On the mornings I’m awakened by the birds early, just a couple or three singing outside my window, I sense the key in the door of hope gently turning.
Reminding me I’m never without grace and a decision to privately proclaim,
Today’s a new day!
Birds that dance on the country porch, rest on the arm of the rocker and quickly fly upward when the baby and I decide to get closer.
Their intent it seems is for me to be content in the sighting, not the pursuit.
There’s a verse in my Bible, in the right margin there lives a very faint sketch.
A little country house, yellow with one window and a slight slope of roof, pencil colored gray.
The lines of ink are thin and intentional.
On the roof, there’s a teeny tiny bird.
There are lots of sketches in my Bible that are a bit tender, there are added notes to self that are even more tender.
Someone told me once,
“Your Bible could be in a museum one day.” Drake
This kind soul was not employing flattery, he was and is brave and so very intentional in his observations of life and us as we live it.
Honestly like the psalmist whose words are a juxtaposition of praise and peril, of despair and hope, of beseeching and blessing our God.
The little bird drawing born of timidity in the acknowledgment of loneliness?
“I lie awake; I am like a lonely sparrow on the housetop.” Psalm 102:7 ESV
Oh, how I love a beautiful and brave word.
Months ago, I was gifted a book of Declarations, a compilation of poetic prayers much like the language of the Psalmist.
“Declarations in the Desert – Life Changing Decrees for the Dry and Dusty Valleys of Life” by Tara Sierra Moseley
It’s a book, I’ve read slowly, taking in small doses and then slowly increasing my “treatment”.
It’s a book and a practice in the beginning I decided
I’m not quite there yet spiritually to pray this way, not qualified in the field of faith to pray in such a confident way.
No surprise, this has long been my way of thinking.
Unforced and with ease (the best way for me) I began to pray, to records my words with God as declarations not timid asks or complaints.
Loneliness is a state I’m familiar with. Loneliness, or being alone is a response and a place I’ve often decided is safest for me.
I flee to hide.
I run as fast as I can to avoid conflict or triggers of fears and pain I’ve known.
Running and hiding lead to desperation, not safety, I am beginning to see.
“One thousand will flee at the threat of one, at the threat of five you will flee,
until you alone remain like a solitary pole on a mountaintop or a banner on a hill.” Isaiah 30:17 HCSB
Alone, on a hill
a tree
stripped of its branches.
And still, I’m gently called like a bird in the morning after a night of nightmares, realizing it was loneliness I saw in the eyes of others at a gathering that led to fitful sleep.
Glad that the birds woke me to invite newness.
Return. This is the way.
Let’s walk together.
Let this be your declaration.
A Declaration
Today is a new day. I declare that you’ve never abandoned me. I declare that Your strength allows me to choose strength and that Your strength is always available.
I declare that you’ve never left me on my own and that you’ve not once been unavailable to me.
I declare my bend towards fleeing and freezing is seen and understood by you and You, Lord are still so confident in the future you’ve made for me.
I declare trust and quiet confidence in this becoming increasingly my every moment hope.
“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you hope in your latter end.” Jeremiah 29:11 RV1885
The first sketches I sketched as a young girl, were of trees.
I never thought I’d paint any other subject. I’m still surprised over the peace I experience in the process of portraying postures of women, redemptive,
It feeds my soul.
Tall pines, big oaks, pecan laden and my favorite in my grandmother’s front yard …the shade providing chinaberry.
Trees are complex. They aren’t easy to capture the likeness of.
I sat quietly in my “morning spot”, a chair in the corner of the living room, a chair that was my mama’s, that was fancy for her double-wide in the country.
She’d bought it at a yard sale. I grabbed it up quickly when she died, I wanted it to live with me, I wanted the beauty of her choosing a fancy chair for her not fancy home, to be something I would never forget.
In a way, a seed she left for me to believe that a life can be pretty despite poverty, that there is always opportunity to believe in finding beautiful things.
I’ve had that chair since 2010. I have heard from God sitting there, thoughts formed, hopes and solutions have come.
I have prayed, I have cried, I have napped from exhaustion sitting straight up in this chair.
