Losing and Finding

courage, Faith, Prayer, rest, Trust, Vulnerability

There’s so much to say, yet so little, so redundant a place I was in.

Has something ever turned out differently than what you thought or felt it should? Have you ever found yourself in a place of taking responsibility for what you thought should be, but didn’t prove true?

Stubborn and bitter, holding on? Calling it regret because somehow that seems better…like it’s still yours to hold onto and that must make it okay? At least it’s still mine to keep, this regret over different than, of can’t possibly be as good as what could have been.

So, we squeeze it tight, carry it, revisit it and sit with it.

Thoughts rewinding to regret. A song of what if? why not? what should I have done more or less of? The song of remorse stuck on replay. An annoying song, aggravating and lingering, self-condemning.

I’d wake with a new song, a prayer. I’d carry it through my morning; nevertheless, the ballad of bitterness was my chorus again by sundown.

Writing, at least journaling had become a habitual chore. An every morning, new page pencil-marked with date list of the circling of why.

Most days countered with good, solid words of hope of motivational truths, verses and prayer.

Yet, that same list every day for a while now, letting go and coming back to the useless hard truth of regret. Knowing God would not have me stuck in this bad place for as long as I had been and the two steps forward, five or six back surely had to pass…with time, acceptance, new perspective.

Vacation came and every single day I walked the path to our spot, this morning glory path, I named it. My feet sinking in a cushion of sand to be greeted by the open armed shore. Me, still burdened with regret.

Seven full days, sitting shaded yet wrapped in, absorbing and being absorbed by warmth of coastal summer.

Feet and face pointed towards blue, grey, green water stirring up billows of crispy, frothy white. I sat staring, deciding to leave then beckoned by whoosh and whisper of waves, to gaze again for hours.

Recalling words from daily, jotted down prayers mixed with notes from sermons and songs as I sat, positioned just behind those I love, the young two and the one who yearns for sun, this season he adores.

Sitting, no idea of the gift of this time. Remembering words recorded earlier from a sermon the Sunday before our trip.

Corresponding and correlating on this first full day in the sun.

Everything I have been given or have obtained is from God.

When God puts something in your hand, he puts it there with an open hand. If we hold too tightly, He will pry it from our hand.

I sat, facing the Atlantic ocean, opened my hand and let go.

Let go the regret, as warm tears streamed behind sunglass shielded eyes. I sat, silent with open hand.

Hand open, clearly, finally resting.

Journaled then what I knew was my truth.

“Regrets are really nothing more than a hard truth, a place of clarity, and clarity is good. A place of now I understand and I can be better.

Now that I see regret as it is, a place to see my bitterness, my pride and self-condemnation I can be okay with the truth of my regret.”

On Wednesday, I walked with music for the first time, careless about the overuse of cellphone data. Walked on the beach instead of meandering streets with pretty, shingled houses. I walked with intent and freedom. Struck out on my own, no route, no plan.

Then this song, “What do I know of Holy?” and I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by God. By the beauty of this walk on this day, this timing.

“What do I know of you who spoke me into motion?

Where have I even stood but the shore along your ocean?

What do I know of holy?” Addison Road

I guess I thought I had figured it all out. I loved to talk about how mighty to save my God was and my words, they had become just empty words on a page. I tried to hear from heaven, but I’d talk loud rants of doubt the whole time. I think I made you too small. I made me too big, my clinging to why not? what if?

Then I caught a glimpse of who you might be. Who you are, Holy. The one who at the slightest hint has brought me down to my knees. The one whose wounds heal my shame, my regrets.

And I knew of Holy, again.

I remembered you and I opened my hand again. Unwrapped my tightly fisted hand and let go regret.

Gave up what was not for me to hold

The thing I’d made so big

Opened my hand to a heaven blue sky, teary eyes more clear now.

Losing me and finding you.

Speaking in light and Proverbs

courage, Faith, praise, Prayer, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

There is much reason to be burdened lately.

Churches burning, rants, debates, threats of harm floating about, impending doom speculated for later this week.

Nine people murdered despite loving a lost and angry soul, loving just like Jesus did and does. I was and am still astounded by their faith, their witness, their legacies. The peace of Jesus shown bravely through the ones left behind in Charleston. Attempts to overshadow were stifled by love. Then a decision made headlines on the issue of marriage. It worked its way into our minds, a distraction and a call to question beliefs in God’s word or to examine our faith. To find my thinking and resolve glaringly different than many. The challenge becomes walking in light, being light when it’s getting really dark all around, trying hard to avoid ugliness and remain quietly confident, yet desiring God, desiring to be light.

