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Poetic in Presence

Faith, family, Uncategorized

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More than likely, you won’t see them. Little black specks of wing.

Three times, maybe four, because once it was a big hug of shadow passing above.

I turned again to see; but, I missed that time.

I’d like to be able to describe it. The moment I was in their presence.

Four hawks dancing against the bluebird colored sky, the signifance of their circling not in vain.

We’re gathering soon, some family, not all.

I’ll look towards heaven and I’ll see them, I know.

Red bird on a branch or a feather at my feet,

I’d smile at a penny found on heads.

A presence indescribable.

Words fall short.

I can’t conjure up the image,  four birds dancing over me

Poetic peace.

Truth and Figs

courage, grace, Prayer, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

truth-and-figs

 

I looked down at my boots and thought, “Someone’s gonna think I’m wearing leggings to church.” My jeans tucked into my boots underneath a sweater covering belly and a long cardigan; it occurred to me that my jeans are going to be mistaken for leggings.

For months I’ve been noticing the thickness, that heavy layer around my waist. I decide it’s age, at half way past the in between of 5-0 and 6-0, it must be age. Or, I thought, it’s stress or hormones or maybe something digestive.

I imagined all kinds of reasons and thought of pulling out the thick red reference book; or worse Web MD. In any event, I woke up miserable about my weight for the umpteenth day in a row with blah, defeatist mood.

Then it happened, an awakening thanks to the mirror I turned to notice. I’ll not dare to describe to you what I saw. I’d hate to conjure up the image in your mind, the side view going from laundry room to bedroom having gotten panties from the dryer…

I stopped, stunned into attention and out of the blue as thoughts sometimes pounce and say, “Listen up!”  I accepted what I already knew.

There are truths we know of ourselves; yet, we hold out for something or someone begging to differ.  We invite platitudes and giggly little assurances of just how okay we are, all the while we are not at all okay. We know what we know to be truth.

Shaken to the surface, the truth of my health and habits came to light yesterday.

My weight gain happened because of figs and cheese and chocolate and wine. It happened because there can never be enough sharp cheddar in the scrambled eggs and the bacon has to be crisp, fig preserves to contrast the salty when spread on buttered toast.

Evenings disengaged all cozy after a warm shower are always better accompanied by a glass of red or a glass of white, creamy milk…fig newtons or PB&J.  Chocolate loves a balance of a few salty Ritzs and some peanut butter or some popcorn. Sometimes, breakfast at night with raisin bran, bananas and milk makes sense, feels right.

Last month, we Ladies on a Mission all shared anonymous prayer requests. We told each other what we longed to be free of. I shared my struggles with my weight, telling about my college years of deprivation and denial. I told them how I had been trying to lose fifteen pounds for two ding-dang years…and I need that prayer to be answered!!!

The friend I prayed for and am still praying for had a burden much more meaningful, more lingering and troubling. Still, I requested prayer for being fat for too long.

I was jolted into reality yesterday morning, a glimpse of butt and a looking down over thighs squeezed into “jeggings” that were meant to be jeans.

The prayer group met last night. I told them, “If one of you got my request, then I believe you must have been praying for me because I haven’t lost a pound; but, I finally know why!”

I looked to the left, the right, the semi-circle and I met the eyes of one who said: “I’m not saying a word.”  But, I knew it was her.

I knew because she’s told me the truth before even if I didn’t want to hear it. She’s told me the truth about my voice, my insecurities and she’s been bluntly perceptive about my need.

I had good food last night and healthy food today with lots of water in between.  It used to be all or nothing or sneaky and secretive. So, sneaky like fig newtons for the sake of the fig, and peanut butter slathered on apples for the sake of a fruit was feeling a bit like nothing at all, countin’ my baby peas and surviving on lettuce.

I knew the truth, just needed to hear it in my own time.

Truth and Figs, good things I know.

 

 

Not Common – Five minute Friday prompt

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

Maybe it’s age I thought, except it doesn’t feel like an aged thing to do.   I look towards the sky, treetops, moon and sun. I pause in the connection that feels more like settled than sage.