Before I knew, was tenderly surprised to be asked to speak here, God told me one morning, in a reply to my heart’s longing to know why it seemed I would never be enough, never achieve enough, never be able to see myself as healed and not a victim of so much and so many things.
The words from God, the gentle awakening?
“Lisa, your soil is not healthy.”
Time passed and I sort of tossed the thought around. Thought of all the things I had planted through my life, my children, my marriage, my work for others, my art, my sharing of my words…
“Seeds” in a way, efforts and actual accomplishments that I contributed to the soil of my life, the things that were from my heart and my soul.
The truth of that very odd thought, my soil not being healthy,
simply would not fade.
Months from the first wrestling to understand the meaning, I have begun to make sense of the strange statement.
So, I want us to consider whether our soil is healthy.
I googled “healthy soil” and “what causes trees to die.”
One answer drew me closer.
THE SOIL MAY BE COMPLICATED.
I made a list of complicated seeds in the soil of my life.
One list, things and circumstances beyond my control, even generational curses and a second list of traits, qualities and choices I have planted and continue to plant.
I realized there were a whole bunch of seeds that needed to die, no longer needed my failing attempts to bring life from brittle seeds or to keep nourishing and watering what I selfishly or naively chose to decide had to live forever…
there were seeds of my sadness that needed to die.
There are seeds of my history that I’ve let mark and destroy my hope for far too long.
Consider with me, what your soil, your soul is full of, seeds planted in you beyond your control and marked by sadness, trauma or likelihoods of how you might or might not grow.
Then consider what you’ve planted, tried to force the growth of or coddled and overwatered…
something that needs to be let go.
Because it’s not so much the THINGS that destroy us, stunt our growth, It’s the THING(S) UNDER THE THING(S)!
The seeds entangled in our roots.
My list:
This process requires bravery. I’ll be brave first.
SEEDS THAT MUST DIE TO ALLOW GROW
• SHAME that dies becomes freedom to live.
• SELF-DESTRUCTIVE PATTERNS that are put to death give permission to receive abundantly and to believe you’re worthy to.
• UNWORTHINESS that dies leads to confidence/confident in God not others.
• ABANDONMENT that is allowed to die and be grieved leads to deeper trust and intimacy in relationships.
• VICTIM MENTALITY finally laid down leads to an ease in living and breathing and to breaking generational cycles, a legacy of safety and love uncompromised by negative mindsets.
• FEAR that doesn’t live but dies builds courage (quiet confidence is your strength, this is the way) keep moving steadily forward.
• NEED TO CONTROL given up from an unclenched grip to let die leads to surrender (open hand to heaven).
• BITTERNESS disallowed and put to death yields mercy toward others.
• JEALOUSY that’s snuffed out before it grows invites kindness and sincerity in our thoughts and words.
• COMPARISON that ceases breathing gives breath to abiding oneness and ownership of the uniqueness of you.
I began to research what the Bible says about seeds and found many passages. I’ll just stick to the one familiar to many.
The Parable of the Seeds (the first recorded parable)
“And he was teaching them many things in parables, and in his teaching he said to them: And as he sowed, some seed fell along the path, and the birds came and devoured it. Other seed fell on rocky ground, where it did not have much soil, and immediately it sprang up, since it had no depth of soil.
And when the sun rose, it was scorched, and since it had no root, it withered away.
Other seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it, and it yielded no grain.
And other seeds fell into good soil and produced grain, growing up and increasing and yielding thirtyfold and sixtyfold and a hundredfold.” Mark 4:2, 4-8 ESV
God is sovereign and very aware of the times, every detail of our lives.
When I began thinking of what to share in speaking to women, I had no plan to write about my mama’s chair or the beautiful growth I might see as I surrendered the seed of grief attached to the story of an old yard sale chair and allowed myself to see the beauty of me possessing it.
On the outside and above the gnarled and tangled roots, our lives like a tree may be spectacular or just seem healthy and vibrant.
In time though, the “COMPLICATED” soil of our souls may lead to decay, destruction, and depression.
Every time we share our vulnerabilities lined up with our hopes for healing, we point someone else toward the path of fullness, light and redemption that they glimpse in us.
