Grace and Open Space

Children, Faith, family, Motherhood, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

We turned the sharp turn towards the little house.

Dinner with the newlyweds, the planned welcome home.

I can see the roof from a distance on the long, main road.

Looking towards the right, in the distance past the wide field.

Yellow house under blue sky embraced all around by border of green.

I turned towards peach fields, all leaves now, blooms becoming soft, pretty fruit.

Wide open fields lined with trees for miles.

This is the place God graced them.

I look again, again, again.

Same place.

Same grace, still I look again and linger.

We eat together surrounded by ribbons, paper, china…talking, laughing, remembering bliss of the day they wed.

I look towards window, I can’t resist.

Almost night now, the trees lit low.

My daughter is a wife.

I’m a surreal kind of floating happy, like not believing I was chosen to be an observer of her joy.

It’s a new happy, a graciously quiet content.

We say goodbyes to newly husband and wife.

And turn towards the sharp curve home in the road.

Almost cobalt dusky blue sky love, grace, and God.

I’m captivated, yet again

By the grace of their open space.

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

Nuptials and Prayers for Happy

Children, family, praise, Prayer, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

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I’d chronicle the wedding from rehearsal to sparkly exit if I could.

Still, I’d miss special details, deficient in my description.

If I could, I’d have thought to sit and record its sequence.

The room where we dressed together, laughed together, cried, smiled and circled together in prayer.

A ceremony with sunlit windows, guitar strumming, low voices.

Softly falling, sharp sounds of her heels touching the polished floor as she walked towards her love.

And he, jaw clinched, eyes shut spontaneously as if to look,

Then look again.

She joined him there. IMG_1823_kindlephoto-180313

The words to their song subtle buffered softly…

“Sweet love of mine, I have surrendered to your design.”

And his eyes never left hers.

Nor hers, his.

He spoke softly, assuredly to her only as the preacher paused and we all said as he suggested, “love”.

Then, they smiled.

They kissed twice…then once more, her idea.

And we all danced in the pretty lights, delicate white flowers, layers of lush green filled the room.

We were silly, were happy. I danced without knowing the dances, holding hands with the bridesmaids.

And danced the last song of the night, for a minute or two with my daughter, Heather Analise, to “You are my Sunshine”, our song.

My sunshine and I.

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Until I paused, noticed him close by, her husband and I placed her hand in his to finish our dance.

I’d love to say more; but, words are not sufficient.

I prayed for light hearts and memorable moments.

And happy, I prayed for happy.

Prayers were answered and God was there…as always in the details.

Under Heaven

Faith, grace, Trust, Uncategorized

On a rainy day, exhausted for good and really happy reasons.

I walked.

It’s good for me, so I walk.

Reluctantly, I walked.

Grey sky under puddled ground, I set out and noticed the beauty of grey against green all around.

To me, just as beautiful as the clear, bright blue.

The trees, feathery leaves offering

pink and white distractions.

I thought to myself; feeling odd, I love the sky no matter its color.

I love the vast openness of sky, anticipating my arrival.

God, offering up the wide sky like a flip chart meeting, a strategic gathering of bird, tree, sky, God and me.

Walking with intent or just in meantime

I stop, look down before opening gate back home.

Fixed on the beauty of a fallen camellia amongst scattered petals of pear tree blossoms.

Pausing there and feeling content

Regardless of storm.

Time, season and purpose under God’s heaven

Ecclesiastes 3

Fridays and Good Mornings -Seeing Jesus

Faith, grace, praise, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

I could have more morning time and be elated, really I could.

My Bible, pencils, coffee and big dog waiting patiently.

As I read, journal, think and thank.

Happy about it or contented in the ease of moments doesn’t really express how much I’d like more morning.

I’m in the Book of Numbers, refusing to skip it along with Leviticus this time.

It’s passage and passage of muddling through; if, but, sacrifices and rules, regulations and particulars.

When I was a teenager, I dated the preacher’s rebel grandson. We sat in the back of the church and changed the words of the hymns to dirty songs.

What a sinful rebellion, I followed along.

We loaded up the church van on Saturday mornings and we all had palm-sized booklets, stories of Jesus we’d been coached to share.

I wanted to be there. I wanted to be a follower of the rules, a follower of Jesus.

We told the story of Jesus because the preacher told us to.

Most of us, I believe not knowing Jesus really at all.

At least not me.

Still, we were good pupils of the teachings.

We were compliant. We were afraid. We were forced.

And so, I’m reading Numbers, a Psalm, and now the Book of John.

Because I want to.

Psalms recalling the greed of the people led from wilderness, through a parted ocean sized sea, fed manna from heaven and water from a rock.

Safe, rescued and led; yet, longing and discontent.

These followers of law, empty, defeated and angry unwilling to subsist in the provision of God through his reluctant leader, Moses.

Never able to attain enough, be enough, walking straight, stubborn and stoic enough to see themselves worthy of the ways of law.

Following rules, striving for perfectly, afraid to believe in grace.

I’ve been there.

A child in church with an angry leader who wanted us all to go to heaven, but didn’t really believe we could.

I wonder now, who formed his shame-filled mind.

Caused him to preach shame and remorse over mercy, love, acceptance.

