Welcome, Winter

aging, Art, bravery, courage, creativity, Faith, memoir, patience, Peace, Redemption, Vulnerability, waiting, writing

“The world is so scary…how can I know?” (Words written and shared with a grandchild)

Out walking before the chill that comes with sundown, I thought about writing.

I thought of the binder, fat with printed words, tucked in the space between my desk and my dresser.

I don’t want to see it and I don’t want to not see it, the evidence of an optimistic attempt to secure interest in my book idea, the one with the title I’ve coddled and kept for so many years.

There were “No’s” and there were “no replies at all”.

I remembered a phrase I’d embraced to guide the writing of essays of sorts, one I felt represented my honesty and a clear voice, my voice in the telling of the stories.

“Start with hope and end with hope.”

This seemed like a good mindset to write honestly about hard things and to let the middle be expressed clearly and the ending, leave the reader with hope.

That middle part is what I thought about on my walk today. That stymied status when nothing seems to be changing for better and you’re sinking down in sand that’s quick sort of lulled by the angst of “how long must I be here?” Will I keep sinking into “stuckness” or will I reach for something to grab and pull myself back up.

To carry on?

I have 3 book ideas, two for children and one a collection of essays expressing the evidence of redemption’s work.

Out of the blue the other day, my six year old granddaughter asked,

“Grandma, are you still gonna write that book you told me about?”

I thought to say “No, don’t think so.” and then I realized her question was a supernatural nudge, she was the voice of God in a gentle and unforgettable way.

The memoir type book that got all the rejections? I’m wondering if maybe I took the path of least resistance, attempted to write what might be more popular, more trendy in a way.

In doing so, I might’ve abandoned the soul of my stories.

Here we are a few days from a brand new year. I’m leaning in and taking account of how my artwork has changed, how I have grown professionally and personally. I am aware that I, and my art have begun to be noticed by people other than friends and family.

I wrote about how this is moving me forward just last week. I sense the clear desire to become even more me, which may be a voice that is more sure and less a goal of captivating followers. I feel very sure of this and I’ll keep reminding myself.

But, the writing, the longing that won’t just fade…

I think I’m going to need to understand the reality of the business of writing.

I need to be noticed and so, I need to be more noticeable.

I need to accept life is not a fairy tale in which I have stories that I love to string together and that will be enough.

(I don’t know why this is such a strong belief for me…that if I do my part, the other part will just come.)

I’m sure there’s a reason in the depths of me and likely has much to do with childhood and trauma. I’ll let my counselor help me unlearn this “fairytale” way of expectations.

As I walked this evening, I realized change comes only when I go looking for ways I may need to change.

Most writers know the power of a strong redemptive arc. A story begins and it builds in an exciting, dreadful or anticipated tragedy sort of way. The details show the evidence of the events that one might find themselves in.

We might walk the reader through a dark swampy forest with brush and bramble tangling and threatening injury…afraid and unable to see their feet.

We may escort the reader up a hillside and unsure what’s ahead or how we’ll catch our breath because of not knowing what’s next.

We might bring the reader with us to the place with no light, no noise, no friends, only foes and we might bring out a tenderness in them they hadn’t felt before.

I’m typing this in my Notes app, and it may not make a lick of sense to anyone at all.

But, it sure makes sense to me.

So, here we go, pressing on to tomorrow and to a new year as a way to proclaim another beginning yet again.

And I will keep this rambling that came from my day before Winter walk and I’ll remember with all my heart, my words to a friend just yesterday.

Winter comes to let what needs to fade, fade away so that the new in you can be fully new.

Writing, painting, leaning in and pressing, ever pressing toward the story on the back curve of the arc that’s known redemption.

And just longs to share it.

That’s all, the longing that won’t let itself be discarded.

Advent and Art

Advent, Christmas, courage, Faith, hope, patience, Redemption, Trust, waiting

We wait with hope.

I sat and doodled an idea, divided my journal page into four squares then sketched a figure with subtle wings in each. I added the four words, four mindsets to grasp as Christmas Day gets closer: hope, peace, joy, love.

I decided not to create new artwork but to find photos of old paintings. I was reminded I’ve been painting female figures, sometimes angelic for quite some time.

Women in contemplation, often perceived as “sad”. It reminds me that I’m sometimes seen that way and I typically answer,

“No, I’m just thinking.”