Truths on the significance of the soil of my soul being healthy, free of the thorns of despair or despondency over past wounds continue to reveal themselves to me.
Walking with my grandson, on the rocky clay road bordered by deep ditches and steep hills covered in brilliant moss, music from my phone in the atmosphere…I paused to shake off a heavy mood.
I quoted to myself a verse that’s meant to turn the tide, a proclamation…
No weapon formed against me shall prosper.
And I walked on, pushing the stroller, the little strawberry blonde head in my view, a pair of tiny feet bouncing to the beat of “Skip to My Loo”.
I walked slowly and thought…
But Lisa, what about the weapons you continue to turn on yourself.
And I stood still with the weight of that call to consider this truth.
Wounds are thorns that become tools, weapons of sorts for us to decide there’s no hope for us,
No outcome other than the expected one we’ve known, the time to grow is over
A life without woundedness is one you’ll never get to know.
There are some weapons we continue to use in fear because of proven past failures against the waiting patiently hope and permission to grow.
Wounds become weapons and weapons stunt our growth.
Wounds become weapons that we turn inward, that we decide are evidence that we’re not allowed to dream, disallowed from hope.
So ask yourself, message me and I’ll send you the tree as a prompt.
How healthy is my soil?
Which seeds are deep and should not be kept alive? Which seeds must die?
Is there woundedness in your life that you turn on yourself to stunt your growth, to destroy your hopes?
In quiet confidence is your strength…this is the way.
I sat in the back next to someone I don’t really know. We shared a casual conversation about pimento cheese spread. Surrounded by art, the meeting’s agenda would be sharing a YouTube film on “beauty”.
We were offered pencils and a piece of paper to jot down thoughts, told to prepare to share in a group discussion.
The poet/researcher in the video mentioned God’s creation, spoke of God’s intent for not only artists, but everyone, to recognize the power of beauty as a way to change us internally and then effect those around us.
The couple just in front of me looked towards one another often in a likemindedness that matched the word “bullshit” he wrote and held up in front of her (and me).
They exited early.
I listened as others gave feedback, sprinkled around the room were comments about architecture, about culture, about our community, about horses.
I thought to add to conversation, to suggest they all begin to notice color and to, if they felt led, to ask God in prayer to help them see color.
I planned to share how this practice and prayer has been a reset for me, spiritually and creatively.
No one had mentioned God.
Three times, maybe four, I raised my hand to be called on.
I wasn’t acknowledged and decided to stay silent.
That it was not a time to speak.
“ a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;” Ecclesiastes 3:7 ESV
To keep the peace I’d acquired and allow it to be a presence without words.
To possibly be peace to others without using my words.
“Did I but live nearer to God, I could be of so much more help.” George Hodges
This morning, a guest blog post on an author’s site has been shared. My words, added to her community of others writing about “beholding our beauty” in the places life places us. I was just so grateful to write inspired by Esther, her bravery and how bravery is a choice we can make every day, even if with uncertainty.
I encourage you to read not only my thoughts, but to engage in this community that Deborah Rutherford is so intentionally building.
On Sunday, a sunny day, my granddaughter and I spread out paper, scissors and ModPodge on a towel. We tore pieces of abstract paintings I loved but had not bought by someone or maybe I’d forgotten I loved them.
We used little strips and squares of color to tell new stories. To allow a new voice to be heard.
Keep living, keep learning.
How God speaks is another mystery that woke me on Monday in the dark, a nagging lack because of hearing others say “God told me.” or “I heard God speak”.
I’ve not experienced God in an audible way.
I’ve heard stories that blow my mind of people who’ve been in situations in need of hope or redirection and God spoke. I’ve read and heard He “speaks” through His Word, both gently and firmly instructive.
I’ve heard about the still and quiet voice that comes and I believe I understand this one well
Me being quiet with no searching for an answer and a thought comes…
Comes in reply to a question that’s been nagging at me.
Once, that voice whispered in my the hallows of my chest…
“It’s gonna be alright.” and the rightness of every worry in my life felt captured in that comfort of a promise. It was a strong promise. I still treasure it.
