waiting

Inviting Emotion

Abuse Survivor, anxiety, Art, bravery, confidence, courage, creativity, doubt, Faith, fear, hope, memoir, mixed media painting, painting, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, rest, Stillness, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, writing

The world around me was dark on Wednesday.

Gorgeous though.

On either side, grey with spattering of a heavier shade of green. Illuminated by headlights switched courteously to dim, the asphalt blended in and danced with shining specks.

The colors of the morning like a softly blended oil painting evoking thought, allowing questions.

I slowed to press the Audio button to resume my walking podcast, again, again. It didn’t work. Thought to find the charger wire and took the second or two struggle with the plug. Then, made the decision to travel quietly.

To have the only noise be the noise of my thoughts being easier to address, more approachable as emotions, less of a hurry to stuff them down, keep them hidden.

Have them buffered by chatty voices or lamenting songs.

In the early morning hours, I woke without alarm, lyrics waltzing.

“We will never the see the end of your goodness.”

I wrote in my journal, “Don’t lose heart.”

On the first day in February, I had a thought about emotions.

The emotions we wish were not ours, the ones that come back pounding on the door like an official bent on taking us away.

I thought wrongly at first.

Emotions must not go unaddressed, I thought and

then thought to be more truthful,

emotions will not go unexpressed.

They won’t allow being held back. They’re bullies that way.

Because we cannot choose emotion, only our behaviors that tend them, embrace them, coax them gently to go away.

What are those behaviors? I’m sure I can’t accurately say for everyone.

We can choose behaviors that allow the beneficial expression of emotions.

Walking (without advice or music)

Praying (unashamedly allowing your anxiety to be exposed privately to God)

Sitting quietly (unhurried for evidence of His attentiveness)

Drawing (pencil on paper, no skill necessary and no ideas for precision or perfection)

Here it is February 2nd and I have already forgotten how to prevent that squeeze in my chest over my not yet enoughness.

Then I remember the words of David that woke me.

“Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭51‬:‭12‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I’m participating (at least for today) in a creative challenge called Artfull February. It’s a way to acquaint myself with other artists, to engage. Yesterday, I introduced myself, told my artist story.

Today’s prompt suggests we share our “studio”. This space in my home is called “my art room” by my husband. It’s an add on room that was built for my daughter when our family became “blended”.

It’s tiny. It’s deficient in natural light and the floor is covered in old rugs. The corners are filled and growing higher with works on paper and the walls all have paintings completed and not purchased leaning against them.

I catch my paint thickened apron hung sweetly on the easel and I see a recent piece newly edited, “Pursuit”.

I snap a photo of the beauty to me in the midst of the mess.

David penned this prayer after a big mess he made. He’d slept with another man’s wife and that secret he tried to keep was only a tiny part of his descent into remorse.

He asked God to give him a willing spirit. I suppose he could’ve justifiably given up, hidden, quit living altogether or decide there’s nothing in my future.

Nothing I’m worthy of pursuing or participating in.

Instead he was honest.

With himself and God. The anxiety that tried to catch me as I surveyed the place others call “studio” and added to it the pending works of art I’ve promised but can’t seem to start was unpleasant and stifling.

But, not for long. I acknowledged it. Decided to realize today I may not paint.

That won’t be disastrous.

I asked God to give me ten more years of the “late to the game” pastime that’s becoming vocation.

Still, today is just one day.

Restoration, Refinement and Redemption aren’t instantaneous.

Emotions stem from destruction deeply imbedded. Be hopeful that you have the guts to address them.

Listen to what they’re telling you and then bravely reply

“This is not that.”

It just feels like it.

Then embrace the restoration you know, hold it like a treasure, press its cheek against your soul.

You’re not fully grown; but oh how you’ve grown.

Believe. Continue and believe.

Choose loving kindness for yourself.

Remember to be willing to do what is your heart’s desire as well as your obligations.

Maybe remember the old sayin’

“Lord willing and the creek don’t rise…”

Then exchange your grappling with graciousness, your tentative tasks with tenderness and your insufficient mindset with the certainty that we’re not the ones in control.

Be happy in that.

There’s an emotion worth choosing.

Happiness in knowing.

You’re not alone. Anxiety is a thing.

A thing tamed by acknowledgment.