Closer to God, closer to them. I see my father in the tallest of narrow pines, the moon resting there, unpretentious.

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If I told you a story of my father, I might have described him as common.  I may have told of remembering his scarcity of conversation. I may have told you about his best friend Thomas who looked after my mama after he died.

I may have told you of his intolerance towards the pompous or arrogant or his consistently trying to be more than life and hardship had equipped him to be.

I may even have told you about his love hate relationship with drink, loving the way it numbed his past, hating its angry hold.

Most likely, though I’d tell you he was handsome, neat as a pin and wisely quiet and refined. When he smiled, it was true.

I might tell you that I never saw him read his Bible, nor did I hear him pray out loud. I believe he did.

I believe he believed and he prayed the way he lived, like Paul urged, quiet and not for noticing.

11 and to make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands, just as we told you…I Thessalonians 4:11

Uncommonly quiet and simply uncommon…

We have that in common, I pray.

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http://katemotaung.com/2016/11/10/five-minute-friday-common-a-giveaway/

 

Martha, Glorious

courage, grace, Prayer, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
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More than I thought I’d yearn to know

 

It was an odd sensation, wishing I could see the face they saw.

Every one of us, tired, empty and needing to be filled but, not knowing with what or how.

We met for a Bible study, led by me because the volunteer had other things.

Four women and I.

I followed the guide, the chapter on “What Jesus Did” and we all scribbled notes in boxes for responses.

What do you think?  How would you answer?

I give the answers, they agree and then we turn to John 11.

I break out into story, song, and enthusiastic all sorts of reading, followed by hands moving in elaboration.

I’m Martha, I told them.

Martha who gave up, ran out searching, frantic, anxious, trying to get everything just so.

While Mary sits, their brother has died.

Jesus is his friend; but, he didn’t get there in time.  Martha told him so.

I’m reading scripture and we’re talking about believing.

I read about Jesus’s tears and we talk about it.

Jesus wept.

We wondered why he cried.  We all, me and four women who live in a shelter I make possible,  talked about why Jesus cried.

I can hardly take this in.

Then we read, me pausing to say “Can’t you just see this?”  and let me tell you about the time I felt like this.

A time I just could not see through and I looked up, looked out across open and empty sky and I prayed,

“Lord, show me your glory.”

Because I needed to see what I had decided was impossible to be.

And, sometimes, I told them I pray this again, adding

Please…

“Lord, please show me your glory.”

and I’m wishing now as I remember tonight,

That I could see my face the way their faces saw me.

When I got excited about why I love Martha more than Mary.

And I led us off the Bible study bullet list plan and we all veered off, captivated by glory.

Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” John 11:40

Morning Reassured

Faith, family, grace, praise, Uncategorized
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Day is done with a Beautiful “Amen”

 

What is morning

if not reassurance, or evening

if not acceptance?

Morning wakes with wondering,

What beauty might be mine?

Evening rests with a yearning,

Will there be acceptance of day?

Nightfall,  like unprompted embrace with hand resting on the small of back,

A confirmation?

A gentle nod and slight smile, could it be

“All is fine.”

“You are good.”?

The early morning birdsong, an exhuberant testimony

and the crimson ribboned sky, an Amen.

Reassurances, to me

of God.

The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.

Indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance. Psalm 16:6

 

 

Grace and Tender Places

courage, Faith, grace, rest, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

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It happened again this week. Crazy, sort of thing, this place and time that a thought comes and becomes more.

The same tree-lined block just before I make the left turn towards work, a thought so clear, a revelation really, it happened and I’ve stored it up as truth.

This time, as powerful as the time before when God gave name to his plan for me, called it “treasure”.

I’ve not let that go.

Won’t.

But, on a morning that caught me off guard by its bitter tone, I hear again; God in response to my heart’s soft question.

Are some days more tender?