I smile over it.
This morning, words came and to sum it all up, the words were
“Just keep learning.”
An encounter with a woman I knew from my executive days planted the seed from which this desire has begun slowly growing.
She noticed my artwork and then as she passed through the crowd to leave, said across the room…
“I just read your story.”
I was confused. How did she read the “Artist Story” I sometimes point to when people ask, “How’d you become an artist?”
Later, I realized she’d only read the sweet story of the “cake with you Mama day”.
And, I realized slowly, I was happy that’s the only story she’d read.
This morning, I thought, sensed the coming together of thoughts and God speaking…
It’s been enough time now, enough time has passed.
The story of how you “came back to painting” no longer needs to include the hard and horrible parts.
You’ve grown to dislike the telling of this story.
Instead, when asked, the answer could be…
I’ve been painting seriously about seven years and I keep growing and trying to make good choices.
I keep learning
And I am a student of that desire to keep learning. I have grown.
I am still growing. And that’s the only requirement that is given to me by myself…to be me as artist, writer, mother, wife, grandmother or friend…follower of Jesus.
To be brave enough
To keep learning.
(It may be time to add a chapter or replace the old one altogether, at least edit it with a pen called kindness.)
It may be time to “turn the page” to the beauty of my story with only a tiny nod to the ugly.
It may be time to stop circling back to the places you struggled, the places you failed and fell.
It may be time to say less.
It may be time to edit your story of whatever you’ve taken on as a measure of you finally not just battling in becoming
But arriving.
Motherhood Author Teacher Settled Career Wife Friend Ministry Leader Artist Chef Athlete
Nurse Husband Girlfriend Boyfriend Instructor of Others
Retiree simply “being a light” Aunt Uncle Counselor Advocate
Son
Musician Sharer of your life with others
Daughter
Student of whatever
You are arriving,
you can take a breath.
The only requirement God has is A decision to keep learning.
To imperfectly decide
not to give up.
And to do so with love.
“…It’s quite simple: Do what is fair and just to your neighbor, be compassionate and loyal in your love, And don’t take yourself too seriously— take God seriously.”
I woke from a crazy vivid dream about being on the brink of my “dream job”. I would be partnering with a wise and super professional in every way woman, to be involved in some way with the Atlanta Braves. I was one final interview from the job and from moving to Atlanta G-A!
Now, I sit in the too cold for Carolina weather wrapped in a blanket and pajamas so thick you’d wonder if there’s a body in there.
In my dream, I was escorted by this close to perfection in appearance writer and coordinator of “human interest” activities for the baseball players.
They liked me, were excited. I was “in”.
My mama was there…I introduced her to “Miss Everything” with “this is Bette”.
There were other parts of the dream that were intensely telling. No surprise, I was lost in Atlanta, it was pouring down rain and I was driving in a panic and in the wrong direction on the interstate that would take me to the interstate back home.
I wanted to go home and I would tell “Miss Everything” by phone if I could find my way back to there.
In my dream, I found all sorts of things in my purse, one was a check I’d forgotten about.
Although the amount was only five figures including the two behind the decimal, it was enough.
There are many parts of my life buried deep, many aspirational paths away from who my life has made me.
There are crazy dangerous can’t find my way in the storm scary roads. There are dark ones. There are exciting ones. There are wounds from of all the wounding.
There are bravery required ones.
And who’s to say how bravery is defined?
What God has decided is your treasure and what your legacy will decide unbeknownst to you…for others to say “this was her treasure”.
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Luke 12:34 NIV
I’ve been reading a variety of memoirs. No secret, I’ve had a long held goal/hope/calling to write my story.
So, I’ve been reading to learn, to learn how the author will engage me in the hard story of their life with an equal measure of softness to get me to the part of it that was redeemed.
There are a handful I’ve shelved.
Call me critical, but I prefer ones the person writes themselves, not a ghost writer.
And books about trauma, abuse or addiction?
Well, there are two I’m grateful I was mature and wise enough to put down early.
I’m sorry to say one was Matthew Perry’s. I couldn’t endure the hardness of him to discover the soft place he eventually found.
