More clearly, now.

Children, courage, family, Motherhood, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I called my daughter and asked her to check my roast. ” I think it’s gonna taste like grandma’s this time.” I said.

“You’ve never gotten it like grandma’s, mama” she insisted.

” I have a couple of times, check it.” I said. “I think it’s gonna fall apart.”

“You’re right, mama…it is…you did it this time.” she said.

Last week, my cousin asked what my daughter’s favorite cake would be, planning ahead for birthday.

“She loved mama’s pound cake or the thin layer chocolate.” I answered.

Cake and my mama….always consistently rich, no holds barred, exceptionally outspoken, rich in taste and memorable.

You got what you expected, anticipated.

When I think of my mama, I think of cooking. I think of love expressed with joy.

I think of honest, simple, and no secrets…all expectations met.

Satisfied, satiated, blessed even. Her cooking was art.

Her conversations, her opinions, her advice were the same.

No cutting corners, nothing artificial, sometimes harsh.

Consistently honest and end of the story succinct.

Rarely soft or maternal.

She mothered the way she was mothered.

Industrious, focused and intentional. Harsh at times. Vacant, disengaged, exhausted at times.

She was overwhelmed. I understand now.

More than almost anything last week, on Mother’s Day…for Mother’s Day

I wanted to write my story about my mama….about a feeling I had come to know.

To understand now.

An opportunity to express the peace that comes from experience.

A place of perspective I found, of understanding finally.

I positioned this sepia toned little story. Mama, my aunt, silhouettes of my children, me as a pretty baby….beautiful imagery, idyllic, almost perfect.

I began to write about a memory.

A time, an encounter left hanging around for some time.

Still, it was painful and it was a troubling, limbo type story.

I drafted and trashed.

Too hurtful. Too honest. Too surprising maybe.

Edited and trashed.

The story of a cold, quiet night when I decided after months of drifting, disappearing, rebellious ignorance…to show up and ask my parents

“Why don’t you care?”

A story of the quiet of the room

The warmth of the fire, my palms hot behind my back as I waited

For answer, for punishment, for anger, for forgiveness.

For reaction.

Any attention is good attention for a wayward child.

No words except, ” We did all we could do.”

I left my family. I chased after the wind.

Got caught in terrible violent storm and

Stranded by choices

They stopped searching.

And so, that night, full of attitude and angst.

I blamed my mama.

But, she only listened in the quiet, daddy unmoved in agreement.

They had done all they could.

And I left, knowing then.

But, not realizing until now, more clearly now.

That this was truth. Is truth.

And I became still like a child, turned and left, beginning to see.

My heart not proud; my eyes not haughty. Psalm 131 :1

beginning to hope in the Lord.

She did the best she could.

The best I could do has been far different.

More hands on.

More intentional “love you’s” or random “love you’s”.

Daily affirmations or scripture sent in text messages

“Don’t forget I love you’s.”

Unconditional, my love for them, they are reminded in words.

Letters, notes, conversations.

Maybe overkill, so that love is not something cherished?

Can children become numb to our love?

Does independence lessen it’s worth? Reduce their longing for it?

Is it not the special secret treasure I had hoped….this yearning to love better than?

I hope not, but maybe. Flaws and failures, drifters sometimes. Children are humans in a crazy, enticing, all about me world.

Pathways are prone to drift. Roadmaps must be their’s not mine.

“God’s driving the bus, Lisa” mama said

I’m really just a ride along companion anticipating and praying over departures and destinations.

Imperfect mama…loved children.

Grace comes when we are touched by ugly, but still love.

I can’t even remember when, because it doesn’t matter now.

I have forgotten.

But, one child questioned me.

Sort of “called me out”. It was hurtful and unexpected.

I didn’t react. On the outside at least.

Except to say “I love you and always will.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“I always have.”

And there it was.

After all this time since the firm, vacant look in front of the fire.

Clarity like a knock upon my door…the knock of a scary, rebellious, unwelcome child you say will never be yours.

And I saw my mama loving me.

Withholding anger. Choosing not to bring out my hurtful wrongs.

I saw clearly.

More clearly now.

More honest. Life, love and my words.