Always Peace

Angels, Art, bravery, Children, courage, daughters, Faith, family, grief, love, memoir, Motherhood, Peace, Prayer, tragedy, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder

We talked about ferns, pansies, mums, babies, children and prayer. I’d waited until past 8 to call, afraid she may not answer.

We talked about sunshine and husbands. We talked about my art and hers and we decided that we would “share a booth” in a “show” this Spring.

I found the obituary earlier.

My cousin, her daughter died unexpectedly 42 years ago.

I walked around with the reality of that all day long and with the question of whether to call, whether it would be something she’d like.

My aunt, I describe her beauty and I always think of Grace, the princess. Her voice is slow and draws gentle circles as she talks about peace, about flowers, about family.

She chooses acceptance, she goes after peace. She knows peace is her friend.

I had a reason to call her. All the pretty pansies and ferns froze over Christmas and the brittle evidence of a hard and unwelcome death were left on my daughter’s porch.

All the brown leaves and blackened blooms would have to be thrown into the woods.

“What should she start over with?” I asked my “Aunt Boo”.

“Ferns and if you can find some that aren’t all stringy and overgrown, some more pansies. If it gets freezing hard and cold, just drape a towel over them and let ‘em stay warm.”

Then she thanked me for calling as if she knew it wasn’t something I knew I was up to.

She told me it helps to talk to me.

Unexpectedly adding the memory of the last time she saw her daughter on New Year’s Day at the convenience store out by Zaxby’s.

And that was all, leaving me wanting to hear more about that day and yet, knowing that knowing more doesn’t make it better.

Knowing rarely brings peace in unknowable things. Instead, an embrace of accepting that thing or things we cannot always understand always does.

Acceptance brings peace.

Knowing more doesn’t make it better.

Today, I’ll look for ferns, asparagus hopefully. The bright green prickly fronds that seem delicate are actually thick and strong.

Feathery and fragile and yet, they endure as long as they have sunlight, water and necessary protection from the frigid cold.

I’ll share my aunt’s advice with my daughter and add it to my treasure trove of her sweet lessons for my living.

Peace, today I shall go in peace. Stay with it.

“The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;

the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.”
‭‭Numbers‬ ‭6‬:‭24‬-‭26‬ ‭ESV‬‬

This one’s for you, my precious Aunt Boo.

Light Will Stay

Angels, confidence, contentment, Faith, family, grace, hope, memoir, Peace, Redemption, Stillness, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

“Running away was not in her character.”, Google provided this definition for character, the word that settled as I’d read in Isaiah about Mary before there was Mary.

The Giver

Just now, I’ve named this windowsill decoration. I’ve been pondering why I love her, why she comes down from the attic every December.

She’s not an angel as angels are known. She has no wings, no halo, no aura. She’s holding a tray with an unadorned cypress and a few red apples.

I see her as one who brings, one who offers and loves.

Quietly

Irregardless and unrelentingly.

Silly me, it’s a ceramic statue.

But, she has no shoes on her feet, the garland of green crowning her head is only leaves and so, I see and

I sort of see me.

Little have I to give in comparison to others if giving is measured by grand or perfect.

Little am I in comparison to many, my gifts to the world pale in comparison.

25th

Last night, in the before bed tidying, I discovered some of the manger scene had gone missing.

The little felted figures, the angel, a wise man, a shepherd and Joseph were nesting like a family of birds in the tree.

I smiled with the discovery.

I’m not sure the reason, perhaps just boredom or longing for something I can’t know.

What the mover of these had in mind for these or for me.

They’ll stay there until packed away for next year and when I look at the intentional redecoration, it’s celebration that I see.

Celebration, not imperfection in my tiny bit tedious decorating this year.

The Manger Tree

How is it I’ve never thought of Mary as a “giver”, one who questioned the reason behind things; but, set her heart on her part in the story, her character in the scene at the manger.

Mary gave.

“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”
‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭9‬:‭6‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I have a canvas on the easel resting with edit number “several”. I’m envisioning the position of the figure sort of off center.

Now walking away, staring into some mysterious distant place, I see her being reimagined.

I believe she may be a “keeper” to remind me.

A settled soul facing forward, a gift of something fruit or flower cradled at her chest and she may be simply waiting.

She may have the stance of offering not taking.

And I believe I’m sweetly loving the thought of that.

The thought of giving, not expecting, of resting and not resisting.