I do have favorites and I’ve just downloaded a fourth. I’m not a book critic, so I’ll keep that to myself except to say I was surprised by the authors’ ability to detail their horror without causing fear in me.
This is what I needed, what I believe readers need.
To tell their stories in a way that didn’t cause me harm emotionally. These books are and were gifts. They’ll remain with me.
I see the search that didn’t quit in them to find the quiet treasured pearl in the turmoil and torment of their wounded lives.
Hard to believe, but they found a way to shine.
“I will when I can.” I have pencilled in the back of my Bible. It’s a response to a counselor’s question long ago.
“When do you think you will be able
to write it?”
And my answer, I’ll bravely share…
“When I no longer need to be noticed, when I decide it’s okay to forget.”
This post just got real brave, didn’t it?
My husband woke me from the Atlanta dream saying I’d been “yanking” the blanket.
I stilled myself, smiled in dawn of Thursday and remembered the last bit of the dream.
I found my way home.
My quiet life.
To continue and believe.
“Turn the page, Lisa Anne.” mama
“Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” Luke 12:7 NIV
You are loved.
Like a tiny sparrow flitting back across the cold blue sky to its nest.
A couple of weeks ago, a gallery employee commented on what she loved about a painting. She gave a detailed and thoughtful expression of why and I agreed with her, that I loved the same detail in the piece, in the colors.
I thanked her for going a little bit farther than necessary. Rather than just saying, “I like that one or that piece is nice.” she articulated in a way that gave power to the painting, even peace.
I told her I believe that’s a treasure, when a person notices something and expresses in words the evidence that you have been truly “seen and known”.
That’s a true gift to me. Something that sticks.
Just telling someone the truth you’ve observed.
“Angel Girl”
Yesterday, after the most beautiful walk with the music of Andrew Peterson to add to the mellow of me, I paused in the yard. I moved the withered pansies from the statue and I noticed the weathering of the cement, the spots brown from age and the places cracked by icy days or maybe summer heat.
I put the birds together, the dove and the cardinal, thinking stoic and a little unpredictable, a story I kinda love.
A Menagerie
As January invites, there are inventories I’m taking. Quietly considering where this journey should go, art and writing, writing and art.
For the life of me, I can’t bear to let one go.
More importantly, I don’t think God is telling me so.
Instead, I feel a different pull toward a different audience. So far, really just a handful of people who relate to what I feel is courageously honest in my painting and in my essays or posts.
I created an Instagram post to determine “my ideal client”. I asked a couple of questions as a way to go forward.
What would you like to see more of ?
I added photos of each, women/angels, landscapes and abstracts?
And this:
the most valuable question
I left it all there and the algorithm based traffic and responses were a bit of a tiny ripple.
On my walk, I thought about it all. About my tendency to only go just so far in connecting because of fear of not connecting, fear of rejection.
Fear of showing up and showing up prepared and yet, not being seen.
I thought of the wisdom of my children who are keen observers (often honest).
One saying “show up confident” and the other saying “don’t be negative when you talk about your art”.
Thought of the morsels of truth they add to the big barrel of not so true, just always realities of this work, this calling to “offer hope”.
I woke with clarity this morning as the sun gave my window a welcome glow.
I slept well and there was a redemptive arc forming in the story I’ve been telling myself.
I discovered more beauty in the words of others.
Words prompted by my IG question:
“You know what keeps me coming back? Your honesty! I enjoyed our brief talk at the She Speaks conference this summer. You have a very open and transparent way that makes it easy to relate and connect with you! I enjoy seeing the artwork (all different kinds) but I’m not a passionate lover of art. As someone who is struggling to find my own way in my own areas, I can however relate to the highs and lows that you openly share! I followed then out of curiosity about the work which you spoke about, but now I follow because I’ve really enjoyed seeing the winding road that is your journey. It is interesting to see your processes. As well as where the Lord might be moving in you next.”
Other comments were just as kind. An equal mix of people who like the mix of subjects I paint.
Interesting, so very.
The landscapes were referred to as “soulscapes”.
One comment suggested whatever I paint, continue to paint from the soul of me.
