravery on that, her first time at support group.
I woke at 5 the next morning, thinking of beauty, I drifted and slept for a little longer, more pleasant.
Ventured down the hall, good morning pats on heads of dogs and then walked outside with them onto grass barely daylight lit.
Tennis ball tosses, one or two and then I look down on shadowy ground obscure.
One, I see and reach down to collect it, then two, three blue feathers at my slippered feet. Not too many know, my place of settling, everything an arrangement of three.
And I’m thinking still, two nights later about the complexity of pattern, of life, of grief, of brave recitation and of my mind
that woke with thoughts of beauty and followed to find it there.
Thinking now of all of the all togethers of beautiful noticing.
We walked just a short way and a solitary bluebird, older, I decided because of size ,followed us along.
The sun returned with glorious abundance now.
How can we not notice? How can we not believe?
How can we suppose we know anything, really with certainty other than God?
Shall the potter be regarded as the clay, that the thing made should say of it’s maker, He did not make me?
Isaiah 29:16
Morning Prayer, jotted freely
Good morning, God, thank you for this day!
For sleep, sunshine, Scrabble, food,warmth, loud laughter with the ones I love, and for words. Thank you for your words, my words you allow me to conjure. May I go into this day, joyfully open to your bending of me and your making me what you’ve known so long as good, purposed and sufficient.
May I lean more closer in, to that place of grace, of assurance, of trust in the story that has more chapters to be written. May I believe you more.
I’m updating this blog to share again a story of a gentle man who danced and prayed, a man who is loved by many and is sadly under hospice care. I’m not related. I have relatives who are. I imagine the legacy he will leave his family is immeasurable. His prayer about believing God sees us, hears us and even listens when we talk, and talks right back, it made a forever impression on me. I am grateful for that.
Join me if you will in praying for the family and friends who are surrounding this sweet prayerful dancer under the care of doctors who are saying, Soon his dance will be heavenly.
I am remembering this story from 2017.
I’m gonna tell this sweet story here because it’s just too precious not to be told. It’s all about dancing and desire and the way God listens and waits for our asking, God waits to dance with us. For our rhythm to be one of agreement, our desires to be fulfilled.
seeing, hearing, knowing, our Father who art in Heaven
Oh, he danced. We all danced at their wedding. I watched him for awhile, looking at the young people as they jumped up to dance, his face bearing a sweet smile as the couples made their spots on the floor their own. I watched as he shimmied his shoulders and tapped a little tune with his cane. Finally, he got up and he danced. And just like the first time I saw him, heard him pray, the whole room took notice and we all got the chance to see a life lived fully with wisdom and desire. I was glad to be in his presence again, the man who told me God listens.
Two weddings this year, my daughter and the love of her life, my niece and her’s…two chances to dance with the ones we love. Two chances to see the fulfilling of desires.
Sweet Dance of Desire – Heather and Benji
Take delight in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.
Psalm 37:4
I didn’t expect it. I don’t know if any of the others did.
Of course, I didn’t really know them, this family of sisters and cousins about to be my niece’s family.
We all sat semi-circle in pale floral upholstered chairs in the church parlor. It’s been a long time since I sat in a parlor, I thought.
We’d joined hands earlier, a stranger and I next to each other and the matriarch said grace as we sat ladylike. We filled ourselves with pineapple cheese ball on salty Ritz crackers, watermelon, little sandwiches and homemade cheesecake.
Where I’m from we call these foods “Nic-Nacs”. We talk about the recipes and we go back for thirds, not seconds on the tiny little plates. We look around to see who’s first to indulge. Southern ladies allowing themselves a little extra, smiling slightly towards one another, our lips lined brightly with corals and pinks.
Gifts were opened, names recorded by my daughter, oohs and ahhs were like lyrics, a pretty little melody, bouncin’ about the parlor.
