We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 2 Corinthians 4:8 NIV
I reached down to be sure what his little hand clutched. A tiny pebble under close inspection before he stood and let it go, flinging it with strong conviction into the wide grey sky.
We began our walk hoping to miss the rain.
We did.
The trail is new. The path is hilly but smooth, a firebreak for the wide field of brush and trees.
I had a sense I’d been trying to shake all morning, a feeling that even though all was okay, I better be ready for the day to change, for something to go the other way.
I’m writing less about my trauma, a blend of keeping quiet and of looking more closely at wounds than ever before.
Like a little boy inspecting a pebble or stick, I’ve been quietly inspecting the hurts I’ve known in a much more intentional way.
With brave curiosity and braver acceptance…stages of grief.
So, that ache of readying to be ready for something bad is familiar and not at all friendly.
We walked and held hands and watched from a distance
Until the gift of freedom and hope ignited the sweet “setting out” on his own steps of my grandson.
And the weight of worry began to lift.
And I breathed deeply.
Looked around.
Looked up.
Prayed silently.
Added music to our walk.
Reached down with curiosity to touch a mottled leaf to discover the other side, rich in the color of fresh blood, of wine, vibrant.
I slipped it in my pocket, little “H” reached for me, both arms up and I responded as we turned for home.
Sensing the comfort of God, the assurance my fears and protective patterns are not hidden, are well known
And nurtured by God in a way that no longer leads to shame.
My vulnerabilities with God are no longer perceived fodder for Him to refute my faith.
Instead, an invitation to grace and bravery
mercy extended to me by myself.
“Grandma day” mornings begin early. My quiet time is brief and blurry.
I opened my journal to jot February 28, 2024 to discover one sentence from yesterday.
“Jesus, help me to see you today.”
Knowing, suddenly He had.
He did.
The color red, the deep crimson colored leaf like aged wine had been poured for me, left in the dirt, on a long ago fallen leaf, a cup with just a sip waiting for me to drink.
I’d been asking to see color.
Yesterday, the request was different and the answer was love.
”Mercy, peace and love be yours in abundance.“ Jude 1:2 NIV
It’s the time of year that God allows a sprinkling here and there of soft green woven “pillows”. I know there’s a name for them. I can’t remember it. I just find them so pretty. I tiptoe around them, aware of what I see as fragility.
We walked carefully over the tangled vines and fallen branches. Toddler, Henry in his little boots smaller than my hand. I let him venture barely three steps away from me then wrapped him in my arms to be sure he didn’t high tail it to the place his curiosity was calling.
I heard the water, the creek too shielded by overgrowth to see and too uncertain for us to go seeking. So, we just circled round and round, he intent on going deeper in and me, scooping him up to walk where it was more safe and clear.
He resisted yielding again and again.
The unknown and interesting was a steady call to his little investigative mind.
As if to say, I need to know, I need to see, it must be really special, this place I can’t see, these things I don’t yet know.
Yet, it was too risky for us to go, too unsafe for him to go alone.
I wonder why there’s such resistance to yielding. Why I’m so prone to striking out on my own in fits of figure it out or fix it before it’s too late.
When all that’s required, all that’s an absolute undeserved gift,
Is to yield.
This morning, I flipped to today in “Jesus Calling”, a kind and beautifully patient collection of words I’ll carry as I go, one open hand to heaven and the other secretly imagining my hand like a child’s reaching up again to the suggestion of my Savior,
“Hold my hand.”
“As you keep your focus on Me, I form you into the one I desire you to be. Your part is to yield to My creative work in you, neither resisting it nor trying to speed it up. Enjoy the tempo of a God-breathed life by letting Me set the pace. Hold My hand in childlike trust, and the way before you will open up step by step.”
Yesterday, G’Pa announced to Elizabeth and I that he’d never seen the creek. The land is deep and wide around their home and down in the valley on the edge there’s a pretty little creek. I said “We should go see it” and then quickly G’Pa and I said no. It seemed risky I guess. It’d be a big production to get boots on, be sure the grandbabies could be carried safely and even more to remember exactly how to get there when I’d only been once.
Back then, I was fascinated by its beauty, this secret place worth pursuing.
But, we probably made the best choice, two sixty-something year olds striking out on an adventure with a four and one year old. We’ll go maybe with extra help to guide us soon. It’s not something we should do on our own.
Life has things for us to do, scary and uncertain, maybe little secrets that require bravery.
”Don’t be afraid, for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.“ Isaiah 41:10 NLT
God woke me up with the thought of His Sovereignty, the reality that wherever I am,
He is too.