I came to know the love of Jesus in my thirties.

A desperate need has become a peaceful seeking.

I’ve been confounded to understand more

The grace and favor that require no merit at all.

Yesterday, I read about Judas bringing the soldiers to Jesus. He’d spent time with the Twelve, handpicked to follow. He was despondent, yet calmly submissive over the coming day of His sacrificial death.

Some had slept when asked to watch and pray.

Peter promised allegiance, then denied being acquainted with Jesus.

3 times.

Judas brought the soldiers to the quiet of the garden and Jesus calmly told them all, I’m the one you are looking to capture.

Then Jesus, knowing all that could happen to him, came forward and said to them, “Whom do you seek?” John 18: 4

I imagine his arms open, as if to welcome their violent intrusion.

I hadn’t thought of Jesus as courageous before I thought of dark, angry soldiers intent on his arrest.

I sat in the quiet and filled the margin of my Bible.

Sketching a lush garden of flowers, Jesus facing an army of men seeking to destroy.

If you had told me I’d be coloring in my Bible 30 years ago, I would have denied it.

It would be one of those rules I’d be terrified of breaking.

I would still be telling the story of Jesus, a good story from a little booklet, afraid to get it wrong.

I’d still be telling a story, prompted by shame.

I’d be telling the story, cautionary, spurned by forceful warning of Hell.

I’d be telling the story of one who never knew grace herself.

Never believed in the courageous, sacrificial arms wide open love of Jesus.

It would not be my story.

My story of now.

Of mornings with Jesus.

Answered prayers in His name.

And simple, graces and glimpses unexpected of heaven.

Like Mary Magdalene searching an empty place on a hopelessly longing and grieving morn.

Looking up to recognize the Savior as he said “Mary”.

Her story is mine.

I have seen the Lord. John 21:18

Linking up to Tell His Story

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.

Count on it

courage, Faith, family, grace, Motherhood, praise, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

If I get a little sense of ugliness

Of resentment, longing for different, for better…

Mad about why them, not me.

You can be sure, I’ll be faced with opportunity to redeem

All the ugly.

Run into someone, somehow acquainted with my ugly.

You can be sure of it.

I’ll be humbled and graciously welcome their joy in us crossing paths.

Because, I’ll see the lesson.

I’ll notice the providence.

And to be sure, just as sure, I’ll walk at day’s end with extra time thanks to Spring.

Frustrated over buffered songs sought to comfort

I’ll round the corner.

Climb the hill.

Song begins; continues, meets every longing.

Speaks what I long to hear.

To tell another.

I can count

on it…walking at day’s end and being reminded of grace.

Listening to Third Day…”When the Rain Comes” and wondering if it’s too much like a love song.

To send to someone having a hard day.

Sending anyway, saying you can count on me.

Thin Layer Chocolate Sundays

courage, Faith, grace, praise, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

a satisfied heart

If you went to my mama’s on Sunday, there was always cake.

There might be roast beef, butterbeans, corn and biscuits.

There would be mashed potatoes, thick and creamy, with a little place where the butter sat in a little hollowed out center.

Some gravy on top and sweet, glazy carrots, onions.

We’d eat together and we’d talk. Maybe walk to the pond or nap.

Waiting for time for a piece of cake.

Maybe caramel, coconut, pound or “thin layer” chocolate.

The one with the yellow softness of 16 or so tiny layers, thin and spongy.

Striated like zebra, chocolate, layer, chocolate, layer, chocolate….

The dark, dark sweet chocolate cooked stovetop and then poured on top of layer, one by one, smoothed with big, flat knife…slowly, gingerly.

Layers baked on the old black griddle and then eased onto a towel spread on kitchen counter.

Easy talk about life as I watched my mama bake, so lovingly and at peace.

She’d gently take the layers, one by one, placing carefully on a pretty cake plate as she added the rich, chocolate, shiny icing, still warm from the pot.

Chocolate icing so thick with sugar, melting like warm grains of sand on the tongue.

This past Sunday, we talked about the bread of life.

How we all try to fill ourselves up, seeking to be content.

Jobs, cars, clothes, burgers, fries, recognition, acclaim and appearance.

I thought this morning of the insatiable seeking for more, for better, for as good as him, as attractive as her. Wondered if joy were measurable, if contentment could be calculated, would it even be a ripple in the sea of our heart’s deepest desires.

To never have cake again on Sunday at mama’s is just a tiny little longing.

My heart knows the scene, holds the image, keeps safe the memory. It’s just as sweet, sweeter maybe.

To never be famous, have my art only on the walls of friends and family is unimportant, really.

As long as my heart knows the abandonment of paint covered hands and the chance to step back to gaze for a long time at an image known by my soul alone.

To write on this little blog, almost 300 times now… yet, never place a book of my words in the hands of my children.

Is not so tragic as long as my words get to come together occasionally in a way that reflects my soul.

My heart…that’s contentment.

Satisfaction, fully.

Because your love is better than life,
    my lips will glorify you.
I will praise you as long as I live,
    and in your name I will lift up my hands.
I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;
    with singing lips my mouth will praise you. Psalm 63:5

Linking up to Tell His Story with Jennifer Dukes Lee

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