Then, towards the end, the granddaddy walks in. A handsome sweet face, feeble but, determined and just glad to be with us. His walk was slow and uneven, one leg causing a struggle, he leaned on his cane, his body resting in a slanted way. Still, he had a confident swagger in step, sportin’ his dress pants and crisply ironed shirt.
I thought he must have just come alone, must live close by or had been waitin’ in the car for his mate. In the South, men don’t get to go to bridal showers, it’s pretty well known and understood.
He joined the circle for a bit then his daughter introduced him,
“Daddy wants to say a few words”.
He took his time as he stood, waiting for us all to stop our chatter. It was a treasure to him, I could tell, to just be with us and to “talk about the Lord with you ladies for a few minutes”.
They were words of instruction and love and of his hopes for the soon to be wed. He was happy that his family is growing, he said. His words not just a platitude. He talked about prayer, and about desire.
We all sat quietly, my daughter across the room, glanced towards me, her face, sweet as if to say, “I know you love this, mama.” There was a sense of the significance of this time, his words, our chance to listen and hold on.
He talked about his life, his trials, his troubles, his God and his telling of stories to whomever he meets. A variety of people, I thought who have been captivated by his curiously wise dialogue.
Long pauses, between sentences, he was thinking, figuring, preparing what God had for him to say. His time in the church parlor he considered an opportunity, meaningful, worth something, I could tell. So, he paused a long pause before saying one thing clearly, his voice commanding our attention. He paused to make sure we all were captive in our seats.
“I can hear God. He talks to me all the time. I tell you one thing, people don’t believe me, that I hear him; but, I keep telling him how I feel, what I need. He answers me. If I had one of those contraptions that measured…what’s the word…decibels, I can assure you I hear him all the time. I’d have something to show the ones who don’t believe me, don’t need it, though, I hear him. It’s real clear, too”
“You can too and you can tell him anything.” He added.
“But, just make sure that if you desire something and you tell him, that you really, really desire it, because he will give you what you desire.”
Then I listened as he prayed for the soon to be married couple and for all of us ladies and I waited, still and attentive to his sweet voice.
I listened, longing to hear more.
I made sure to see him at the wedding, be sure my husband had a chance to meet him. My niece asked me to pray before the meal and I did my best, all the time wishing I’d been able to hear his prayer instead. I wish I’d suggested it, I thought, before the final plans had been made.
But, I prayed a prayer about love and family and looked over at the granddaddy after my “in Jesus’ name, Amen” to see his encouraging nod as if to say “You did fine, He heard, he knows the desire of your heart, remember? He just told me so.” And then a smile that felt like love with just the slightest wink of Southern gentleman.
And then, we dined and we danced knowing our desires were very known.
There are a couple of words I love most in my collection of “perfectly pretty words”.
The way they sound when they’re spoken by me, at least from my perspective is just special, significant and kind of sweet.
And the way the letters are so balanced and artful, their dots and intersected cursives making their mark on my pages.
I love them. Two in particular, vignette and epiphany.
I love a pretty place on bedside table, a collection of unevenly numbered things, a clock, a pebble, a book or a candle, framed photo and glass jar filled with pretty pencils. I step back or sit next to a spot, eyes drifting over to my “vignette” and I smile.
I opened the planner on my desk left clean for my return after Christmas. Not marked yet, I turned to January.
Paused when I saw it, “Epiphany” , it’s tomorrow, the 6th.
Epiphany, the day that marks the time the Magi encountered Jesus, the newborn, Son of God.
I use the word when I stop suddenly upon a realization of truth or a long sought understanding.
I use it when the waiting and the hardest parts of my life show me their worth, their lesson, their value.
“Oh, I just had an epiphany.” I’ll say to myself, its validity a personal and precious gift.
Epiphany, an intuitive revelation. Intuition, another especially beautiful word.
Like “vignette” as description makes the ordinary arrangement more special, “epiphany” makes our realization more heart and soul.