I put the thoughts together before daylight, remembering the idea of second children’s book about fear that I had kinda shelved away. It seems the idea might be calling my name to remember and revisit it.
With these new thoughts about walking into obscure and beautiful places even if scary:
I will go if you go. Through the brittle winter field
And into the forest Up the hill and down the
hill to the slippery spaces and up the hill again
Around the corner and careful
don’t step on the vines
with sticky sharp thorns and then the water round the corner will appear
December always makes me remember Merle Haggard, the hope of makin’ it until then and the days being brighter days once we’re there.
Yesterday, I thought of six words that I could call my December memoir.
Not a finish
A clearer path
There are places in the country I won’t walk with the babies.
Surprising, I guess because I’m sort of a rebel when it comes to strikin’ out on a walk.
“I’ll figure it out!” I’m known to announce.
I have memories of the year I lived with my mama and daddy, a period of seeking wellness from self-destructive eating.
I can’t tell you how many miles it was…
the circle of dirt road that began at my grandma’s house, through the peanut field, past the creek, up the hill, past the “shack”, past the farmer who wanted to date me’s house, through the weeds, around the curve to the lake where the rough people lived and past my Aunt Marie’s to be back home again.
It was way too far for a woman, young and with a reputation, to walk alone.
I was thin. I was lost. I was lonely.
Thinking back, it wasn’t health I was seeking, it was simply more self-destruction.
Trying to have my life match what I decided it was worth…not much at all.
That’s a hard pill to acknowledge. This meandering search I’ve sought, mostly taught, some stubbornly chosen.
“Self-destruction is an addictive behavior.” Rita Springer
I heard this truth last week.
And I’m kinda blown away by the resonance.
The truth that it’s not one specific or stereotypically thought addictive behavior that is addictive. Instead, it’s any and all of our choices and responses to life and our people and places in life, that lead us to this well worn and not so safe path.
I made a list. I love a list.
A list with words that may either seem too normal, not destructive or may seem like they aren’t choices that can become addictive, intentional choices we continue that are self-destructive.
I suppose I should soften this…no one wants to be told they are “self-destructive”.
How about behaviors that aren’t good for our bodies and souls?
Choices that don’t cherish the truth that our bodies are the temples of the Holy Spirit. Paul doesn’t sound too positive when he warns us.
But, have you ever noticed that he begins and ends his letters with a prayer that we’d all have the knowledge of God’s grace, His love?
“Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him. For God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple.” 1 Corinthians 3:16-17 ESV
Not so soft a warning, I thought.
So, back to the list, maybe an inventory year end of subtle and not so subtle self-destructive behaviors.
I chose a different header, kinder wording.
I chose
“What is NOT giving you quiet confidence and strength in God, in your choices these days?”
Accepting unkindness (abuse) in relationships
Taking on too much to please others and thereby determine your worth
Bad health, diet habits
Too much looking for good on a phone
Procrastination in regards to God’s nudges
Habitual time with God without reverence, sort of rote
Junk TV that takes my focus on God in me and puts it on the crazy or interesting lives of others (I love reality TV)
Clutter (mental and otherwise)
How are these self-destructive? Mostly because they have a tendency of putting God’s voice on “mute” in my daily life.
So, how do we move through our days, through December with a hope for the coming days.
I’m learning there’s one more important thing.
See suffering as fellowship with Jesus.
You may have heard all things are worked for good and you might have actually known people who say so.
But, do we really believe that they believe this?
Paul wrote about this fellowship.
“Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith— that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death,”
Philippians 3:8-10 ESV
Suffering has its gift.
Faith not in ourselves but in Christ
Sharing in His sufferings.
Becoming Christlike, a privilege really, not hardship (?)
That’s hard, not easy.
I’m not great at this. I avoid suffering with a well learned and established skill to be hyper vigilant.
Yesterday, baby Henry wanted to walk, not be strolled. He burst forward on toddling feet in socks, not shoes on the rocky path.
In the distance, a black thread laced across the path. I stood and watched, turned the baby back towards home and turned him back again. He was intent on forward, moving steady down the path.
The dog didn’t bark. The black snake made its way into the brush.
And we lingered and walked slowly in a rhythm of walking away from home and then turning back to home.
There was no need to hurry.
No need to fear. We were safe.
God was near.
There was no fight to be fought, nothing but us and the breeze and wide blue sky above us, God enveloping us and our faith in His ever present love.
“When we wrap the language of war around our suffering, it becomes a battle to be won rather than our experiences to be processed.” Katherine Wolf
I’ve never been good at fighting, only at sullenly retreating.
We weren’t made to fight, only to be faithful.
“For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.”