“I can only write honestly. Anything else is simply vacant, conspired, not wise. Bravery is healing.” A lesson from this community of writers

But you desire honesty from the heart, so You can teach me to be wise in my in most being. Psalm 51:6

Honest love

Wise love

Thank you Jennifer!

little sayings big thoughts

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

Closer to God

I cannot remember when, but someone complimented, noticed my faith.

I wish I could remember, just a conversation in passing I think.

I thanked them….said “I’m a work in progress.” Because I am.

Progress not perfection.

Doubtful but not nearly as often doubting God.

And lately, I say “Time will tell” about most everything.

And I’ve said “God has a plan.”

in response to unknowns so many times a day I should be constantly at rest, in submission.

And I recall my best stance, my life verse, the Lisa God knows best, God made this way.

Quietly confident…resting strongly. Isaiah 30:15

I woke this morning and thought of prayer. Can’t see, can’t touch, can’t measure…like faith it is most real in the looking back, the remembering of the written, the spoken, the thought, the mentioned to God, to friend, just to self. I thought of my frustrations, my drive to intervene, to fix, to shed light on an unfair turn of events.

My prayer, my thoughts, my surrender. God answered. He convicted. The unfair and upsetting became fair and possible.

I had rested. I had waited. I am waiting more often.

I am drawing near, staying near.

Refusing to doubt.

Doing what I can…letting God do the rest.

Little sayings.

Big thoughts.

Early morning brings a prayer of clarity:

Lord, remind me of the gift of coming back to you. Remind me of clarity and of your sovereignty. Keep me aware of the joy of quiet. Make me an example to others of the blessing of trust, of confident quiet. Give me simple, yet powerful boldness in declaring your mercy and your grace and Lord, most of all, thank you for loving me in the times my prayers are angry, rambling, frustrated, and disheartened. I thank you Lord, for the gift of quiet, for this is when I see, I feel, I recognize…

You were listening.

In Jesus name, Amen.

Morning, finally

Faith, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized

Glory

Waking to pitch black wondering of what time it might be.

Motionless body, then turning to side hoping to drift

Still as possible, don’t look at time…just drift back to slumber.

Quiet body but thoughts refusing to let up.

So, prayers begin, a mental lullaby, offered up in singsong then interrupted by alarm.

Slow, quiet progression towards coffee and foggy rhythmic sound of raindrops.

Rain falling

Prayers uttered

Begin again

So, I sit and wrap in quilt waiting for morning, finally hear them

Birds and their springtime sounds

Joy muffled by moisture landing on lush green

Journal, Psalms, Proverb, pen and prayer

Blessings and Supplication

Begin again

Morning, finally.

thread and pattern

courage, Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I surprised myself and never doubted my decision. In general, this is not me. Time has passed now and the weave and texture of each word, each encounter, I fear will become less significant.

That the beauty of the right word at the right time will be wasted and fade into the mix of my crazy busy days of late.

Two weeks ago now, I needed a place to stay and secretly hoped to be invited by my cousin.

An overnight trip to prepare Austin for college. Normally, I’d treasure time alone, hotel room, book, hot bath.

Yet, I was intrigued by the idea of meeting up with my cousin.

This is new and strange behavior for me.

I am not a “friend-ly” person.

Never one to congregate, weekend for girls, or endless daily talks with girlfriends.

Maybe it’s growing up the only little girl in a rowdy “little rascals” type neighborhood, or most likely just the cautiously introverted thinker I am.

I have lots to say, I’m just particular about who I say it to. Because it’s usually an honest conversation, I’m careful to engage.

Not much on shallow filling of conversation space with talk about the insignificant

Always been the one to think about the back scene of people’s circumstances and stories.

So, to be excited to have dinner and conversation in a home with a distant cousin and her husband on a trip to decide my son’s future…

Again, strange, atypical behavior for me that might require small talk.

Strange for her too, maybe not having seen me in about 20 years. Her husband questioned the offer.

My husband questioned my acceptance.

I imagined cool conversations about children, God, and touching up paintings of childhood memories.