Of waiting for what’s within me to create what’s meant for me not to be without.

“The Giver” will be the name of the painting.

This morning, by accident I found the words I thought might be in a book about the moon.

“The sun will beam and the moon will glow. The light will stay, little child. God is with you today and tonight. The light will stay, child. The light will stay.” Me (Look at the Moon) (?)

Light will stay, the giver has come.

Merry Christmas, all.

Continue and believe.

Stay. Good things are coming your way.

Love and Mercy

Abuse Survivor, bravery, Christmas, courage, curiousity, daughters, Faith, family, grace, memoir, mercy, Motherhood, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, sons, waiting, wisdom, wonder
Then and Now

Of all the scribblings and sketches in my Bible that chart my hopes, prayers, dreams and instructions, there are a couple I prefer not to read, that cause a sort of wrestling.

Make me wish I’d used a pencil, not a pen.

One word, “mama”.

“Do not fear; only believe, and she will be well.”
‭‭Luke‬ ‭8‬:‭50‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Jesus had just been interrupted on his way to heal an important official’s daughter. He stopped in the throng of curious people when he felt a touch, I think more a desperate, still gentle tug and he healed a woman who’d been ostracized because she couldn’t stop bleeding. He looked her in the eye and called her “daughter” and said carry on now, go and live freely and well.

A few sentences later, he raised Jairus’s daughter from the dead in front of a group of mourners, saying she was just sleeping.

“My doubt has fled; my faith is free.” Harriet McEwen Kimball, “Joy & Strength”

I’m curious about Harriet. How she came to this freedom and how she remained doubtless. Maybe it was an exercise in returning to the faith, of reminding herself in a comparative sort of fashion why she chose to believe.

Yesterday, I thought of prayers it seems I’ve been praying for quite a long time and I thought about waiting and about the wonder of prayer.

I could bullet list mentally the answers to some seemingly unrealistic and rapid responses and I could list the times I fall back to my knees and say “Here I am again, Lord and it’s the same thing.”

I can list the times I’ve been reminded by God’s spirit, give it to Him.

On Monday, I thanked God for the privilege of surrender, not being responsible for everything or maybe not much of anything at all.

I’ve written about this before, about the country preacher who came to visit when a long fought battle forced surrender.

The preacher didn’t lecture, didn’t condescend, didn’t direct me to a Bible, didn’t say he’d send the women’s ministry to see me.

He turned to me in my fragility and spoke softly,

“Just pray for mercy.”

The itinerant preacher from Poplar Springs Baptist Church saw me and responded.

And thereby started me on my tentative path towards believing, of refusing to doubt no matter the dilemma or delay.

When I wrote “mama” in my Bible, the lowercase letters resembling a middle school diary entry, I was a different woman than I am today.

If there was an assignment, I said yes. If there was a need, I volunteered to fill it.

If the church lights were on, I was seated in my pew or I was dutifully down the narrow hall, teaching or getting ready to sing.

I didn’t listen, only now cringe remembering, the Sunday morning my son said to me, “Mama, just sing with your voice.”

Oh, the ways my children endured me!

Because of my steady efforts, I was certain my mama would not die, like the daughter of Jairus, she’d rise up strong again.

But, she did not.

There were some things, I decided, my faith could not do.

I see “mama” on the page in Luke in my Bible as a gift now, a retrospective glance at the striver I was rescued from being.

I see “mama” and I still believe.

Because wellness, healing, a life without serious illness or chronic conditions is not completely up to me.

No amount of striving, performance or gut wrenching protective prayers or isolating will guarantee a life without sickness.

Circumstances will come, that’s a given.

Still, it is with certainty that I know belief is not circumstantial.

If it were, the woman with the flow of blood wouldn’t have had to wait so long or worse yet, she’d been overlooked or assumed too far gone.

Just pray for mercy.

Mercy will be given.

Perhaps not as expected and likely not without question of “if”.

And certainly not because of or despite your performance.

Mercy is given, not rewarded.

Just pray for mercy.

Use your voice.

Continue and believe.

This one’s for you mama, Merry Christmas.

Lisa Anne

Evidence of Hope

Advent, bravery, Children, contentment, courage, Faith, family, hope, memoir, patience, Peace, Redemption, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder

I was invited to write about “Hope” for an Advent series last month. My thoughts were prompted by a surprise. You know that verse about how hope deferred can make us heartsick? Don’t throw away or feel ridiculous to still hope. One day, maybe today hope will be gifted to you.