But you were unwilling, and you said, “No! We will flee upon horses”; therefore you shall flee away; and, “We will ride upon swift steeds”; therefore your pursuers shall be swift. A thousand shall flee at the threat of one; at the threat of five you shall flee, till you are left like a flagstaff on the top of a mountain, like a signal on a hill.
Therefore the Lord waits to be gracious to you, and therefore he exalts himself to show mercy to you. For the Lord is a God of justice; blessed are all those who wait for him.” Isaiah 30:15-18 ESV
I scrolled through my podcast offerings needing an accompaniment for my walk.
A walk that would serve to settle me and unravel anxiety before I paint “live” a little later.
I chose music instead and I chose Sandra McCracken.
Her voice reminds me of the music my parents, especially my daddy loved.
She’s a little Loretta Lynn and a little bit Patsy Cline, softer versions of both and yet a voice that’s strong.
When you think of music, what are your memories?
When I hear Edwin McCain, I remember our wedding day. (Edwin McCain is so good in concert, btw).
When I remember my newfound strength as a single mother, it’s Sheryl Crow.
In my car is a burned CD compiled by my daughter. In sharpie letters, it’s marked, “Mama’s Michelob Mix”. Miranda Lambert type vibes when I needed to be a little more free.
If I hear James Taylor, I remember my son as a middle school baseball player. We were on a country road together and he sang along to “You’ve Got A Friend” with me.
Nowadays, I’m listening to Lauren Daigle, Chris Renzema and Steffany Gretzinger.
And Alison, always Alison Krauss.
Sing, it’s good for the soul.
Who needs more advice on being your best self anyway?
“Sing to him, sing praise to him; tell of all his wonderful acts.” Psalms 105:2 NIV
In a time when objects catch your eye, welcoming at times and at others, a shockingly unwelcome stealing your gaze, it is good to be captivated by surprise.
The light landing on places, causing leaves to glisten, overgrown weeds or wildflowers to shine.
I thought to write about the goodness of dark chocolate with almonds since my “good” yesterday was a little heavy,
But, today with a baby boy in a stroller, I’ll stick with “beauty by surprise”.
Beauty you can’t stop looking for, beauty you know intersected your day because God saw your secrets, knew you needed to see something beautiful and untainted by humanity.
Baby Henry kicking his little feet and learning early, Grandma stops often, pauses on our walks and stands still with her eyes closed or sometimes just looks long at the sky.
“The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away.” Psalm 90:10 ESV
Changing Days
In the night, I’m awakened by deep pain in the upper right arm. I turn to the other side, feed my arm though the pillow, let my hand rest against the headboard.
For a few moments, who knows how long since sleeping either feels like a long long time or only just a minute.
The ache returns. I shift. I reposition.
I sleep.
My trainer says it’s likely the tendon that has some tearing. So I choose a lighter weight.
I don’t stop lifting.
She adds it’s likely the baby carrying and pauses and with no regard for my emotions, concludes…
Also, the painting, the steady and repetitive motion of the brushing of paint on a canvas.
And I’m startled in a serious way.
“Ohhhh…” I say.
Meaning, “Oh no!” but keeping that tinge of grief to myself.
Then the advisors advise.
“Rotator cuff”, “tough surgery”
“You don’t want to mess with that.”
“A supplement is what you need, CoQ10 is wonderful.”
So, yes. I’m now a supplement(s) consumer.
Talking About Leaves
Because I’m painting still and I’m still holding the baby.
I’m growing. I’m aging. My arms are past sixty years of good and meaningful use.
Moving towards 70.
Contemplatively beginning to number my days.
“So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12 ESV
I’m walking with my grandson in the same morning way I walked with my four year old granddaughter. She loved and loves talking.
He likes music.
Soon, he’ll be running.
I’ll be teaching him about the “stay in the middle, middle, middle, middle.”
To keep his eyes on the road, to distinguish between a root and a snake.
Soon, he’ll be sprinting.
My legs will need to be able to keep up.
So, I keep moving.
I keep using what I got.
Around The Bend
And I’ll keep growing.
I’ll make sure the soil of my soul is fertile.
My arms connected like branches to the nourishment of the vine, my Savior.
Because like the worn out tendons, the much used bones, the hands and fingers used to hold and to create and to cherish the objects I’ve been gifted to make.
I must care for them.
I must nurture my growth.
Wisdom comes in knowing.
In knowing, God’s not finished with me yet.
I’m still growing.
The majestic oak that cushions the curve is sheddingits bark. Brownish grey paper size pieces of bark are scattered in the weeds. The thick and arm like branches from the hefty trunk are now a pristine color.
“Favorite” Tree
I told myself last week
“Your branches are brittle, your reaching has distanced you from the vine.”