I found their home and stepped onto the beautiful porch overlooking the marsh, consoling her dogs as I walked up, a stranger, and then she greeted me and we hugged, big southern girl cousin hugs and she said…stepping back

“Oh, my goodness, you look like your mama.”

I replied, honestly and without hesitation “I know. Some days that’s good, others not so much.”

And then, we began the filling in of the missing years, the misconceptions, myths and the preconceptions.

Family junk, legacy, laughter, closeted skeleton stories

Threads of our pasts more than anything at all…most of all our faith in God.

Our dinner and breakfast conversations all about childhoods both blessed and marred…commonalities and clarity.

Vickie called it a “thread”…such a tender strand of strength we both held.

A powerful acknowledgement of ” what messes our lives have been…but grace…

But, Faith.”

She prayed the right prayers, said the right things. Words just bounced between us, meaningful ones I grasped like a quick reaching up with hand to embrace, hold softly and tightly in my palm.

“Keeping this one.”

At church, I was greeted by a woman who said.

“You’re growing. I can see it.”

Years ago, this same person anxiously approached me offering an embrace. She sensed and I believe, was told that I’m not so open to hugs and attention and overwhelming questions about myself, my life. Over time she honored that, yet continued to greet me with a handshake and a smile…still though strong words of encouragement and of reinforcement of my faith path.

Saying things like…”God has great plans for you.” or “I love to read your column. God is using you.”

I smiled and said ” Thank you.” Still sort of awkwardly feeling as if her eye was constantly on me.

The closeness made me feel oddly inadequate. So, I avoided her and she retreated, until one Sunday. One sentence.

She and I, in the church bathroom, washing hands together. Miss Bobbie, a thread in my pattern.

“You are growing. I can see it.” Miss Bobbie

Several days ago, I commented on a blog post by Jennifer Dukes Lee about being homesick, about her struggles to find her way as a college student. Jennifer’s struggle to find her way resonated with me in a way much broader. My struggle was about prayer.

My struggle was simple, but, oh so destructive. I did not believe God heard my prayers, therefore I had decided it was too hard to pray for fear of delay or disappointment.

I bravely commented on Jennifer’s blog.

” I have a tendency to pray half-heartedly to avoid disappointment.”

And Jennifer Dukes Lee responded to God’s prompting, just for me at just this time with:

“When I get weary of praying I remember that one day I will be in Heaven and when I get there and meet God, I want Him to recognize me as woman who was persistent in prayer.” Jennifer

A thread in my pattern, Jennifer, a woman I’ve never met.

And early this morning my friend Debra greeted me via Facebook and coffee together, but miles apart.

” I pray for you daily.”

Debra, a thread in my pattern

My growing pattern.

And like Jennifer, I want to be recognized by God and even now in my earthly, chaotic, doubtful days I am hearing Him say so, so clearly…

“You are growing, Lisa. I see it.” God

Thank you Jennifer!

Answered Prayers and Tomorrows too Soon

Uncategorized

Lisa Anne Tindal

Two big changes are coming all at once.

My daughter’s engaged to the boy, now a man, with the big truck with the Bible on the seat and the beautiful smile.

The future Mr. and Mrs. Benji Brown

The one she woke me over 7 years ago to say. ” I’ve found him!”

And half asleep in the dark, I knew she was smiling.

I thought a long time that night of the sweet, determined confidence in her announcement.

And now, I see her tender smiling tears and I am joyously overwhelmed. To see her in love and preparing to wed, an answered prayer and blessing.

A year away but feeling like it’s tomorrow and tomorrow is feeling too soon.

Too soon for happy, teary, joyful goodbyes

Goodbyes covered in prayers of blessing and “Don’t forget I love you’s”.

My tomorrows for now are spent intentionally reminding of love…mine and…

View original post 299 more words

Answered Prayers and Tomorrows too Soon

Children, courage, Faith, family, Motherhood, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized

Two big changes are coming all at once.

My daughter’s engaged to the boy, now a man, with the big truck with the Bible on the seat and the beautiful smile.

The future Mr. and Mrs. Benji Brown

The one she woke me over 7 years ago to say. ” I’ve found him!”

And half asleep in the dark, I knew she was smiling.