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.”
‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭13‬:‭12‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Paperwhites Popping Up

Here’s my contribution:

Fulfilling Signs of Hope

The reunification came as a surprise. My brother’s wife, whispered to me as we celebrated a new coming nephew,

“I found a Bible. It has your name on it.”

Going through the remnants of my mother’s abandoned home, she discovered it. A strange Bible it was, at least for a woman in her thirties, oversized rich leather, more than substantial in size words. Someone gave it to me, and I gave it to my mama once I “graduated” in my faith to a more proper women’s Bible.

Over the course of sixty plus years, I have owned four Bibles. One, a tiny little Gideon’s New Testament and Psalms, the hefty one I passed on to my mother, a pretty leather one suited for women’s groups and my current one, a fabric covered blue Bible for journaling, for telling myself truths and stories in the margins.

Last week, I misplaced my Bible. I felt lost.

I had been traveling and packed it to reference its importance as I spoke to a group of women. Unpacked and sorting, everything was placed back in its place, except for my Bible. Anxious and confused, how could I be without that one final item?

I decided to pray, and my prayer surprised me. Rather than simply “asking and knocking” for the door to be opened to me finding my Bible, I found myself so very broken and grateful. I thanked God for the desperation, the relentless longing for my Bible, for the broken-heartedness I was feeling to be without it. I found my Bible in the place I’d tucked it away for safekeeping.

I found my hope again, the “withness” of God beautifully demonstrated.

In the margin of the first chapter of the Book of Isaiah, I have written, “Who are today’s Isaiahs?” Isaiah spoke warnings of disaster. Isaiah spoke of sin that would bring judgment then he proclaimed beautiful redemptive promises for us through a “man of sorrows” who would make eternity with God possible. The pages of my Bible are strewn with notes, sketches of women and color to remind me of the words that were significant in some way and will continue to be. 

In the seventh chapter of Isaiah, we read of Ahaz, the King of Judah refusing to ask God for a sign. He announces he doesn’t want to put God to the test. Isaiah speaks up and questions his reluctance. He tells him you are testing the patience of your people, surely you won’t continue to test the patience of God as well. (Isaiah 7:10-13) Since God is not a God to be tested, a sign was given. 

“Therefore, the Lord himself will give you a sign. Behold the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call His name Immanuel” Isaiah 7:14 ESV

Immanuel, God with us.

How do you see evidence of hope?

Are you prone to tangible evidence being necessary or have you seen the dots connecting the scattered paths of your past to your present?

My sister in law could not have known the part she would play in my need of hope. I’d long considered the Bible I gave my mother to be lost or discarded. You see, I passed this Bible on to my mama, who believed in God but had reasons to not believe in hope.

A widow with little resources and an incapacitating illness, she’d begun to decline and spend most days alone.

As a child, we were not regular church-going people and so it was perhaps a bold gesture to give her a Bible; disrespectful, haughty or even judgmental, I suppose. I gave her my Bible with no explanation or expectation, only a hope that it may comfort. If it did, I cannot know.

I’d hoped it would be seen simply as love.

I wanted her to see I wasn’t afraid of church anymore, that I was taking a tentative chance on hope.

I cannot know.

But, the hope of it being gifted back to me, this is the evidence of God with me, seeing me, hearing the secret murmurs of my heart. The thick Bible is pristine. There are barely any marks of pencil and the pages barely looked thumbed. There are no places where pages have been turned down for later.

There is very little evidence that my mama read it.

Nevertheless, the underside of the front cover has my full name written in elementary school cursive, my daughter’s. There are construction paper faded Sunday school verses my son or daughter proudly delivered to me as we reunited on the wooden pews for worship.

There is one oddly compelling note on the very last page in my handwriting,

“When I give an account of my life…”

When I give an account of my life, I will include this Bible and its story as evidence of me being known by God and of hope. 

Perhaps, this Christmas, we should all sit quietly and consider the birth of Jesus, the evidence of hope, the gift of a knowing and loving God being with us. 

Where have you seen hope this year?

Has it been difficult to be hopeful in this vulnerable and bitter world?