Thinking more than speaking, thinking of so many inexpressible hopes, dreams and often, fears.

I remembered this morning that hope deferred breaks a heart. Hope decided not to put more hope in only leaves us looking to fill a void. But, a dream pursued, held onto like a jewel leads to a beautiful song.

Like faith, hope is a mystery, a beautiful and invisible thing that holds more value than anything we can know, achieve or experience.

“Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.”
‭‭Hebrews‬ ‭11‬:‭1‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Seeing and Being Seen

Abuse Survivor, Art, artist calendar, bravery, calendar, Children, courage, creativity, curiousity, Faith, grandchildren, hope, obedience, Redemption, testimony, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, walking, wisdom, writing

Jesus Saw

My grandson wanted his mommy to stay home. It took a bit to help him get to a place of accepting it would be the two of us for just a bit. I held him close, hand on his back and my cheek against his head.

“I know. I know.” I said.

Homemade pizza for breakfast softened his little longing and then within minutes he said , “G’Ma let’s paint!”

I painted. He continued his fascination with paper and Elmer’s glue.

Earlier, my not yet daylight drive brought thoughts that became a string of connectedness and a new way to see a longing I’ve always known.

The longing to be seen.

Late afternoon now and I’m thinking of how the hurts we experience or the lack we may have known are parts of stories we do very well to come to terms with even if we’re never able to make them make sense.

I walked without sound other than the leaves rustled up by the wind. I realized I should never go back to noise in my ears on my walks again.

I’m beginning to think more clearly, to love making sense of things and then putting words to them. To love writing again. (Doing my best to have intentionality in writing here)

A memory came as I walked. One so clear it could’ve been that very October day so many years ago.

There are countless memories I can’t grasp and I’m afraid even more I wish my mind would loosen its grip on.

I told a friend yesterday that I often think of quitting when it comes to creative expression. I told her I knew I could not. I knew I never would. I knew it might always be a painful thorn for me, the reality of the way it pains me emotionally to feel unseen, worse yet ignored or rejected.

I know the reasons why and that knowing helps me take very good care of this tender ache. All the same, I wish it did not pain me so after so very long.

I remembered that memory too hard to share, better kept to myself and I told myself gently it’s a gracious miracle that you are here and that you’re an artist.

And that little chat with myself as I walked is a beautiful truth.

I certainly know it’s only my “being seen and known” by God all along the way that has both equipped me and generously given so very much.

I heard two women on a podcast today talking about mountains and valleys. I heard one talk about Moses not making it to the promised land after all he’d struggled to do in obedience and all the years of wilderness wandering with people he was called to lead who were not always grateful followers.

The podcast hosts talked of how that seemed to them so very wrong, so unfair to Moses. But who are they, who are we to get to decide how far God will let someone’s dream/calling come to fruition?

After all, God is God and we are not.

I listened as the woman continued. She had a catch in her voice as she began to share the realization that gave her immeasurable hope.

She read about another time Moses is mentioned. This time he is right beside Elijah and alongside Jesus as our Father God proclaimed, “This is my Son”.

And so, the realization came that after forty earthly years, Moses did not enter the promised land but we get to be sure he made it. The promise was fulfilled.

I remembered this podcast while walking and I remember driving back home on the same “grandma day” road as I felt my eyes become wet with tears.

A thought came.

I will be painting in heaven, in heaven I will paint.

I remembered the early morning thought alongside this confidence. I thought of my longing to be seen, how I’m trying to understand the need in ways that I can grow from.

Three people came to mind. The man paralyzed on a mat, Zacchaeus, and the woman with the blood stained clothes.

I thought of the man lying flat on his back while others bathed in a pool that led to healing. Because he’d been an invalid for so many years I wondered if there were days others tried to either convince him to try or actually helped him into the water and then, after a while he’d developed a reputation. Maybe onlookers concluded he’d accepted his debilitating condition, no need to try, just look away.

But, Jesus came one day and told him, “Get up”. Sort of I know you’ve been here a long time and it makes no sense now to try, but I see you. I want you to try.

“Jesus saw him laying there…” John 5:6-7

I think of a tax collector, a man with a reputation who maybe wanted to undo all of his greed motivated wrongs. A man climbed a tree just to see Jesus. Jesus looked up. Jesus saw him and changed his life.