I’m less than seven years from seventy.
My mama was buried the day before her 70th.
Hers and my health are not close to the same but our stories are marked by similar trauma, a similar tenacity and I believe, a comparable hope and a love for living.
I thought of her in the fog of today’s morning. I have things I want to say.
“It’s unfair”, I said to no one within hearing.
“Yes, it is.” I answered and continued into my day.
Knowing she’d say “Choose life today, Lisa. Choose life. Keep turning the page.”
Keep growing.
Continue being brave.
Walking
The pains you’re noticing are proof.
Proof of your choosing life despite pain, despite unfairness and in the midst of necessary change.
Keep returning.
Returning to rest in me.
“This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says: “Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved.
In quietness and confidence is your strength.” Isaiah 30:15 NLT
When my children were babies, we walked to the creek, the clay road with deep ditches, one holding my hand or running fast ahead, the other held tightly in my arms…one hand under the booty and the other around the chest.
Holding tightly.
Holding on.
Without limits or conditions.
Love keeps us strong, letting go while embracing new.
The way it shimmered caused me to pause. If the movement made a sound it’d be like the rhythmic lapping of the water caused by my body in the pool.
The slight breeze from the air conditioner vent caused a silver dancing curlicue in front of me as I drove.
I was captivated.
What before would prompt brooding, a sign of acceptance, I saw as beauty.
One or three thin strands of my hair, not brown but grey.
Dancing in my periphery.
I’m talking about turning 63 like it’s tomorrow and at the same time overjoyed to discover the biblical meaning of August, my birth month, is “restoration”.
I’m considering the bravery of not feeling old, instead feeling ready.
I have thoughts to share with others, I encounter people who engage with my story and with others whose plight tells me my story might bring comfort,
Might compel them to keep living
To keep growing older.
To continue and believe.
This month I’m leaving WordPress.
I’m thinking of change, of blogging about not just art, but my thoughts on faith on my art website. I’m tender over it.
I love my blog. Still, it makes sense as I acknowledge the overlap, the connection, God’s instrumental hand on my life. Maybe he’s calling me to simplify,
maybe he’s calling me to growth.
My writing and my art will abide together in the same home.
I don’t know which direction my art or my writing will go.
I just know I’m captivated by the glimmers.
Glimmers of hope
That say “keep going”.
If you’d like to follow me as I move forward, visit the About page at http://www.lisaannetindal.me and SUBSCRIBE.
“Endurance is not a desperate hanging on but a traveling from strength to strength.” Eugene Peterson
Why am I less moved by the sky, the clouds fluffed or swept like a feather?
Out walking yesterday, I wondered.
Just a few years ago I was moved by gnarly branches on an old pecan tree, scattered white blooms on the asphalt trail or maybe a solitary leaf dried so completely by the sun it glistened metallic.
Noticing God, I called this.
Why so hurried in an irritable way now?
A daily habit that over time seems to be sort of furious?
Walking too fast, too angrily hurry, hurry, hurrying to some better destination.
Better days?
The place with no remnants of pandemic.
The better place, the place with no residue or remembrance of what happened or who or what didn’t come through.
Couldn’t be counted on.
On Wednesday, my path crossed a Target shopper leaving. Her phone on her cheek, she passed me, quick as a rabbit and I overheard her tell somebody “what the Republicans did today!”
And I wondered, when did we ever in our lives finish up a midweek shopping trip and urgently report to someone what a Republican did today?
A woman, about my age, distressed on a pretty day about the government.
We are different now.
I am learning.
Learning still. I can embrace a thought that now makes my response to trauma make more sense.
I can befriend these surprising revelations.
I can toss them over in my mind and see the value in finally beginning to understand my own tender heart and behaviors.
I can allow truth to make sense.
Today, the sky was striated pink and to the right rested the remnant of moon, a crescent.
I couldn’t look away.
It kept getting better.
Too splendid to capture in a photo, I stood solid footed and I watched.
Unhurried, only noticing.
Noticing God again.
Maybe that’s what obedience is and not some frenetic race to keep on, keep on, keep on.
Maybe obedience is noticing splendor, noticing God.
Knowing that where you are in this very never to be repeated moment.
You are loved.
Continue and believe.
Pass it on, this slow walk called noticing.
“And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, “This is the way, walk in it,” when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.” Isaiah 30:21 ESV
we run away from our discomfort... but it doesn't leave us. to heal we need to turn around and face it, experience it and once we truly do we are out of it. We heal and we grow.
2 Timothy 1:7-8 For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline. This blog is about my Christian walk. Join me for the adventure.
Lisa Anne Tindal 