Are there moments, mornings and whole stretches of being that the heart’s wide open with raw remembering calling to be healed?

Or  do we allow unaware, the covers thrown back, inviting bravely the attention needed to be well?

Yes, Lisa there are, healing is a process.  Move through it, you are healing.

Learning.

Not like falling back into deep pit of pity, it’s quite beautiful, really.

No need to cause alarm or wondering  “Oh, are they okay?”

The hardest lessons are the ones we must accept about ourselves and our flaws.

They’re revealed  in the hurts of our histories or then eased into acceptance of mislaid plan or controlling lives of outcome gone off in different directions, not always bad ones…

Just ones we didn’t design.

We make boldly confident declarations about what we’d not do, let happen or ever have come and take up space in our homes, in our hearts.

Happenings, mishaps and missteps make you live out your cliche of “but for the grace of God I go there” when, oh Lord…you realize you are there.

Oh, the humbling reality of proud, mislaid lives.

You went there and now you’re on the cusp of beautiful other side…

Until, again somehow

tender places in my heart, like skin rubbed off my baby toe because I wore the fancy shoes, the rawness reopened to be healed.

Oh, I remember now, it was me who opened it up again…one exchange of truthful word.

I remember now the cause of tender sting.

I spoke up for another when the question was posed, “How does a smart woman like her stay in that abuse?

I answered with an answer I believe some never knew me by…

“Seven years, mind control, isolation and thrown against a wall more times than I can remember. God is good though, he kept me here for a beautiful purpose I don’t yet fully know. Hard to comprehend unless you’ve been abused.” Me

So,  some days, the heart’s more tender, the wound more open and the realization of vulnerable more palpable.

Open, truthful and gracefully well.

”Tis grace that taught my heart to fear and grace my fears relieved.” Amazing Grace

 

 

Sunday Rest

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

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Rest today and do what you will, Lisa.

Rest in His perfection.

This God whose way is perfect. Psalm 18:30

But, fret not over time or talent.

For perfection cancels out joy.

So, rest in your creative, in your Creator.

A few lines, maybe a canvas, resume where you left off and rest in its brevity or exhilarated expression.

Either way, rest in His perfection through you in perfectly imperfect doses.

This one thing changes everything.

Rest in His way.

“…satisfaction is a lowly thing, how pure a thing is joy.” Marianne Moore

 

The Story will Decide

Children, courage, family, Motherhood, praise, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

 

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Bible and Wisdom at day’s end

My children are no longer children and they may or may not read my blog.

They know I love words.

When they were little, I’d get a little elaborate in my explanation, get carried away in my telling of story meant to influence or remind.

Eyes rolled on little faces as the chance to tell them good things excited me so.

“Why do you talk that way?” they’d ask.

“Words are for using… if we  have them, we should use them.”

And I never let up on my love of word.

So, to have a mother who writes, I doubt they’re surprised.

They may or may not read my blog.

I wonder sometimes; but, carry on regardless.

I like to think they do, maybe find time to scan my posts and smile to themselves.

Even on some level find it special or on another level maybe feel a tiny bit happy for me to be doing something good for me that I love.

I’m sitting here on a Friday with dusky sky signaling end to a long, long week.

I remembered a conversation I’d meant to never forget, this little truth from a conversation about my “book” last month:

“You should let the story decide the number of pages.”

This, from my son as I replied to his question…”Well, how many pages have you written of your book and how many is it going to be?”

I answered, “maybe 250 or 300.”

And he paused, maybe thinking, “Why on earth am I talking to my mother like a friend about her dreams?” and then he left this little morsel of wisdom:

“Let the story decide it’s length. Write it until you’ve finished.”

My daughter read yesterday’s blog post.

She loved it; loves me,  she told me so.

Tucking In, Tying Shoes and Waiting to be Mama

Children, Faith, family, grace, Motherhood, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
Old rocker, new porch

Old rocker, new place and season, my daughter and her husband’s home

I took the country roads. Trees slightly curving inward with the wind and marigold hue of leaves gently loosened to fall to the ground, then lifted by breeze towards blue.

