Student, Mother, Wife

Children, grace, Motherhood, Prayer, Uncategorized

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I suppose the teacher appears sometimes even if the student isn’t ready. If years, phases, times of learning could be measured, this year would be one of wisdom.

One of faith, hope, prayer. And if readiness of student is like gratitude, life or ability in that its all about perspective, I suppose I, the student, was quite ready and yes, the teacher…life and God, appeared.

By wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established; by knowledge its rooms are filled with all precious and pleasant riches. Proverbs 24:3

My “story wall” has new chapters. The syllabus of the first semester of empty nest complete. Greater knowledge of prayer, of faith of hope, this has been an enlightenment.

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Today is Mother’s Day. Greg gave me two plants.

I told my friend on Friday that he would. We talked about the predictability of our husbands and both agreed that’s “just their way”.

But, today Greg gave me red flowers, geraniums cascading over the basket and a big red gerber. He said, “We miss our mamas don’t we?” I said “yeah.” and gave him a kiss then opened my card.

Thinking, how could he know about the geraniums, the red, the basket.

Perspective and God and grace.

Red for my mama…for me and a card thanking me for showing him faith, love, prayer. Thanked me for blessing him.

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I’m glad he gave me plants again.

Predictable, appreciated and cherished, finally. I’m humbled.

Student, Mother, Wife.

I’m learning, a student more ready as I grow.

Cake

Children, family, grace, Motherhood, Vulnerability

I’ve never heard of it and truly can’t imagine.

Coconut in red velvet cake

Or anything other than cream cheese icing

Pecans on top.

Mama and her sister, Sue Nell, my Aunt Boo, wedding cake and keeping things straight. This was them…is them.

Or a pound cake without a pound of butter

Or chocolate cake not thin like pancakes as layers.

I talked about my mama today.

Talked about her cake.

I had a moment where happiness became a tightening of my chest

And a catching in my throat.

A filling up of dampness in my eye.

But, mostly love.

Mostly honor.

The most amazing baker of cake I know, no disputing.

To my mama.

I miss you.

I love you.

I talk about your cake.

Talked about it last week with your sister, my Aunt Boo.

And today with two women who will

Never bake cake like you.

Coconut’s for birthdays, not red velvet.

It’s big tall cakes, fluffy white, opulently rich.

Special, it was mine.

Every year.

Your granddaughter, my daughter, bakes cakes.

Cooks with love like you.

That’s the secret, you said.

Love.

Happy Mother’s Day in heaven, mama.

I hope you’re bakin’ cakes.

Coconut, caramel, red velvet and pound.

Commas, Periods and Joy

courage, Faith, Prayer, rest, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized

I write grants. I deplore asking for money. That’s tough, but an honest admission.

What I enjoy so, so much is sharing stories of our work, compelling others to come alongside in giving.

Two big grants were denied within days of each other…one large in amount, one large in significance. Two things in my “pending” file that have now been decided upon, denial…not a comma, a period.

So, I decided to Let it go, Lisa. Turn the page. Close the book.

God is in control. Walk by faith. Period.

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The monthly Faith column contributed for April:

Grammar and God

I must admit there are times I could use an editor. In life and in writing I have a tendency to overuse the comma. Quite often and unnecessarily, I pause in the middle, hanging on to an idea, taking it down some path rather than closing with a firm ending, a period. If you’ve had more than a few conversations with me, you’ll know I can talk about a variety of things all at once. I have been told it can be hard to know whether I’ve finished with one thing before jumping to the next. I jump around and then pause, circling back to the beginning. I don’t think a comma would even help there. My life sometimes feels like a series of long run-on sentences.

A friend who is a wise conversationalist shared a bit of wisdom last week. Surprisingly, this insight came from a very young woman, a patient of hers. My friend, advising the young woman through trauma and life change, had been listening as her patient recalled her hardships. She paused, looked at my friend and said, “Maybe I should start using periods instead of commas.” She had essentially realized the time had come to rest, to accept certain truths.