“And when Jesus came to the place, he looked up…”

‭‭Luke‬ ‭19‬:‭5‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I think about the woman in blood covered garments in the midst of a curious throng. She didn’t want to be noticed by anyone, just get close to Jesus. No one paused to see her, a woman desperate and dirty. But, Jesus felt her reaching for him and then he turned and saw her.

“Jesus turned, and seeing her he said, “Take heart, daughter…”

‭‭Matthew‬ ‭9‬:‭22‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I’ve just finished up three collages layered deeply with torn paper and another painting has been sealed. My idea for abstracts telling the story of God’s enclosure of us in His fold is in the initial brushstroke phase.

I’ve just proofed the 2026 Calendar and I’m a bit joyous over its beauty. Even more over the hope that the artwork inspired by “Whatever is lovely…” (Philippians 4:6-9) will be a hopeful mainstay for others.

You can purchase a calendar here:

2026 Calendar

“Artist and writer”, a tagline on a letter I just sent as an introduction to my writing hopes.

I won’t lose heart. I will always hope and hope I see others in ways that they need.

I pray my words and my art offer hope.

Come What May

aging, Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, doubt, Faith, hope, love, memoir, painting, patience, Peace, Redemption, rest, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder, writing

I’ve been looking over at the second trio of orchid blooms. I never expected it, I expected the failure that often comes with my orchids.

I shift the pot the plant is in, turning it away from the window. I wonder if the cold air from the vent is the reason the branch becomes more bent like it’s struggling no matter the pot’s position.

One evening I walked in the heavy humidity. Told myself give thirty minutes to intentional movement and maybe add some motivational listening.

I tried two podcasts. One was way too chipper, the other too chatty.

I decided to walk quietly.

I remembered words I heard earlier, a suggestion for focused prayer with a question.

So, I asked it.

“God, what is this season that I am currently in?”

I’ll tell you, I was barely three steps farther along and the answer came with no haggling or hindrance.

“Acceptance…This season is a season of acceptance for you.”

I walked on and remembered several days ago as I walked around the house, doing nothing and yet thinking about doing everything. “Malaise” comes to mind to describe it labeling myself lazy but what if

I’m just takin’ it easy, letting things rest?

Thoughts of my latest artwork, thoughts of the completed pieces leaning like sacred treasures against the wall in my tiny little “art room”.

I felt the affirmation rise up in my soul, the conviction to continue anyway.

“Come what may.” I told myself and then very quietly carried on with my “grandma day”.

Just a couple of hours later, an email was noticed. The word “beautiful” caused me slow.

“Your work is beautiful.” the sender said, “we’d like to feature you.”

Only a week or so prior, I’d sent a submission to be a featured artist in “What Women Create” a quarterly publication for artists, a stunning magazine with rich colors and pages weighted heavily.

I told only a couple of people and I never expressed my joy, only my surprise.

“Come what may.” I’d told myself earlier, an expression of settledness in what might happen one way or the other.

I walked on that recent evening and thought about acceptance and began to see why God may have spoken this quality as the one I must understand more clearly in this, my season.

I wondered if I accept the disappointments in my life as sort of “Oh sure, it’s always this way” acceptance and I continue on in that way of expectancy.

More comfortable accepting defeat or delay and treating good things that come my way as

A surprise or a fluke?

When I look back over my life, specifically as a writer and an artist and one who shares both, I have to be honest with myself.

I’m joyous over a ribbon that’s labeled “Best in Show”, over words that describe my artwork as “beautiful” and over kind and loving expressions to me about me and my art.

Still, I often don’t truly believe those blessings were chosen for me. I somehow convince myself it was some sort of accident.

Awareness is the first step towards new thinking, acknowledgement is the key to open those doors widely waiting and questioning why I’ve yet to enter in.

This may not make sense to you.

You may be one who is thrilled by the things you worked hard to complete or compete for actually coming true.

Or maybe you do understand and if so, I share these rambling thoughts and this realization for you.

Do you expect struggle?

Do you anticipate things not coming together?

Do you only half-heartedly commit because not “getting in” feels better than being excluded.

Every success begins with a decision and that decision is more than just trying, it is the decision to believe God has good things for you.

Not only are there good things for us; but, God actually planned them in advance (and is patiently waiting for our acceptance?).