They were on the playground when I arrived. Chattering little voices becoming new friends, they turned to notice me, and my daughter tells them, “This is my mama.”

Their faces turn, pause as if they’re wondering,  “My teacher has a mama?”

The first pair was a faded red.

The laces gray and soft from wear, I asked, “Do you want me to tie your shoes?”

He answered, “yes ma’am.” with a timid upturn of lip as I leaned to listen, and so I knelt to tie his shoes. Double knots, I remember we always did the double, sometimes triple. My son’s little legs, tanned by the Georgia sun, white crew socks and navy blue Keds, I saw him there.

I was visiting my daughter’s Pre-K class for the first time this year. I tied his shoes and he smiled, then another pair and another took their place in line, bent their sweet faces to watch me tie and each with a little pat on the tips of their toes, turned and ran off to play.

My daughter called them over,  her tone firm and loving, “Line up and go to the rug.”  Some lingered, some called out,  “Mrs. Brown…he!” and one had left his shoes under the monkey bars.

A tiny little girl, her long blonde hair hanging in her eyes, went and brought her classmate’s shoes to my daughter, helping Mrs. Brown. So, my daughter stopped and calmly responded, “Thank you, Sunni.”

I wanted to thank her too. Embrace her and gather up her feathery bangs into a clip, away from her face to show her pretty eyes.

I remembered my little Kindergartener getting so frustrated with her cutesy bows slipping from her silky hair, she chopped her bangs, off and told me “Mama, I told you I was tired of that mess in my eyes!” always resourceful, independent and resilient, my daughter.

Still is.

I waited until all of them had settled on the bright rug. I’d scanned the playground, seemed like more than eighteen children now. She introduced me again as her mama, “Miss Lisa” and said “I picked out a book for her to read, so get ready to listen.”

I watched as they all adjusted into “listening body” position which Mrs. Brown had taught them apparently and I took a seat on the stool next to a poster sized note from her to the children.

She’d written in fat neatly formed letters, “It’s a marvelous Monday!” followed by a list…”Today we will…love, Mrs. Brown.”

I read to them, their sweet little faces turned up towards mine and we all giggled together over the silly story. With a quick “the end” from me,  Mrs. Brown instructed the girls to get their mats. One of them, the day’s leader was told to turn off the lights and then the boys rose to follow.

All around me, boys and girls dispersed to cubbies and then appeared with mats and soft blankets. The room, soft with sounds of  gentle song,  my daughter looked towards a child and said “She needs to be tucked in, can you do it?”

I went over and met a little girl’s sweetly waiting gaze as she turned to her tummy. I unfolded her blanket, then tucked under its sides and bottom, rested my hand on her arm, and asked, “Is this good?” She nodded and I looked towards my daughter, thinking she must’ve  remembered I was good at tucking in real tight.  Must have known I’d like to tuck her in.

This time last year reading to preschoolers would have had me a melancholy mess!  My son was just beginning the most challenging year of his life for more reasons than I imagined. Daily talks, prayers, and responses to texts were heavier than I’d prepared for.

Planning my daughter’s wedding was a beautiful distraction; still a seesaw of joyous celebration and thoughts of how I’d be with empty nest. My son texted to tell me this week he’d passed his Physical Training test, a big deal. He added that this year is hard. I replied that I knew it would be hard, just a different hard and that he’s stronger now, and so am I.

Will be even stronger.

My daughter will have a cardiologist visit next week. I won’t be there, her husband will. I could go, told them I would… it’s up to her, her husband said.

Not this time. It’s okay, we’ll let you know.

I’ll wait to hear; wait to embrace.

Wait to be mama again.

I happened upon a story this morning about swans and I was drawn into the beauty of her words. Linking up with my most “captivating” story from last week. So,so trying to better at this “community” thing.

http://anitaojeda.com/2016/10/30/what-happens-to-the-cygnets-of-an-injured-swan/