I’m over halfway through my life and I’ve wandered in rebellious darkness, trapped by my choices and I’ve walked in light, obedient and trusting, basing all my choices on being close to Jesus, a place of peace. Offended by a comment expressing fear of Christians who interpret the Bible so literally, they become extremist killers of those who are not like-minded. I was more than compelled to respond, yet waited and then took a breath, prayed asking God to help me explain why I believe His word:

“I am who I am because of my confidence in God’s word. I do my best every day to live out my faith in quiet confidence. As a child, I experienced the fanatical teaching. I rejected it, came back, knowing it’s the best and safest place for me. I believe in loving others and I pray I would never be seen as a violent type individual in my stance. My desire and calling is to share when asked Why I believe God and His word. My story of a life obedient and trusting is not loud or harsh. It is a strong conviction, though and may lead to much dispute. I know where my heart needs to be and I’ll stand strong and confident, rejecting hate and knowing I’m not perfect but so much better when I walk with God…this is the way walk in it…following His voice.”

And now, the story of a wise woman who walks in light, restoring faith, speaking in wisdom-filled proverbs.

Grandma Susie has that light. She and I shared a strong, sweet hug in the grocery store last Saturday morning when I, with a heavy and worrisome heart needed relief, there she was. She smiled, “Good to see you.” I wonder if she knows she has a smile like a light, a warm light like the glow of a lamp in an empty house left on in your bedroom, welcoming you in after a long day. I wonder if she felt my heart, its light beaming with joy to see her.

Like the morning light after a heavy, sleepless night, determined and hopeful, we throw back the curtains, lift the blinds to welcome the bright possibilities of a new day.

I told her years ago, I feel like God sent her to me to fill in for my grandma. Like an unexpected red bird, Grandma Susie is a gentle reminder of faith despite circumstances and of love.

When I worked where Grandma Susie volunteers, she loved on me filling that void. She was firm in her love to the children there, demonstrating love to build and cushion her strong and wise corrections. I remember her as “sharp as a tack”. She’d correct a child, then lean down and embrace them, speaking quiet words of explanation and encouragement long to be remembered.

In wisdom and love, as if to say:

My child, come and listen to me. Do as I say and you will have a good life. I will teach you wisdom’s ways and lead you in straight paths, so take hold of my instructions; don’t let them go. Guard them for they are the key to life. Proverbs 4:10-13

Wisdom

Grandma Susie makes me think of Solomon, wise sayings given with gentle conviction, Proverbs.

She speaks, her words linger, hold much weight. Grandma Susie, a modern day Solomon, much like Corrie Ten Boom or Maya Angelou.

Grandma Susie is a beautiful woman. I’m always stunned by her unchanging face, her confident posture, surprised to see her after several years.

I told her again on Saturday, just like years ago, how beautiful and kind she is. I asked her the secret to her beauty, unashamed embracing her in the produce section. “Is it water?” “Plenty of sleep?”

Ever humble, she never answered, so I asked

“It’s your heart and your faith, isn’t it?”

Then her face lit up and we were of one accord singing the same song, same chorus, the verses of our lives sustained by our faith.

And so we visited a little bit, planted ourselves in front of the bananas and got a little excited about our stories of faith.

She said, “Lisa, we got to feed our faith and starve our doubts. Doubt spreads like cancer…spreads faster.”

“We have to guard our hearts! “ She said, as others turned to listen.

” Oh, I know, but we make it so hard ’cause we can’t see faith” I added.”We’ve got to stay on our knees and in the word, keep it in our hearts.” she said. “We got to stop doubtin’, Lisa. We just got to stop it from growing. We got to stop doubt from spreadin’.” she added with conviction.

Then we smiled, held hands and hugged good and strong before going our on ways, she glanced back smiled and nodded, firmly and with authority.

I paused, hating to see her go and smiled back, uplifted by Grandma Susie’s love, light and wisdom.

I’m linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tellhisstory-when-youre-going-through-a-storm/

The brave and beautiful 3, Praises

Children, courage, Faith, family, praise, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

Wednesday morning, I felt the need to retreat. I thought of avoiding all social stuff, followed blogs, subscriptions, true and important posts on the Charleston horror and/or the ones meant to lift me, motivate or push me forward.