“For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.”
‭‭Ephesians‬ ‭2‬:‭10‬ ‭NLT‬‬

Why do we “accept the bad with the good” more than we believe that in reverse? Or let my mama’s expression, “It’s all in it, Lisa.” be a bandaid over a hurt instead of a healing balm?

My recent collection of paintings, “Not Yet Seen” have resonated for many, but I almost didn’t paint them. I told myself “I love them but they’re different for me, no one has seen this type work from me, so many other artists already do this, etc.”

(Available here: https://thescoutedstudio.com/collections/art )

The woeful voice in my head, “If I release these and none of them sell, I’ll be disappointed again, I’ll need to acknowledge they weren’t as special as I thought.”

But, I painted twelve, not eleven as first planned and now there are just six remaining.

“I’m so happy I followed my heart.” I told the gallery owner. She answered, “Me too.”

Maybe the seesaw of good and bad and the acceptance of both with equal energy amounts to just how well we “follow our hearts”

And that our hearts most importantly of all, be guarded by love, the love of God and acceptance of that love for us above all else.

“So above all, guard the affections of your heart, for they affect all that you are. Pay attention to the welfare of your innermost being, for from there flows the wellspring of life.”
‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭4‬:‭23‬ ‭TPT‬‬

Every morning I sit in the soft chair in the corner embraced by artwork on the wall behind me.

Often, I rise to begin my day, turn and pause and although there is an array of canvas and paper and color, my eyes land on love and I carry that all day.

Accepting more as truth every moment just how immensely God loves me.

Most importantly, accepting that more than any other thing, any doubt, any denial, any thing at all that will likely come my way today and tomorrow to detour me.

I’ll accept the better.

“Come what may.” I shall say

and when good comes I’ll believe it as truth, I will claim and accept the better.

Always hope,

Lisa (Anne)

Care and Hope

aging, Art, confidence, contentment, creativity, curiousity, Faith, grace, hope, memoir, patience, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

Who wakes up wondering if the orchid will bloom, if the method used to “prop it up” was helpful or a mistake?

These are the things I think.

These are to me, metaphors of a life of faith. Ridiculous, even to me, I watched the orchid and giddily followed its change.

The blooms protected in the plump pod, every afternoon becoming more robust.

Then the color changed where the stem met the pod. It changed from pristine to a color that looked like an old healing bruise, purple and brown all puddled together.

Ugly.

That’s when I intervened.

I found a thin velvet ribbon used to hold my worn out book together.

I carefully wrapped the ribbon around the wooden stake and I eased it gently, the stem that was leaning. I wrapped the ribbon loosely and fastened it all together.

Then I wondered, was the pressure gonna choke the nutrients that would help it grow?

Had I done too much?

Was my attempt to control too much pressure on the branch?

Were my intentions to help it thrive instead stunting its growth, choking its ability to freely grow?

“My orchid’s blooming!” I announced to my daughter.

“Okay.”, she responded.

And that’s okay. The growth seems only meant for me.

And maybe all the propping up and hoping for blooming after very long hoping to come true, to not analyze all the failed attempts, to half-hearted efforts and the decisions that “growing” is not meant for you, is best met by tender care and waiting.

Acceptance.

Watering carefully so as not to drown the leaves, shifting the pot to share equally the sun and most importantly as my aunt would say

“Tell it good morning and just leave it alone. It will live best this way.” Aunt Boo

Funny how we grow best with just a very little help, we grow best on our own with support we know we can count on and know it won’t come like criticism, won’t stunt our growth, kill our hopes or

spread our secret fears of withering in a way that leads to the death of them.

Because it comes from the deep wells of us, not outsiders.

How do we grow?

We grow like the orchid moved from the corner six months ago to live beside me, roots untangled like fragile treasures and given a new home, a pot with ample place to spread and grow.

And the awareness that there are watchers, quietly excited to see us bloom, not wither.

To see us not give up on what’s been gently propped up yet again by grace and by the invisible nutrient, most important of all,

Hope.

There are six unopened pods reaching toward the light. I may have an even more extravagant orchid, its second birth of blooms, than I ever expected.

I’ll be looking forward, seeing clearly all my past efforts of reviving it were not wasted after all.

Nor have been I.

I’ll be open to being cared for, a little by others but mostly by God and his calling me “treasured” as I understand that me more every moment.

Hope waits for the invitation to grow and I’m the sender of the “come to the party”.