A couple more commented on the honesty in my sharing of my honest thoughts stemming from times I hear from God.
So Blue
Yesterday, I saw a friend at church, a fairly new one. We connected and hugged and she paused mid-sentence.
“Your eyes are so blue.” She said sweetly.
I smiled, told her I used to believe that, adding it’s been a while since I loved the blue.
She smiled.
I painted into the hours of dusk. A piece I put to the side, entitled “The Offering” was lacking a story I noticed.
It was dull.
I changed the position and posture of the figure, had her cradle the vase more gently and on a whim, her gown went from ivory to blue.
More confident and still quiet.
Still herself despite the critics or the questions of her own.
Strangely, I’ve never given the name “Quiet Confidence” to a painting.
She may be the one.
And while he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over his head. There were some who said to themselves indignantly, “Why was the ointment wasted like that? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.”
And they scolded her.
For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me.
She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for burial. And truly, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the whole world,
what she has done will be told in memory of her.” Mark 14:3-5, 7-9 ESV
Maybe…no, surely that’s a word for us all.
Do confidently what you can. These choices and gifts will be told in memory of you.
When December came, I willed myself to move toward Christmas in a more hopeful way. I’d read somewhere to look for “enjoyment” not to pursue perfection in my home, my gatherings, my notice of life all around me.
I have had one particular Christmas that I tended to decide my uncertain feelings about Christmas because of.
This year, God put an expression in my heart and as the days of December unfolded, it became my solid truth, my olive branch of peace to receive and to offer up.
“It won’t always be this way.”
This is the truth, friends.
Meaning that Christmas as a six or seven year old that was scary and scarring is long past.
All of us lined up in a row, the question my mama asked, “Who do you want to be with, me or your daddy?” The tiny little brown station wagon loaded down and pointed in the direction of leaving never left, nor did any of us kids. It was not my mama’s finest moment, it wasn’t mine either. But, oh the moments and the Christmases since. They’ve been a mixture for sure of ugly and pretty. Still, hope has never left me, has always come ‘round again.
I don’t have to fight for Christmas to be good, I don’t have to prepare for sadness, despair or even illness simply because those things have happened at Christmases before.
Christmas days in hospitals or bedside with illness or in bed yourself may have happened and may again.
Christmas next year won’t be exactly as it was a few days ago. It may be sweeter, there may be hardship, the people who are present and the times we are together may require acceptance and change.
This is life. Life is a good gift.
I’m missing so many moments as far as having “moment” photos, the goal.
Moments like standing next to my worshipful daughter singing “Joy to the World” in candlelight. Like the room filled with people as my brother offered prayer. Like the faces of all the babies when the paper was ripped and spread all over the room. Like the expressions of those I love in conversations about life now and in the coming year and although the word wasn’t spoken…evidence of redemption.
Those were moments not fit for pointing a camera at, those were moments stored up in hearts.
Hearts that are reservoirs of hope.
Mine is full. I pray theirs is too.
And you. Living in light of it all.
I wasn’t sure how Christmas would be this year. Nor can I be sure of the next.
Not so long ago, I wrote about “cardinal sightings”, a sign I decided, that God was in my very close vicinity and that he’d sent “someone” to tell me so.
Then time passed as time does and the red bird flashing before my eyes didn’t mean much at all.
Over time, the search stopped,
the fascination faded.
Red On My Walk
Monday after the family gathering a couple of hours away, I’d been thinking about the way things change.
My aunt and uncle (my remaining parental figures) are aging. There are noticeable changes.
There are reasons to accept.
It won’t always be this way.
I walked the Labrador today. I was in no hurry. The sun was warm, the shade was invigorating.
I let the dog drift from the trail to the grass.
I waited and then looked up to see the bird on the branches, a red one.
It lingered. It perched.
I paused to rejoice silently.
I came back home and worked on a painting, refreshed my son’s bedroom for when he visits with fresh sheets and comforter, fluffed the quilt and got the bed ready for his dog to stretch out.
The Labrador who’s staying with us, but not for too long. He’ll be back in Charlotte in a new quiet home very soon.
I thought of Christmas today, of Christmases of my childhood, Christmases of before.