I thought of settling back into the comfortable place of effortless complacency. I considered quieting my voice, my words. I remembered my truth, “Write bravely or not at all” and not at all was feeling safe, feeling like a good fit for an expected mold. I had been here before, searching for the consoling truth of God, waiting His truth out.

And then I skimmed my inbox to read the next chance to tell my story, His story. Linking up, who am I kidding? I’ve just really begun, afraid my words are just journaling. On a muggy gray morning I found myself in a funk, a deep pit, asking “Jesus, help me out of this rough patch.”

Like the Psalmist, I cried, I’m slipping! Again, your unfailing love, O’ Lord supported me. When doubts filled my mind, your comfort gave me renewed hope. Psalm 94:18-10

I’ve been linking up with other writers mainly as an exercise in persistence, an assignment that elicits my naive courage, I think.

Jennifer Dukes Lee reminds me to praise and then suggests I comment sharing three praiseworthy things. I was feeling as far from praise as the sun is from the full moon on a winter night. So, I sat with that sullen quiet as I opened the next message.

I read about courage described by Tracy Line as she recalled her “Time Hop” of three years ago. http://tracyline.com/2015/06/23/the-art-of-practicing-courage/ I decided to comment, a Thank You for Tracy’s story of discovering what God intended for her resting period of three years. I shared my struggle with Tracy, which is odd but not odd, in that I’ve not met Tracy Line “The Writer Tracy”.

But, Tracy replied in the same kind way Jennifer Dukes Lee replied months ago. Both expressed good and hopeful truths. Tracy encouraged me further, told me she had read my brave words…You’re a good writer.” she said.

Both said they would pray for me.

Published authors, stopping to pray for me. And both times, God heard and I sensed a change of thought, of heart, reason and my reasoning.

Both times!

Here it is Thursday evening and I’m thinking of the beauty of kind words of two strangers who love God. I’m remembering the challenge to be thankful for three things. A discarded chance to comment just a day ago because I felt my praises were too contrived, too insincere.

Now, just a day past the thought of keeping it all to myself, my brave words, slipping into a quiet, keep it all inside place…I’m bursting to proclaim my three things for which I lift my face and hands in praise!

Praise God #1

Praises to God for a wedding dress weekend! A couch filled with crazy, how do I work this selfie-stick laughter. My daughter streaming happy, joyous, honest and sweet tears from the dressing room when she could wait no longer and slipped her pretty arms into the wedding dress. Her quiet request of the seamstress to honor Grandma and my stopping to catch my breath sigh upon hearing it…my daughter, soon to be a bride. One of my three…

Pre-Yes to the Dress party

Praise God #2

I bought the biggest and best dog bed, refusing to believe it would be ripped apart. I bought this dog bed because “Colt” the Christmas gift to a son about to enter The Citadel, is in fact a pony size chocolate lab puppy who has outgrown the crate. Praise God, he loves his bed!

Every night for a week, back to the place where the crate had been and a word “Bed” and he sleeps, all night. No more pee puddles and he has stopped eating my bras! He is a rambunctious little boy of a dog who likes living here. Praise God for my “What was I thinking Merry Christmas, Austin” lapse in reason addition to our family.

Worth it all

Praise God #3

From a heart, heavy and tired, I’ve been lifted again. Praise God, the sustainer and lover of my weary and wayward soul! The God who reminds me of the good seed he planted in me. The God planted, joy bringing, soul nourishing act of thoughts made words.

Writing, my seed

Clearly and more confident

Bravely, with a few familiar steps back, but stronger steps forward, good work began, carried to completion.

With God, through and for God.

He who began a good work in me will carry it through to completion. Philippians 1:6

Quiet Confidence is my strength, returning and rest, my salvation. Isaiah 30:15

I’m linking up with other amazing and motivating writers who Tell His Story at Jennifer Dukes Lee.http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tell-his-story/

The Story of my Daddy’s Heart

Children, courage, Faith, family, Prayer, Vulnerability

I hadn’t noticed the puppy until now. I didn’t remember my daddy being the dog lover mama was. But, here we are.

Me, almost three with daddy and a puppy following along at our heels. I’m looking down and he must have been watching for roots to trip me up or something that might harm my tiny little feet. I keep this photo on my desk and I cling to the love it portrays, an image of his kind and quiet heart.