This morning I read a verse from Psalms that made me think of striking out on my own and the paths I’d rushed towards or stumbled through in search of desire and destination. The things I see when I wait to see through God’s eyes are much grander, established, settled, safe and sure.
“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you.”
Psalms 32:8 ESV
This verse makes me smile. I can hear it now….the voice of one or the other of my children. ” I spy…with my little eye.” I’d love that pause between spy and with because I knew their little minds were thinking about what might be hard to find and how much of an adventure it would be for us to either find it or give up!
God never takes his eye off me. I believe there are good things he wants me to seek…to stay right beside him, to depend on his not so little eye.
Or like a lost and disoriented misguided mule without reins, we’re either uncertain or overconfident. Lacking direction and stubbornly impatient.
Because, I spy with my little eye only a tiny bit of the light of what’s to come, like a skinny strip under a midnight door, I can see just enough to get by.
Then, I stop looking for it or remember to see it
little vignettes and silently sought epiphanies
revelations of God.
Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee at Tell His Story
We lived in a cute apartment in a sort of upscale community, my baby brother and I. Our apartment was above a retired couple.
Their comings and goings always together, I’d glance down at them from the kitchen window, he gently helping her from the car and carrying one or two bags of groceries.
Occasionally,he looked up, his expression a contrast in wisdom and frustration.
Yet, they never complained of our late hours, our trash piling up or our completely haphazard life.
Both of us single, both of us sowing wild and hapless oats.
Every Sunday, they went to church. Sharply dressed and contentedly methodical were their steps back home.
On one particular evening, we ended up close enough for words. I asked the gentleman, “How can I know God’s will for me?”
Surprised by what he must have seen as a lost and careless young woman, he just stood there. “I’m sorry if we are loud up there sometimes.” I said, ashamed I’d asked the question.
Still, no words as we stood together in the shade of stairwell. Do I wait, do I leave him be? Should I not have invited his sermon? Will he rightly point out my sins?
He answered with a book. I’d love to say it lives on my shelf; unfortunately, the patterns of my life were not abruptly changed that day.
But, a seed planted, oh my goodness and I’m so glad God allowed me time enough for it to grow.
There are many who will not believe there are big portions of my life not well-lived.
Who may think I talk of redemption and wonder how on earth do I really think I needed to be redeemed.
Last night, a text came. I was painting and cleaning my art room. I’d walked the dog in the mist and fog, praying hard and quietly demanding as I walked.
The old heavy and annoying albatross of anxiety had begun to linger above my head.
It’s such a dull and cumbersome feeling, the one that cooks up chaos, confusion and confoundedness in the heart and mind.
I decided, after listing all my anxious taking of responsibility for plans gone awry to God, to head home, be quiet and paint. “I’ll paint. I’ll listen to Alison Krauss and I’ll just paint.”
So, I’m painting in silence because the air has cleared, my mind unfurled and open.
My painting, not furious, but an easy comfort.
My prayer was heard, my heart was made free.
I needed to answer her text; a young woman, mother of precious girls and one little boy is worried and has been crying for days, she said.
I’d given her a reference for a job. She didn’t know. She desperately needs one.
“I’ll pray for you, that a breakthrough will be soon.” I said. She answered with something like you are so great, I really appreciate it. I wish I had your faith.
I told her that the things I say to her are the things I say to myself quite regularly.
I’m not who I was, still not all I should be. Closer every time I surrender, a thankful trusting heart at rest.
Told her I get the blues too. I have to pray, get quiet and trust.
I hope she knows it’s true, that the mess I am is not nearly as much a mess as before.
That, the will of God is for her a good and settled mind; but, we have to seek it.
That’s what he said back then twenty plus years or so, the kind and patient gentleman who gave me the book.
“You have to seek God’s will and keep seeking it in the quiet place of prayer. ”
This morning, I’m reading scripture from II Samuel. A devotional about setting goals for fruitful living, talks about spending time alone with God.
The passage is called “David’s Prayer of Gratitude”. It was written after he was the least likely to be chosen, after he defeated a giant with a stone and before he strayed haphazardly distracted again by lusts of life.