I thought a long time that night of the sweet, determined confidence in her announcement.

And now, I see her tender smiling tears and I am joyously overwhelmed. To see her in love and preparing to wed, an answered prayer and blessing.

A year away but feeling like it’s tomorrow and tomorrow is feeling too soon.

Too soon for happy, teary, joyful goodbyes

Goodbyes covered in prayers of blessing and “Don’t forget I love you’s”.

My tomorrows for now are spent intentionally reminding of love…mine and God’s and of being weepy at unexpected times in my day.

My daily text messages of scripture continues, but my focus is intentional to show a more blessed me and a joy-filled temperament…one that shows, not just speaks…one that lives out what I have spoken so long.

“You are a blessing to me”.

Still, the thought of a house without my daughter and my son moistens my eyes.

Weepiness is not really me.

But it is my heart and they are my heart, my soul.

So, in the meantime there are ways to move towards this time of the coming tomorrows.

Like standing in the center of their bedrooms after they’ve left for the day lingering in the quiet, yet noisy messiness of their stuff.

Art and antiques on my daughter’s walls, bed made just so, heirlooms of her grandma’s, dried flowers from Benji, Bible, journals and massive amounts of clothing filling her closet.

Down the hall, sparse and organized, my son’s room, a guitar and flags, hoodies, hats and an overabundance of shoes lined up in orderly fashion

College acceptance letters neatly stacked on the corner of his desk. A lone blue folder, silver letters in marker “Citadel”.

Last week, I dropped him off for “Pre-Knob” overnight at The Citadel.

He turned the corner and walked alone under the canopy of oaks.

His posture was that of a man, broad shouldered, briskly walking towards his future.

I felt it.

I saw it in his steps, a readiness to decide his future.

So, I fell behind a distance and I let him go.

Austin at The Citadel, strong and determined.

And I know…they have been taught along the way.

Teach your children to choose the right path, and when they are older, they will remain upon it. Proverbs 22:6

Meeting Martha

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

The sifter and the sifted

If I had the chance, I’d like to meet Martha. I’d tell her about my Children’s Sermon with the old sifter and grater. I’d explain how we talked about grating cheese for macaroni and sifting flour for baking a pound cake.

Martha would understand the point of the rusty grater and the sifter…the laborious process of being changed for better, refined, finer, softer.

Martha, who was frantic and frustrated

Preparing the house and the dinner for Jesus.

I wonder if I’d vacuum or wait peacefully expectantly.

Would I, like Martha go a little crazy?

Become the martyr of housework, miserable and bitter?

My family, like Mary, off in a corner letting my mood run its course.

Watching dogs, feeding dogs

Washing clothes, folding clothes

Working hard at work and hard at home.

Methodical sameness of effort.

Early mornings and late nights.

Then quiet time feels like striving, pushing, forcing

And love feels like work

The bitter seed of pity grows big and strong roots and I’m stuck in a place of distress and discouragement.

Where are your blessings, Lord and where is my joy?

I can see Martha in me.

Martha, and me, sifted and refined by the words of Jesus

Reminded to lay her burdens down

Martha, who felt her efforts went unnoticed.

That her words mattered little and her sacrifice was nothing more than expectation that someone might notice.

Martha, who had a hard time

A very hard time believing that her crazy, frantic efforts were nothing more than distractions and anxious control.

I’d love to meet Martha.

The Martha who was reminded to wait.

The Martha who gave up on Jesus.

I’d ask her, what I believe was true of me and of Martha

“Was it hard Martha, to lay it all down to surrender?”

“Did it get easier to trust…to be more like Mary…or was it something you had to work on every day?”

I’d ask about her brother Lazarus, because I wonder

“Did you feel responsible, you with the inconsistent faith, for Jesus not showing up soon enough?”

Most of all I’d like to know,

“Did you finally embrace faith that can’t be seen when your precious brother came to life with Jesus’s loving hand of healing?”

“Martha, did you finally let go of control when Jesus said?”

“Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”

And then, I’d say with a tight and teary hug…

“Thank you Martha, for being you and for being me.

my good walk

Faith, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

Somebody must have come along early that murky morning.