Walking by the water

My daddy’s life was badly bruised by tragedy. His daddy was murdered by a black man over some sort of dispute, at the well drawing water. Daddy never spoke of this, I only know through stories saved for my grown-up ears. The knowledge of my daddy’s pain brought clarity and forgiveness for hurtful and scary words that would come easily when alcohol was salve for his wounds.

The story of my daddy’s heart is a timely story, an important story.

Mainly, for the children I love, grown or still small who need to know.

A story of a friendship between a white man and a black man.

Thomas, my daddy’s friend helped him when no one else would.

Thomas checked on my daddy, had long talks on lonely cold nights with my daddy and drove him home on many nights.

Stood by his friend through cancer and watched him, with us, become kinder and more humble each day. Every day spent in searching conversations centered on ammends making and making right of perceived wrongs.

Thomas and his wife, Mary cried at my daddy’s funeral and then stopped by to sit with, listen to my mama on lonely cold nights in her lonely country home.

Thomas fished in their pond, cut her knee high grass in summer.

Just checked on her, kept her going. And then, when my mama died, we gave Thomas and Mary her car. They cared for my mama’s best friend, her dog, until it’s grieving and aging heart passed on too.

Thomas and daddy are together again, friends in Heaven.

Thomas was my daddy’s friend. Race didn’t matter. This is the story of my daddy’s heart and of his friend’s heart.

A Father’s Day story, a timely story

A story for a time like this, a time of tragic hate and young people who are both impressive and impressionable. Young people who are paying attention and are standing for something. Maybe deciding between love or hate.

Choose love over hate. Love like a Wednesday night prayer meeting prayer. An open heart, open door prayer for someone they thought just lost and seeking. A love shown, freely offered in light of and because of Jesus. A strong love like a mama taught a son. A son who lost his mama at a Wednesday night prayer meeting in Charleston.

For the ones I love, a story you need to know

“Love is always stronger than hate.”

Chris Singleton, son of Sharonda Singleton

Finding feathers again

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

I almost stopped noticing feathers, red birds and coins.

A callous remark meant to be fun was hurtful.

“How will you survive your son, your “baby” going to college?”

My answer, not quite as mournful as the question.. “Oh, I don’t know.” was met reply…”You’ll be fine, just go find a feather.”

So, I almost stopped noticing.

I walked the Saturday evening after seeing the accident with a little boy injured frighteningly bad. I thought of the posture of my prayer that day and the unashamed plea for life. I recalled the scene of imploringly requesting mercy, the prayer, unashamed, uninhibited.

I remembered as I walked, the sweet story of a white dove on the walking trail. The dove my daughter and her fiance had greet them a few days in a row before that Saturday.

Before that Saturday afternoon beside the road with a little boy.

Peace, a dove, calmly preparing the heart.

And as I walked and prayed God’s will, God’s glory, not mine

I noticed, shiny, glistening, amongst flattened leaves and straw

A silver, beaten up old dime.

And I remembered that finding a dime is symbolic of grace and assurance as if to say, ” It will be alright. You are seen. You are loved.”

“You are remembered.”

And so, I am noticing God again.

Red birds flitting by. Clouds bordered by pink. Big pretty full or skinny crescent moons. Lyrics that stop my busyness, speak perfectly, clearly.

Parallels in prayer, in thought, in scripture recited, journaled, offered up to a friend and then recalled, repeated, reminded by another.

My friend, John stopped by and we talked about a funeral.

The music. Piano, clear and consulate. The message. The presence of God, of love.

He had noticed too. So, I shared my words recorded earlier:

A few weeks ago, a friend who happens to be an employee lost her husband unexpectedly. She was in shock and heartbroken, physically ill. In our embrace, I reminded her of her strength, her courage and her faith. “You are strong.” I told her. “Still, it will be hard.”

Through the evening and into the following day, I texted her to check in, each time reminding her that I was praying for her. I recalled a promise from God’s word and I simply texted her “My prayer for you is that you are keenly aware of the peace of God…the peace that surpasses all understanding.” Thinking back now, I know that verse was brought to mind by God, for my friend. Without knowing the exact verse or its context, these few words came to mind for my friend.

While not nearly sufficient to ease her pain, I’ve thought since how appropriate these words were for my friend her world spinning and she, in shock. The passing of her husband on a typical Thursday morning, something she could not understand. And I thought “How amazing is our God that he knows there will be tragedies we can’t fathom or understand?”

We are not expected to understand.