In my desk, there’s a folder marked “pending”. About once a week I take it out, remind myself of its contents. I may remove a paper or finish a task left undone, but I don’t hassle over the items waiting. I leave them there in the place of pending. Life is full of waiting, wondering and pausing.

It can be torment to keep looking at what we don’t know, what’s not yet complete. We have commas and long pauses of doubt all over the places of our lives. What if we made prayer our pending file? Waiting would be less overwhelming. What if our lives modeled good grammar, God’s grammar? I decided to become more disciplined in my commas by adding more periods. I made a list of truths and marked them with strong, black dots of assurance, periods at the end of each. Have faith in God. Pray, and let God work. Trust God’s plan. God is good. God is in control. Let it go, Lisa.

The Book of James guides us in times of trouble. We are to expect trouble. We’re told there will be times we feel our “sentences” will never be complete, our circumstances unresolved, and our delays will lack an understanding. We will meet trials of various kinds. Do not doubt. Ask God. Believe. Don’t be tossed about. Ask in faith for wisdom, Amen, add a period.

Count it all joy when you meet trials. The testing of your faith produces steadfastness. James 1:2

Turn the page.

Close the book.

Re-read your Faith column.

Live what you believe.

Count it as joy.

Tomorrow’s another day.

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee as she reminds us all of the miralce we are, the miracles within and around us…http://jenniferdukeslee.com/miracle/

Seeing my Children

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

So, it must be what others have known.

The simplest of things that remind you of them little.

My daughter, a beautiful woman, ecstatic over the joy of dogs…

That’s the way she was. The way she is.

Little girl, giggly lovely woman

over a dog overjoyed.

When Heather comes home..

It was, I thought, the best part of the day…remembering dogs and her.

Little girl and dogs.

We hug goodbye and then I walk with him, “Colton Dixon” I call him.

There’s time left in the day, so I walk.

A slight loneliness in my step. There’s a glancing towards sky, a noticing of green trees swaying…looking to fill the space they’ve left open.

A small void….not such a pitiful or gaping hole

just a place you didn’t expect

to be so obvious.

Nothing to wait for…no one to anticipate coming in back door, down the hall.

Walking to clear the mind has become walking to fill the time.

I’m intent though and I walk on with prayers and thanks.

We turn, the set path and Colt turns his body towards the steep hill.

So, we go this way instead… to cut across the grassy field past the homes.

Topping the hill, a soft sound, a door shuts and I turn.

“Hey” he says. I smile, meeting the look of little boy with light brown hair, damp with warmth of day over his eyes.

“Hey”, I say. Then, “How are you?”

“Fine.” he says, reaching down to tie his shoes…then bounces up, looks towards me and waves his hand…”Bye.” he says.

I saw him there, my son. Little boy legs, bounding out into the afternoon…little blue Keds on white socks and happy suntan cheeks.

Texted him later, one more exam he answers. “Did well on the one today.”

“Love you, call me if you want to talk” I say.

“Okay, love you too.” he texts.

The newlywed and the rising college sophomore…

Austin- Recognition Day – a culmination of perserverance

I saw them as children today.

It was sweet and timely, good.

It was just enough.

Seeing my children, dogs and smiles.

Pretty girl, Beagle puppy, little brother

Extraordinary Monday

Children, family, grace, Motherhood, wonder

On a Monday like today I might do more laundry, ride my bike or change my mind about healthy, jump in the car to ride across town for milkshake, burger or both.

‘Cause it’s just us, me and the dogs anyway.

Then, a question in a text after working late…”Come out for a walk?”

“Sure.” I say.

Stop by, quick as I can, change clothes, grab dog and leash and we go.

Twenty minutes or so, all it takes, big fields on both sides and big sky all around.

A slow ride for the sake of the view and the windows down.

Labrador ears flipped back with the wind.

We round the curve, the big Brown Lab and I, welcomed by the open fields and my daughter.

We stride, dogs excited, through the peach orchard, down a rough paved road, turning back… back through sandy fields with tractor tire ruts and trees.