It never gives up.

Gladly accepts the nourishment of my patient embrace and regular care.

Hope leads to love and well,

love never fails.

Always hopes.

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
‭‭1 Corinthians‬ ‭13‬:‭7‬ ‭ESV‬‬

He Knows

Abuse Survivor, Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, creativity, Faith, fear, memoir, painting, patience, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Stillness, testimony, traumatriggers, Trust, Truth, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder, writing

I was hoping for yes and the answer came as no.

I told God I was disappointed and He answered, “I know.”

Not like a sound, not a breath of breeze across my cheek or the gift of a better tangible thing.

No, He answered with a shift in emotions, a soft invitation to acceptance and acknowledgement of my worth according to him and according to newfound and not new at all friends.

I really wanted to be among the thirty or so selected. It was my third year and I’d been hoping the “third time’s a charm” would prove wrong the “bad things in 3’s” old saying.

So, I talked to God and He reminded that hours before I’d thought about the possible what if’s if I was selected.

Things like what if I go and learn my work doesn’t really belong?

What if the evidence of me striving to be seen ends up making me want to hide?

These thoughts later said, “I was helping your heart get ready for rejection. I was hoping to ease you toward acceptance”.

I woke today thinking “return to small things”, become small like a child growing through no effort of their own, become small like the tiny seed that you are that needs nourishment not neglect.

Return to small by not doing so many things, just doing the ones that are just right for you, very well.

I’m smiling because out of the blue, “The Three Bears” makes perfect sense. Goldilocks entered a place she didn’t live. Curiosity led her to open the door. She roamed around exploring every inch and forced herself to fit in spaces too limiting, then places too big and then she found the “just right” spots and she rested.

I’m just as surprised as you may be that I’d be sharing a fairytale about a girl in a home owned by bears.

But, here’s where God is nudging me. To abandon some places and return and reside in others.

What this means is I may be less visible on Instagram.

I’m returning here and leaving Substack for my writing. Yes, I could “live” in both places but again, I feel God saying simplify.

I know this choice is not popular or trendy. Still, my words and those who’ve read them have been here in this space for quite a long time.

I think this is the “just right” fit.

I won’t use AI. It may be just me but I really can see the difference in the words of others and I don’t want mine to not “be me”.

I’m returning to my email sent through my Quiet Confidence Art site and I don’t know if anyone will notice or wish I’d make up my mind. I hope so and I hope not.

I hope to blog more there, specifics about my artwork, what inspires me redemptively.

This morning’s “first thoughts”…

So, if you’ve read this far, you’ve been invited in to the way God woke me this morning.

To grow, I must return to being small.

To cooperate with God in the ministry of art, it must be about tending the soil he’s assigned to me and not scattering myself in every place I can be, every open field I see.

To be an observer and a participant in God’s purpose to prosper me I must understand the gift of humility, rather than confuse it with so many other self-defeating mindsets.

To see Quiet Confidence Art be what God sees, I must cherish the tiny seed of it, I must love it freely and unconditionally.

I must let my art define and express redemption, hope and peace rather than define the worth of me.

You most likely will notice the small changes I’m going to make with going back to a more simple email and deciding what edits are needed everywhere else.

Just know I heard and am listening to “to grow you must become more small”.

You must do what you do best.

You must stay still, stay quiet, be confident in this as you grow strong in your artistry, not in comparison to everyone else.

If you follow my art, my ministry therein, you’ll see simplification there too.

If you’d like to follow along, just add your email on my About Page. (Link below).

Thanks for being here.

New things are coming, some of them I’ve been neglecting far too long.

In returning and rest is your salvation. In quiet confidence is your strength. Isaiah 30:15

Under God’s Heaven

Abuse Survivor, bravery, courage, curiousity, Faith, family, hope, love, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Stillness, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

“Should I do more?” I asked myself and then my husband.

I turned onto the road to my home and saw a clump of something ahead on the side of the road.

A figure, not a pile of wood, I realized as I got closer.

A young woman with hair the same color as mine, dressed in flannel with black and red and sitting staring straight ahead, her knees drawn into her chest.

In front of our home is a wide empty field with freely growing trees once cut down and now growing.

The high grass is gold and it bends and straightens with the wind.

This young woman sat still.

I turned and turned off my car in the driveway, deciding I’d check on her.