Have you focused on the evidence of hopelessness all around us more than the hope in the miraculous although unseen, Jesus Christ, the Savior of the world?

May you be surprised by hope this year, a resurgence of belief in what you long for and long to see. What have you yet to see that God long ago promised is coming?

The reasons to hope are immeasurable and too beautiful for us to fully know, the coming fulfillment or our hopes.

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken to the prophet: “Behold the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call His name Immanuel” (which means, God with us). Matthew 1:23 ESV

On Right Paths

Art, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, memoir, Redemption, rest, waiting, walking

More thoughts and art because of the 23rd Psalm…

I woke with the thought, “Yet, not I, but Christ in me.” and began searching for the scripture. This is typical, it’s either a song or verse. This time a song by CityAlight. My friend texted me early another song by them. So my day started with the gift of worship.

I’ve been resting, revisiting and relishing Psalm 23 for going on three years. I could live and be led by the six verses.

Last week, as it often happens, I read verse 3 with a new clarity. I’ve been thinking/saying “God kept me for this time.” as an acknowledgment of the gift of being an artist and sharer of words.

Like most people, I can get tripped up on my own steps and I pray, less Lisa, more Jesus and little phrases like God, not glory. I gotta keep my steps in step.

Because when David wrote about restoration, he also praised the Lord for guidance and he remembered the most important truth:

This path of restoration and righteousness I am walking is for the making known the Lord’s name, not his, not mine, not yours.

Today has been the first day this week I’ve been able not to rush from my Bible to my to do list. Now, when I rise to do some things, prepare myself for obligations and the weekend, I rise lighter. I rise with a lifted spirit and a steadiness in my heart and steps.

Sermon to self, stay on this path.

September Hope

confidence, contentment, courage, Faith, hope, patience, Prayer, Redemption, rest, Trust, waiting, wonder
Hold On

Mid-September mornings are striated light on the thick green floor. The mysterious vine spills over, bent branches scattered with once purple blooms now fading to lavender.

The season is changing, the blooms done with their blooming and I’m torn between acceptance and longing for longer.

Does hope have a season? Will we need to wait for it to make sense again? Will I embrace the soul of hope and not pack it away like a summer dress, move it to the back of the closet, knowing it’s there and yet wondering if it makes sense?

I greeted someone this morning to ask a favor and I began with, “Good morning.” Ready to send the message, I paused and rewrote it

Adding, “I hope you’re feeling hopeful this morning.”

Hope is important to my friend and I.

Weeks ago, I typed a message more like an essay telling someone jolted by bad news that we don’t stop hoping, we don’t give up on hope.

We don’t “put off our hope”, don’t defer it like asking for more time to make good on a debt or commitment.

We don’t procrastinate hoping, I told her because that makes our hearts even more broken.

Instead, we keep hoping and we see the beautiful bloom, the tree of life.

Fulfillment.

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.”
‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭13:12‬ ‭NIV‬‬

I hope you’re feeling hopeful this morning.

“But may all who search for you be filled with joy and gladness in you. May those who love your salvation repeatedly shout, “God is great!”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭70:4‬ ‭NLT‬‬

I hope you remember all the times you’ve seen hoping bring fulfillment and I hope you will believe, believe again or simply start hoping it may just be true.

Jesus loves you.

You can hope.

Continue and believe.

Surface Things

anxiety, bravery, confidence, contentment, courage, grace, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom

The older I grow, the more I know smaller things matter most of all.

A quilt your grandma made, a way of prayer that waits instead of begging and a sense of listening only age can grant you.

It’s no secret, I love words and I pay attention to their timing. I write first thought prayers every day.

Today, I thought of sorrow.

A word describing the emotion of heavy grief, loss, regret or dismay.

But, it wasn’t that way, felt softer like another favorite, “melancholy”.

I remembered a time a confident colleague challenged my assertion

“Everyone has a secret sorrow.”

He answered with, “Not me, I had no hardship or regrets at all.”

It puzzled me. I suppose it’s possible.

Not for most of us. Most of us long for different stories, past and present.

I believe it’s good to say so.

To those you love and trust or maybe a safe and objectively trained professional.

Or just a prayer.

Father, I surrender my sorrow. I will walk with my head lifted and my feet steady in your protection, your provision and the fulfilled promise of the redemption and unrelenting grace I know.

Amen

Secret or spoken sorrows become hope and healed joys when we believe it can be so.