Our lack of understanding confounds us, troubles us, and grieves us. His command, His promise, “Rest in my peace. It surpasses your bewilderment and grief.”

I attended the funeral service for my friend’s husband. The music enveloped me as I sat accompanied by a few women who live in our shelter and one other friend.

We were such a contrast, lining that pew, I’m sure to most people.

Young women, older women, and a sharply dressed professional and member of our board of directors, we lined one of the pews. All of us there as friends together loving our friend through her loss.

The minister welcomed us with a prayer and all joined in singing Amazing Grace. My board member and friend, the definition of a gentleman, sat on my right and a pregnant and homeless young woman, a resident of our shelter on my left. The gentleman, a crisp navy suit; the young soon to be mother, having no dresses wore a pair of denim capris, a maternity top and a bright scarf she later told me with a big smile she added to give “a pop of color”.

We sang together. We blended beautifully.

We sang Amazing Grace as if we’d all been singing in the same little church choir for years. By the third verse, I found myself in tears over the beauty of this grace, this peaceful worship.

The minister spoke from Philippians, Chapter 4. He spoke of the pain of death. He spoke of grief and of the hope of heaven. Then, he closed with verse seven:

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Phil. 4:7

Quietly, I closed my eyes then and thanked God for His words and His lyrics, our Amazing God, our God who longs to be noticed.

I am noticing again. How can I not?

My friend, now a widow returned to work at our shelter.

A very young new mom and precious newborn baby girl, anticipating her return. A child, a mama, an older wise lady.

A young woman, burdened by mistakes but believing in good

And a front porch fern with open mouthed, frantically happy birds

Saying “Begin again”.

Finding feathers and noticing God. We begin again.

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee, sharing, learning, being brave.

The Bluest of Days

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

This time last week I was hoping for more time of quiet. I knew pretty soon I’d be interrupted by noisy kitchen rumblings and Saturday morning useless television.

But, I stopped my down time and moved slowly from the couch to shower when my daughter offered to have lunch and go antique shopping. A tiny little town about twenty minutes away, our favorite spot, we’d need to hurry she said.

Just time enough to “go junkin'” and have a little lunch, then back home so she could go fishing with her fiance.

My plan had been to write, to try and make sense of some of the thoughts from a rough previous week.

I had asked a friend earlier this month…I can’t decide if I’m overwhelmed or sad. Just so much good, so much sad, so much to celebrate, so much to grieve.

There was such a disconnect. I felt so disjointed.

I was thinking about sadness and a longing to be hopeful. I felt like life had become too much for me understand and the idea of being hopeful and surrendered was a burden, a chore. Felt unattainable.

Resistant to hoping, I struggled, because all I kept thinking was

Sometimes being sad makes sense and hope feels like being stranded in a deep grey ocean, clinging tightly to whatever is possible, staying afloat, yet wondering, “How will I ever get to shore?”

I attended the funeral of a friend’s husband of 22 years. He, I believe, was on the cusp of living fully, freely. Suddenly massively unexpectedly. he died on an otherwise predictable day. His wife, my friend is sad.

Sadness makes sense.

And I had been stuck on something I couldn’t change. I wanted mama here, their grandma. Ausin will be graduating from high school and Heather will be trying on wedding dresses…both happening in just days, weeks.

Sadness makes sense when grandmas don’t live until grandchildren become adults. This is truth, to me.

Being sad made sense…the kind of trying to but can’t snap out of it sense. But, forced to be a secret kind of sadness because you can’t or don’t really let on how hopeless missing someone feels.

The spiraling down hopelessness made even more ugly because of the feeling of “shouldn’t feel this way” and “your faith is an example to everyone so you can’t be so afraid, so sad, so weak.”

And the promises of and from God are good. But still, that dark grey ocean of longing for what no longer can be surrounds you as you peer anxiously and vacantly to see, feel that hope.

There you are holding onto to what you know of hope; but, still squinting through tired, heavy eyes for rescue, hope…stumbling and stepping cautiously for a level, safe place.

We all stumble in many ways. James 3:2

Days passed, thoughts gathering, circled around and stored up for sharing. Yet, no time for writing, my journal filled with ramblings of prayer and promises of good to come.

Jotted down thoughts on sadness, on hope. Lists made of scriptural recordings of sad and wandering people like me…themselves floating in the murk of what they knew, never doubted, truly and deeply knew was a strong solid hope, yet they too wondered

” How long, Lord until hope is again my safety, my solace?”