I thought of how it’s a pattern of mine to anticipate the sameness and sadness of them.
And yet, if you made a bullet list of hard and good Christmases side by side, we’d both be surprised, maybe enlightened.
I don’t know why the emotions work this way, we hold the hard so tightly and we hold the sweet and beautiful as if it’s not important, as if it’s not a splendid gift, a time to treasure.
We look for the memorable and forget the moments.
We long for the same no matter its goodness and we resist the reality of every single breath alongside those we love that testifies to the truth,
It won’t be this way for long.
Oh my goodness, I saw my grandmother’s face on my aunt, the tiny little circles like apples on her cheeks as she smiled.
And she saw it too. It was the first time she noticed and now we all can’t not see it.
And I saw her face when she saw me, saw my children, their children and all of the others.
And it won’t always be this way.
We’re not predictors of time or change or good or hard.
I saw three cardinals, a flash of crimson through the window.
One lingered, dipping into the birdbath that belonged to my mama.
It was a day of unexpected sightings for what I’d not been seeking.
Isn’t that the way, the most beautiful way?
It won’t always be true.
But, some days it will.
And the worst of days no longer mark you because you pause to see the good have been better, the sweet has been sweeter and the expectations have been softened by the brave embrace of the comparison.
“Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Isaiah 43:18 ESV
On the top of my “to do” is to download my blogposts as I prepare to move my words from here to Substack.
The question mark is gone, I’ve decided to move. But the questions remain.
Do I print every post? Do I simply save them? Are there words that will cause me to cringe? Are they a spattering of wisdom worth keeping for later sharing, maybe publication?
Yes, to everything.
I sit with my list, the Labrador is so very chill; I believe happy I’m home and not hurried.
I view the YouTube tutorial again.
Okay, I’m gonna do it…
Later.
Not on the list is the closet, the tangled mess of costume, classy and funky necklaces, dysfunction!
I attended a Christmas party last night. I almost didn’t. My closet and its sad collection of not fitting or way too far worn and gone clothing set my tone towards dismay.
I pulled it together and had some pleasant and memorable conversations.
Back down the hall I went today. Before shipping sold art, before painting, before the WordPress cancellation that I must do by Friday.
I started in the back. I touched every garment. I charted the seasons and phases of me.
A period when I bought sweaters oversized and chunky because I thought I’d never be not “plus” any longer.
The too large pieces were jerked from the hangers and began the pile for donation.
Next the “dry clean only” executive pieces, pencil skirts, cardigan, fancy blouses for under blazers. These were the outfits for those days I took the stand in juvenile court to speak unwaveringly confident about the abuses children endured.
Those were the meeting clothes, board meeting or travels to Atlanta.
Interview for promotions attire.
Those are not me, these positions are no longer my calling or service.
Then the “statement necklaces”, a tangled mess were untangled.
A bunch of those were chunked along with a favorite black turtleneck that I decided to sit for “just a second” to paint and ruined the sleeve after an hour.
But a few pieces, I kept.
The Mother’s Day gift tunic, worn transparent from washing.
The fancy camisole I wore to my daughter’s wedding and my mother of the bride dress.
A red sweater because of my mama.
The bluebird blue structured top I wore to the Citadel graduation of my son.
The long sleeve black A-line dress I wore to my mama’s funeral, the shoes as well.
Another black dress, more of a sheath from my thinner days, the one I felt both pretty and presentable in for the first time going to church with Greg.
A necklace made of macaroni, painted purple and threaded on twine, a match for the one Elizabeth made.
A few other things that I treasure were kept.
More than I thought I was able to part with are now ready to be loaded into my car for donation.
The ease of this chore always surprises me.
We can let go if we just begin.
We can begin again if we will just will ourselves to let go.
I hope you’ll follow me to Substack. I’m just there as me, Lisa Anne Tindal.
I hope you’ll see the reason for my move, the decision to be more intentional about writing as one affected by complex trauma.
Writing from a place of my words an offer of hope.
To do no harm, simply be brave enough to be new.
Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. Isaiah 43:19 ESV
Thanks for being here all these years. I pray you’ll follow.
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 