What surfaces when you allow yourself to sit a minute in your thoughts?

Surrender what surfaces. We have a God who listens to our private prayers, whether sorrow or song.

Continue and believe.

Your needs are known.

More Stories

Abuse Survivor, bravery, confidence, courage, Faith, Forgiveness, memoir, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder

Once, I found my father’s name in the Bible. An unusual name, “Ruel”, spelled Reuel in the Bible, was my daddy’s middle name. I read of this man whose daughters were saved from danger by Moses and I felt a sort of joy.

The paternal grandmother I never knew must’ve read her Bible.

My daddy had five brothers and a sister who died as a child. Daddy was the baby. The brothers’ names were simply normal.

I’m reading the Old Testament book of I Chronicles. Chapters, thus far are verses and verses of lineage, names interspersed with sister, brother, mother, father.

Until the fourth. A boy named Jabez was named because of his mother’s pain. I suppose she must’ve told him because when he got to praying age, he embraced his name’s baggage (born in pain) and he asked God to change it.

Doesn’t seem like he blamed his mama, brothers, daddy or God.

He just asked God to bless his life.

“Jabez was more honorable than his brothers; and his mother called his name Jabez, saying, “Because I bore him in pain.” Jabez called upon the God of Israel, saying, “Oh that you would bless me and enlarge my border, and that your hand might be with me, and that you would keep me from harm so that it might not bring me pain!”

And God granted what he asked.”
‭‭1 Chronicles‬ ‭4:9-10‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Not long ago, I heard something that surprised me. I heard that forgiveness relieves the torment of trauma.

This wasn’t new. I’ve made my list and I can see evidence of this truth.

But, then I heard that we’re supposed to accept that some of the wrongs done to us were intentional.

Words, fists, cruelty and all.

Crazy, I thought. The right thing to do is to see their trauma, their pain, their unrest, their unintentionally harmful behaviors as them being damaged and “doing their best”.

No, this person said. You gotta acknowledge that they were intent on harming you when they did.

Only then is forgiveness truly forgiveness.

Maybe Jabez wondered why his mama had to name him that, it’s bad enough you tell everyone how much pain I caused you.

Did you really have to make me be reminded every time my name was spoken?

I sure would like to talk to Jabez. I’d love to hear more of his story.

I’d love to know the benefits he saw of facing his handicap and asking God directly to change it. No pouting, no dwelling on old wounds, no triggers of trauma, only a life that was full because he had the courage to say.

Yes, this is bad.

God help me turn it around.

Daughter, you are healed, no longer bound to a yoke a slavery.

Words like these are for me.

Just as they were for so many who were both confronted and comforted when it was all on the table.

All the hurt, all the harm, all the hindrances to good.

All changed for better.

“Now there are also many other things that Jesus did. Were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.”
‭‭John‬ ‭21:25‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Their dilemma became their deliverance.

It’s the same with me.

I pray you as well.

Looking For Day

anxiety, beach, birds, contentment, courage, family, hope, Peace, Prayer, rest, Stillness, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

Windows without screens were raised in the dark. No breeze through the night, only murmurs of others and the occasional firefly spark.

Someone had an accident, downed a power pole they say fueled the entire island.

Streets welcomed walkers, children giggled and competed on their bicycles. We joined the porch sitters who hoped it wouldn’t take long.

All night long was powerless, no covers, nothing but time for intermittent prayers and mind wondering worries, sleeping in our undies with the door open.

Morning began with the chatter of insects, birds, other sounds I had no idea signaled the morning to wake up.

I tiptoed through the beach house and decided to go, to go find the new day, the sea and birds.

And they came and kept coming, their flight like a dance and a song.

God’s hands on the harp, the long and low strokes causing melody and chorus.

Rhythm.

The lifting of the wings, the beaks straight and strong, the dipping down and the floating back up

Crescendo.

And I, with no charge on my phone for more photos, making it 10,001.

But, these and this came before

Saying, sit and rest.

The show is not yet done.

The morning after the blackout night, windows open and a mind that refused to be quiet.

The electricity returned before morning and rather than sleep I went looking for God, looking for day.

I believe I will again tomorrow.

Sit in the awe and wonder, listen to God.

“In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.”
‭‭Psalm ‬ ‭5:3‬ ‭NIV‬‬