Made a little bridge from boards to ease my step to the shore.

To the skyline of blue over pinkish orange sunrise and smooth sand.

So, I stepped lightly over the little dune and glanced towards the water, then lifted my head up towards heaven to begin my day.

To begin my walk.

My good walk. Hopeful and clear.

Somebody saw the muddy, grown up mess and bridged it with cast aside boards to beckon me to the shore.

To encourage my steps towards good

I’m remembering my grandma and her marked up Bible and the vision of her in the lamplight every night, steadfast and determined.

Remembering the traveling pastor who taught me of grace and welcomed a single mama to the tiny little generations of family run church.

Remembering the Easter egg hunts and the grace of the little ladies who loved on me because they loved on my children.

The black station wagon that pulled up to the house and picked Heather up for Sunday School at the home of me, the single mama, trying to make it alone.

Feeling scarlet and scorned. But a bridge was built towards my good walk because of a little black station wagon and a grandma and grandpa.

Heather loving little Poplar Springs Baptist Church, a bridge to my good walk.

And Austin a toddler, sitting as quiet as a little old man.

Another bridge…a clear and easy path to my good walk.

Friends like Debra who never rejected, always prayed.

Family who waited to see my good walk, the walk of faith and strength.

So many bridges to the good walk…path clearing people, beckoning me lovingly to follow along in their following of Jesus…on the good walk.

Good Friday, what a good walk, a long and torturous walk to the cross.

Jesus, miraculous, beautiful, merciful Savior

Saver of lives, redeemer of scorned and sinful, friend of sinners and thieves, followed by many as he walked on earth and then followed by few as he chose the surrendered walk, ultimate sacrifice to bridge our wrong, to make clear the good way, the good walk.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. John 3:16-17

Siblings, dogs and love

Children, family, Motherhood, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

Brothers and sisters

6:00 a.m. sounds wake me.

No alarms necessary.

Our house is noisy and scheduled.

It won’t be like this for long.

Abbie’s up ’cause Heather’s up.

Routine, Abbie likes routine.

Her house, her bowl, her place on the couch.

I get that.

I hear her fancy little beagle steps (we call it trickling) making her way to check her food bowl then on to her soft place in the den.

Bed to couch, what a life!

Then little, big brother wakes.

Low moan growl heard from my end of the house becomes….”Oh, time to get up…Yay…come get me” bark!

Good pup, outside to pee, checks his bowl, then back inside slips into the kitchen slinking around to check sister’s bowl.

Not time for food yet, okay.

Grandma’s doing her quiet thing…. I’ll wait.

Colt, Austin named him…somehow not knowing a colt is in fact a small horse.

Name fits, trust me.

A Christmas request…last Christmas before college from Austin.

Craziness, yes.

Doing crazy, unnecessary things for my quite self-sufficient children is a choice for me, a choice I call demonstrating love. What better send-off I say, into their own little nests , than to plant remembrances of intentional love my priority ? Creating little things that upon recall might elicit a response of

“Mama didn’t have to do that, but she did.”

Things like getting Colt, the big Brown dog much like that red one he loved named Clifford.

Sweet, goofy, yet obedient to treats, chocolate lab flopping into the kitchen on big feet spread bigger every day.

Abbie, frustrated with her new brother, takes his place on soft, old quilt I have added to protect my mama’s old chair.

Fresh, clean and crisp.

I smile and

Cover her with quilt. She likes safe, close cover. Rub her back as she answers with a little sweet beagle Abbie sigh.

Abbie decides this place, this chair, “It’s mine”.

Sweet Abbie. She’s adjusting. She’s keeping up.

She’s trying to understand.

Barking in rhythm protecting me last night when a big black cat was spotted by Colt.

Loud, strong, get our of our yard barking, both warning the stoic and stubborn cat “Get out of our yard! My grandma’s home alone!”

Abbie barking louder and longer as if to say, “Hey, I was here first.”

Abbie waiting in the window for Heather, taking turns sitting for treats and demanding soft head rubs from Austin or reassurances from Greg.

Abbie is adjusting. We all are.

Colt is a lesson in transition…in love

and tolerance

and acceptance

and grace

and patience….