“Then King David went in and sat before the LORD and prayed, “Who am I, O Sovereign LORD, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?”
2 Samuel 7:18
He’s the good shepherd; he kept his shepherd boy who he chose to be a king.
He keeps us too, reminds us where he found us and where he’d like to help us go.
Acknowledge what I’ve been given instead of longing for what I lost, felt I lost out on.
re·solve
NOUN
firm determination to do something:
“she received information that strengthened her resolve”
Pray more.
Trust more.
Love more.
Learn more about God and me.
Keep them all.
“Keep the faith, finish the course. ” 2 Timothy 4:7
Thank you, Paul, for your part in the story.
Sometimes I think I’m either the most simple minded of people on earth or the most complicated of minds incapable of rest.
I’m a contrast of contentment in the gift of lamplight on morning devotion; I yearn for solitude, rarely am I lonely.
Yet, the thoughts I conjure up, I’m unable to contain. Been called “deep”, been thanked for my deep thoughts.
On this day, the last of 2016, there’s a loud huffy sigh, bemoaning the disdain of its days. I don’t think I’ve ever lived a year that many feel as if we’ve all walked around either on eggshells or avoiding land mines. Negativity, pessimism and a tendency to grieve people we’ve never known, to align ourselves with the distress that we’ve never experienced and probably never will.
Tomorrow, not an unveiling of newness, other than number, a new set of hours making a day. But, there is a trend towards thinking it might be good, might be better.
My only aspiration is to step towards the things I’ve let fade, linger too long.
The treasure, closer and closer to the place of boxing up and storing on the top shelf of my closet, nothing more than idea and season.
This morning I read of Paul and his encounter with a rich man, a man whose possessions meant more than his days.
Measured his wealth, decided it was too risky to trade in for his soul.
I have never known wealth, have lived an unexpectant life. I’ve coveted the lives of others, longed for their pretty things.
Wasteful times and thoughts those have been.
Finally, I’m beginning to cherish the beautiful enough.
I’m thrilled by the smallest of unvalued and the immeasurably valuable things.
Lessons, memories, stories, connections.
Seeing, feeling, knowing Gods hand on the course my life.
Dogs, I learned to love them in 2016.
Life, I learned to accept it, daily.
My people, I learned to love them with open hands, not tightly clutched grasp of apprehension.
Thank you, God.
Crazy chances taken, wasted saving graces and Lord knows I’m beginning to see why I made it through.
I’m finally finishing a book I should’ve never set aside. I’m rereading it now, underlining bedside.
Paul and Jesus, themes of wealth, struggle, integrity, times living “on fire”, times of dull flame, finally, more times of staying the mental course that brings good to days. The little book ends with “Ten Vows of Success”
“He who suffers, remembers.” Og Mandino
“I will bathe my days in the golden glow of enthusiasm. In that bright glow will I be able to see, for the first time, all the good things in life that were concealed from me during those years of futility.
Just as a young lover has a finer sense and more acute vision and sees, in the object of his affection, a hundred virtues and charms invisible to all other eyes, so will I, imbued with enthusiasm, have my power of perception heightened and my vision magnified until I can see the beauty and charm others cannot discern which can compensate for large loads of drudgery, deprivation, hardship, and even persecution.
With enthusiasm I can make the best of any situation and should I stumble now and then, as even the most talented will do on occasions, I will pick myself up and go on with my life.
Always will I bathe my days in the golden glow of enthusiasm.” Part II The End of the Story, The Greatest Salesman in the World by Og Mandino
This little book, a recommended read from my son and a very wise friend, Ray Visotski.
Happy New Day tomorrow…that just happens to be the first of a New Year!
Acknowledge what you’ve been given instead of what you’ve lost or lack, Lisa.
On the first day of new, I wrote a prayer and called it “Winter”, knowing that what I write, I might retain.