I’m not proud to tell you I thought about putting my purse safely inside the front door, tucking my keys and phone in my pocket. I thought for a second she might be violent.

I knew she’d been struggling, been seen roaming and had been hospitalized for addiction before.

And I knew and know what addictions can do for someone who needs what they need.

So, I thought she might be aggressive.

Then, thank you Lord, I decided differently. I walked to end of the drive, the wind like ice on my face. Quietly, almost like I was sneaking,

I asked, “Are you okay?” and she picked up her body slowly and she walked away.

Slowly, like a crawl, her steps kept on until I could no longer see her as I peered through the window in our garage.

“Should I do more?” I wondered again. Then decided I would simply pray. I could pray.

Pray without her knowing, without me needing her to know.

Because once, a very, very long time ago, I drove my little blue Celica all the way to Tybee Island in the cold.

I sat on the hard empty shore.

I sat and stared toward the ocean for I don’t know how long.

And then, I suppose emptied of some of my thoughts, my sorrows, my questions…I drove back to my imperfect life, my imperfect home, my still present struggles.

I’m remembering that day today.

Knowing it was bravery for me to sit oddly on the beach alone.

It was resourceful. It was deciding I could in fact, go on.

And no one told me so, other than myself.

I hope I get to see the young woman again. I hope God gives me a way to help her see her I’m pulling for her…

Pulling for her to decide she can go on knowing there is meaning and purpose she has not yet known.

That she may recall moments of feeling purposeless and searching for what seems too far to reach.

Maybe God will make a time for me to tell her, this young woman staring into the open and broken down field.

“For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.”
‭‭Ecclesiastes‬ ‭3‬:‭1‬ ‭NLT‬‬

Becoming, With Love

Angels, Art, bravery, contentment, courage, creativity, Faith, grace, grandchildren, hope, love, mixed media painting, painting, patience, Peace, Redemption, testimony, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder, writing

Yesterday, I chose the butterfly cup. As I daily do I considered which cup to set the tone for the day.

Groggy from fitfully sleeping at first and then sort of languishing, I had been still and quiet

waiting for the sunlight to come.

The butterfly mug was the choice and I waited for the coffee, frothed it with vanilla, checked on the dog and sat in my spot.

“Metamorphosis”, I thought.

I remembered the realization of why I loved a recent read.

What I thought was honesty and authenticity was something different, something I felt more clearly.

It was her “loving tone” and I decided quickly I want to be a writer with such a tone.

I want to be a woman whose tone is loving.

I realized it’s life that decides this for us. We just embrace the gift and most importantly be satisfied in it as enough.

I finished another collection of angels yesterday. The surprise of them being so intriguing to others at first surprised me.

I thought and debated on their titles, “Flourishing 1-7”.

Then I wrote down the reason for this name. I reflected on the process of their creation.

I paint paper.

I tear paper into pieces and I manipulate the shape.

I add colors in right places, I use what might have been thrown away to create a new thing.

These pieces, this process all happened sweetly accidental.

My granddaughter and I decided to make butterflies from pieces of some of my old and packed away papers.

And it simply began. This process that resulted in and continues to evolve into stories on canvas.

Happenstance has been the gift of this silent metamorphosis.

Sort of natural and more than sort of unforced.

Like the butterfly, beauty resulted from waiting quietly and still for it to ease from within

Spread gently its wings and fly.

Yesterday after church, my granddaughter held tightly a piece of white paper, folded and creased many times by her little hand.

Her mama held onto it like a prize as Elizabeth fluttered off to run circles with her brother.

I came home and added the final layer to the “Flourishing” collection, photographed them and added descriptions.

“Richly layered with color, these pieces represent flourishing to me. We think less about flourishing in the Winter months. We’re more likely to feel a bit “neutral” if we were to describe ourselves as a color palette. What if we leaned into the confidence that in what may seem to be a dormant season is actually a time of great internal growth? The truth is that whatever feels hidden or delayed is leading to our growth in lasting ways.”

I’m not sure others will see this on the canvas. It’s what I feel in the process and it’s my hope that love, that tone comes through.

My artwork, when unforced comes from within not without.

The postures, the colors, the movement and strokes so very often mimic wings.

I changed a piece yesterday afternoon late. It had been abstract, it had been soft and yet bold but only an idea of what I hoped it would say.

My brush found the lines, the curves that I know.