Colt looks towards his chair, head tilted, careful not to upset Abbie…just curious about why she’s moved to the chair.

And then he meanders over to her spot, settles there as if to say ” Oh, okay, this works.”

Dogs and siblings…Siblings and dogs.

Love and transitions

Most important of all, continue to show deep love for each other, for love covers a multitude of sins. I Peter 4:8

Mercy prayers and stories

Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

Lord, have mercy…

What makes some of us anxious, even excited to share our days before coming to Christ while others keep their stories hidden? My grandmother, “Bama”, the daughter of a Methodist minister would start up conversations wherever she found opportunity.

A petite woman, dressed in crisp blouses and slacks, she found joy in engaging with others. She always found a way to listen and make others believe she completely understood.

She was merciful. She gave mercy. Had received mercy.

She was an interested listener, so people shared. She didn’t have to be in church to talk about Jesus, about her faith and sometimes about us, struggles she was praying about or had made it through.

The favor she’d been shown, inherited, carried her through to a place of unashamed sharing her story of redemption and drawing out the stories of those she met.

Some said she shared too much information; was nosy and annoying but, she kept right on connecting in the beauty shop, the dime store or the fellowship hall. She was telling and listening to testimonies, stories of Jesus.

One morning last week, praying before the workday, I thanked God for my salvation through His Son, Jesus Christ. And then, thoughts becoming prayers, I prayed “God, thank you for saving me long before I asked.”

Isn’t this the prayer of every person who has finally come to Jesus?

The story of every person who like Zacchaeus, wanting to know Jesus; but, believing too much wrongdoing and greed made him unworthy. Or maybe like the Samaritan woman, shamed by wrong choices, yet welcomed by Jesus in the presence of those who scorned her. Or the leper, discarded and avoided, yet embraced by the love of Jesus. Wouldn’t it be amazing to have testimony Sunday and hear Zacchaeus telling, excitedly about Jesus wanting to dine with him, wanting to save him! Imagine the Samaritan woman standing behind the pulpit in your church, and tearfully describing the welcoming salvation of Jesus despite her sins. I can hear her telling of the love she felt when Jesus defended her against the comments of onlookers who labeled her unclean and even reported to Jesus her record of sin. What a touching and beautiful time it would be to see the horribly disfigured and cast aside leper standing in your sanctuary, healthy and radiantly smiling describing the healing hand of God, through Jesus!

Every one of them could proclaim, the Psalmist’s words

Praise God, who did not ignore my prayer and did not withdraw His unfailing love from me! Psalm 66:20

Jesus was saving them before he even encountered them, for His best, waiting to offer redemption in simple, yet intentional encounters.

I learned about the struggles of two friends in our church recently. Both shared, through tears, and shaky voices glimpses into their lives before they were walking with God. Both caught me by surprise. Powerful testimonies and disclosures of damaging choices and paths wrongly taken, spoken as examples of grace. It would make sense to wonder, “Why are they sharing so much?” or “How can they admit their mistakes in front of a church full of people who really did not need to know?”

Because, they know what it means to Tell the Story of Jesus, the story of His truth, “Truth Telling”, I like to call it.

I sometimes think I have a bit of my grandma in me. I am drawn to the stories of others. I love to share stories of His place in my heart, my life.

And just like the redeemed in the pews or in the parking lot or waiting in line at the checkout, I’m comparing notes, comparing encounters with Jesus who saved me.

Answered my prayer, seeking mercy.

I’m remembering a time of failure and devastation when the preacher from the tiny little white church stopped by to visit…he’d heard my story…everyone had.

And when I asked, “How can I get through this?”

His kind and gentle voice answered firmly,

“Just pray for mercy.”

I did. I still do.

And now, like my grandma. I love to listen and tell.

Stories of Jesus and His mercy.

What’s your story of Jesus, your redemption story, your truth?

Your “Lord, have mercy” story ?

Come and listen, all you who fear God, and I will tell you what He did for me. Psalm 66:16

	Lisa Brittain on Women of Faith
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Women of Faith
	smoker4mom on Women of Faith
	juliedibblewrites on Embracing
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Shine On