I found it beautiful then. It was descriptive and true.
Grace found
Pausing to look it over, gray lines and loops on thin white paper, I pondered the seven days since I’d already begun to fear.
Welcome, Winter.
May your arrival bring new things.
May I be unafraid of your truth
and of mine.
May I hold fast to a promise uttered for others and for me,
a breakthrough is coming, it’s about to be time.
This morning I sat in a dim space. The morning faded by moist and thick fog led me to linger. I read and wrote, three or four lines at most. The quiet of the morning, too much of a calm nothingness for me to move.
I listened and heard a dove in the distance. Its coo was quiet, then more clear, then quiet again. The notes of its song danced like black squiggly shapes on sheets of music.
I listened and thought of grace.
Grace, manifested, making itself evident, the only other sound the tick of the clock on kitchen wall.
The cooing of the bird becoming conversation, for me, I decide.
I waited. It continued.
It quietens, so I move, unfolding the quilt from my bare feet.
I think of seeking the sound, the sight of grace.
For months, I walked almost daily with lens pointed towards the sky. Random shots of clouds that called me to notice. The sky, like dove song, I’m certain was always for me.
Grace, manifested. Grace, rediscovered.
Had never moved, not been removed nor withdrawn, I’d just stopped looking. Maybe I’d become comfortable in the apathy of apprehensive unknown.
Sometimes we do these little things like “quiet time” and journaling and they’re nothing short of cliched habit, practicing a trendy social sharing, searching for a word to declare will carry us through the day…like wearing our badges of honor to mark our fading faith.
Then, we see grace.
We feel it. We hear it because it was not of our making, we got silent and still enough to see God.
I’m looking again. I’m noticing again. It’s a quiet and private practice.
Earlier today, I was captivated by a presentation. Watch and listen:
A video created by a photographer, the intent to capture the emotion of 2016. It’s hard to watch. Hard not to watch. The voice of the narrator is reminiscent of the sweetest teacher a Southern girl may have ever known. It’s a voice that is somber in its serious tone, broken in its cadence.
If voices were visible emotion, her’s would be the drawn face of sorrowful acceptance.
It was hard to watch, such an accurate commentary of our time, our distress.
Hard to watch, yet, impossible not to take notice.
I watched and still, I thought of grace.
I thought of Job and his refusal to give up on God, his dismay, his defeat and his holding out and holding on to see grace again when they all told him it was not to be found.
No more grace for you, curse what you’ve decided to count on for good and accept that your doubts have come true. His wife, his friends, the bodies of his children cried out. Job 2:9
I thought of the sky that I turned to notice once the fog had cleared.
The open spot where the blue came in.
That’s the place that reminded me of my Winter prayer
and eventually, again, of grace.
Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer; listen to my plea for grace. Psalm 86:6
Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee to Tell His Story.
Beef brisket on little buns loaded with jack cheese and buns made shiny by warm butter
Fingerling potatoes coated in olive oil and Parmesan cheese, crispy under the broiler
A cole slaw fancied up with creamy bleu cheese, crushed pecans and cranberries
Decadent macaroni and cheese, thick, soft and warm
My attempt at a little cafe’ worthy finale’, custard and Nutella blended gently over heat, cooled and then covered in melted marshmallow, not the star of the show,
still sweetly delicious.
Gifts exchanged late Christmas night. Laughter and languishing. Sprawled out in the den.
Late night led to late waking.
Back to the kitchen, I go for the simple.
Remembering my grandma’s house when we all had breakfast from the box with the big rooster.
And how I loved it when the honey colored flakes floated in a pool of white.
I’d dip into the bowl with little fingers, pick just one and bring it my mouth, letting it rest softly on my tongue.
Then I’d turn the shallow bowl up and drink down the milk that tasted like candy
My feet swinging loosely over the edge of my grandma’s chairs up close to the big table.
My cousins all around me, the day after Christmas at the old house in the country.
Little is much, I know this to be true, know its peace.
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 