The tilt of the head in prayer, the waiting posture of one in the wings.

The patient figures believing, along with me, in the process, the secret one.

Calmly waiting to see what might develop, might say what’s needing to be said both clearly and lovingly.

And mostly to know that the process that both comforts and guides may offer hope to others.

This morning, after resting well, I chose the simple ivory mug.

The day is unfolding.

So is the love. Wait slowly.

Stay with it, the tone. Always hope.

We may know who we are.

We surely know who we’ve been.

But, we don’t know fully who we are becoming.

We should surrender to the art of us, not resist.

“The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.”
‭‭Lamentations‬ ‭3‬: 25‬-‭26‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Always hope.

You are loved.

And becoming.

Perception

Abuse Survivor, aging, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, grace, hope, memoir, New Year, patience, Peace, Redemption, rest, surrender, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder

An unexpected gift I was given on Christmas Day is now a morning ritual.

A voice like comfort responds to my ask. Her name is Alexa. I know you’ve probably known her for a bit. I’m just getting to know her.

Today is the third morning I’ve spoken into to the predawn darkness and asked for the “verse of the day”.

The first day the verse was from the Book of John, the words of Jesus telling the disciples not to worry. He was leaving but he’d be preparing a place, they’d be with Him soon.

I listened. My takeaway was the pure confidence in the words of Jesus and the accepted promise and confidence in the listeners who could not perceive all of it as certain truth.

The second day the verse came from John 16, the verse again in the words of Jesus, again with assurance but this time, an assurance of difficulties.

This morning, New Year’s Eve, I asked my little nightstand friend for the verse again.

Today’s verses? Isaiah 43:16-19

I thought, I know these by heart.

There’s a sketch in the margin here from years ago, a time marking the embrace of this promise.

“This is what the Lord says— he who made a way through the sea, a path through the mighty waters, who drew out the chariots and horses, the army and reinforcements together, and they lay there, never to rise again, extinguished, snuffed out like a wick: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”

‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭43‬:‭16‬-‭19‬ ‭NIV‬‬

I know this passage. I’ve held it closely as a promise and I’ve used it often for not so gentle redirection.

Perceive: to obtain knowledge by the senses, to understand, to discern

“Do you not perceive it?”

These five words begged me to listen longer, to examine myself, to consider my perceptions.

How my perceptions of life past and present affect my influence.

My influencing others toward hope, toward peace and toward newness regardless of their past.

Because…

I can only influence others. I don’t bring change, only offer quietly, my influence.

I can and should assess the perceptions of others of me.

Do I love with pure intentions only?

Are my regrets sincere?

Do I surrender the impossibly hard feelings and things or do they wreak havoc on my influence, my presence?

Do I coddle my past like a sick baby needing constant attention or do I honor that past in light of my present wellness? Do I care for my past wounds from a healthy distance?

Our perceptions determine our influence.

What ways has God made a way for you?

What dried up and deserted places have been refreshed to flow like peaceful streams?

Are you focused on the old things, even as recent as yesterday, and worn blinders to obscure the new things springing up?

God loves you. You have a future.

Do you not perceive it? Isaiah 43:19

Happy New Year’s Eve.

Can you hear the voice of hope?

Listen closely and remember mostly, it’s a soft voice like morning light in the distance, a comforting whisper responding to your questions.

Gently calling and asking you to remember and keep remembering.

He giveth more grace. James 4:6

Pressing On

aging, confidence, contentment, courage, depression, doubt, Faith, hope, patience, Peace, Redemption, Trust, waiting, wonder

Press in.
Press on.

“Let us know; let us press on to know the Lord; his going out is sure as the dawn; he will come to us…”
‭‭Hosea‬ ‭6‬:‭3‬ ‭ESV‬‬

One of the surest ways to finding yourself back in what I call that “deep hole” of feeling aloneness or burn out over things you thought you could control and learned that you couldn’t is this…

Unexpressed emotions, specifically unexpressed disappointment.

You don’t have to tell anyone. Just tell God alone. You may be surprised over all you’ve been holding in either because it seems trivial or you believe you should’ve long let it go.

Sit in silence. Let your disappointments come to the surface. Be honest with God.

If tears come, let them.
Actually, be glad they did.

Don’t hide your disappointments, express them so they don’t keep you hidden.

Know yourself well and you’ll know God even more.

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