How long, Lord until I see your glory?

How long until I see you, know and believe in Hope?

Writing about sad making sense and hope feeling like lost was on my mind and heavy in my heart until last Saturday when I said yes to lunch and shopping.

Until, I walked outside and saw the sky, saw God.

“Look at the sky, Heather, not a single cloud.” I said, lingering for a minute, my face turned upward as I pulled out of the drive.

Nothing but blue.

The brilliant, bluest expanse of blue, as if heaven had thrown open its arms to say, ” All is well.”

My daughter and I had lunch, she discovered the sweetest idea for her reception tables and we headed back home.

Pretty country roads on a blue sky day with happy talk of wedding and then, ” Oh, mama”

And I turn towards her face to see a flash of blue pajama bottoms, a child badly injured.

We stop abruptly, side of the road, get out of my car, hurrying.

She consoled. She comforted. She nurtured. Talked of 5th grade and basketball. Teacher voice, calm and intent . She prayed, silently, kneeling amongst overgrown weeds.

And again, that same blue sky buffeted us as I ran without thinking to pray…to a sister, a mama and held hands pleading ,

“Jesus, save this child. We are certain Lord of your love for us. Please, Jesus, save this child.”

I had never prayed this way. Never implored, pleaded, cried out in this tone…this manner.

Praying, hoping, knowing, trusting.

And a week ago tomorrow, afraid of what I might hear, I found hope again in the voice of a mama who answered a hospital room phone saying,

“He’s gonna be just fine.

I recognize your voice, you held me. You prayed.”

Hope, I see you. You, God are my hope.

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!

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!

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

Believing the unseen, the untold

Children, family, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

Pine cones and blue feathers

I’m journaling still, the prayer of Jabez.

Seated next to my little vignette of things I love.

Intricacies of nature…a pine cone from a mountain trip and two bluebird feathers found on a heavy day.

Reflecting on the detail of God’s handiwork.

Of God’s hand.

Quiet mornings are my spiritual discipline.

My soul craves this abiding.

I rest in this refreshing, this refining.

I am on Day 17 of my yearning to pray like Jabez.

I have been blessed by the simplicity of belief.

Jabez, the son whose mother declared he was born in pain, the meaning of his name. Yet, was found to be more honorable than his brothers. More honorable because he decided and declared to trust God to change the course of his life, asking God to bless him, put good people around him, stay near, and finally to make sure he caused no one pain.

I long to know when exactlyJabez came to God with his request.

A request of show me your glory, God.

Show them your glory.

I read further, hoping to hear the story of a little boy unwanted by family, yet cherished by God.

I hoped to open my Bible to I Chronicles and discover verses descriptive of a confident, glorious transformation.

Taking my Jabez prayer journey a little deeper, maybe more like my little girl story, who late in life has come to believe she is worthy.

But, just three sentences. A prayer is all.

And I’m left wondering about Jabez, the child who had to believe what he did not see…what he was not told.

That he was called by name, by God and that God was with him. Isaiah 43:1 That nothing about him was unknown to God.

There’s a little girl in me who longs to know the difference a name could make.

A little girl, I remember on her sixth birthday, wearing stiff, white collared dress and patent leather shoes, lace edged socks on gently swinging feet.

Little girl, surrounded in a circle of lounge chair seated cousins, under the lavender dripping wisteria vines.

Bobbed hair, smiling sweetly, shyly.

The little girl whose mama wanted to name her Libby.

But, daddy said ” No, that’s a can of peaches.”

The only birthday I remember

That day, I felt like Libby.

That sweet child was Libby.

Little girl Lisa Anne, a different child.

Staying hidden, quiet and hyper observant,

The one to cause no pain, no problems.

Quiet, non-existent. Wanting to be noticed. But, not be noticed.

A long, long, doubtful journey to now.

Lisa, now prayerfully thanking God for good and seeking good.

No more days of a God and a love I could never measure up to.

A Lisa who walks with an understanding of what wasn’t seen, wasn’t spoken…an understanding of a God with me, strong hand upon me all of my life….guiding me, reminding me, leading me to Lisa here.

Fearing not.

Doubting not.

Shaming myself not.

Because, I have and have had everything I need, fearing no evil, no unknowns…Surely goodness and love will follow me for all the days of my life. Psalm 23

Blessings all along, I’ve finally opened hands to receive.

With me and for me all the while

	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