The dogs are more sporty, their walk a saunter, happier in the soft earth and rows of peachy beginnings.

Almost there, we turn towards the yellow house. I notice there was once a chimney.

“Remember, it was a shotgun house.” she says, then points out where there had been pigs and a place for a fire pit, but we didn’t get to see the cows today.

Always loved cows and country roads, my girl.

They walk ahead, my daughter and the dogs. “I’m coming.” I say and pause to wonder where a new path might lead.

I’ll wait. Soon, enough I may know.

But, not now. The place amidst the peaches and sky is the place where love lives.

Where love grows.

A place of treasured invitation to take a walk on an ordinary Monday

Now, extraordinary.

Hard to Say

courage, Faith, Prayer, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

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I told her that painting angels was new for me, adding texture to the wing and choosing vivid over subtle color.

I had an idea of grey, ochre and white against silvery sky.

But, I started again and I made it more me

More my heart, the blue of my eye, the brown of my bangs.

The words to a song

a perfect description.

So, I named it the name, “Open the eyes of my heart, Lord”.

Yet, I told her I called it

“The Eyes of my Heart”

Left out the Lord.

I did that.

Hard to say why

and it’s a small thing really

in this crazy world filled with offenses and the offended.

It’s a small thing, I know.

Still, I was troubled by my reluctance to be clear, to be outspoken about the “angel prayer”.

It’s hard to say what we need to say.

What we know to be true. What we know of the God who created us, loves us, and sustains us and desires, longs for our hearts to align with his goodness.

It’s hard to say because to oppose the things God opposes elicits accusations and that we are after all, not a people who love.

Perhaps, many have decided, we are a people who hate.

So we’re careful to speak.

I signed the painting with my life verse and name.

They’ll see, I’m certain, the words on the back above my the signature.

Might, I pray, pause to hold it up before hanging on wall.

Saying, ” Oh, I see.”

Quietly, thoughtfully…

“Open the eyes of my heart, Lord”.

I pray they do.

I pray He does.

I pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so that you can understand the confident hope he has given to those he called—his holy people who are his rich and glorious inheritance. Ephesians 1:18

On the Cusp of Beautiful

courage, Uncategorized

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I figured it out, just now I believe.

Why I’ve been both enthused and stagnant all at once.

Why I yearn to create; but, only think of it. Like standing, solid and solitary.

I hold my ideas tightly to my chest…exhilarated but clinging tightly, keep them close for now.

But, I figured it out just now. The beauty of a pianist, a cautious performer. Only so much to share, perhaps the listener won’t understand, won’t honor my beautiful sound.

Yet, he played and I saw his gift.

I read this post, a blogger who often reads my words. I’d not written in a few days. I have clarity of idea, disorganization of thought. In art and writing, I thought I might just be tired. I believe it’s cherishing and caution.

I might be on the cusp. It may come soon, my time, with careful intention.

Like this pianist.

Hasselblad

A musician, his instrument, tentative

Yet, intentional.

His fingers, delicate and purposeful.

Pausing, I noticed, delayed it seemed.

As if concerned, will the touch of the tip of my finger

Elicit the beauty of note I desire?

Or should I not touch for now, not paint, not write?

Should I be hesitant, cautious, uncertain?

I’m on the cusp…an idea today, a story quite clear.

Like steep cliff ground clinging fear.

Still, I decide.

I will go slowly. I am on the cusp.

I will go lightly like the pianist, the keys, the touch of his rounded fingertips.

Plucking each key, lifting the finger, falling back after the pause to brush another.

He continued and I listened.

To the story of his decision to play.

And I understood my pause, my cusp.

My passion.

Thank you, David Kanigan for making this time make sense.

Not Fade Away

Uncategorized

Old battered wood as art.

I thought of angels and old churches

Yet, painted an orchard.

An idea this week, a chronicling of visits…

Friends, women of my Bible.

The stories of them, us. An idea…lingering now for just a bit.

Not fade away this time, Lisa…not tuck underneath…not fade away.

I’d have done many things.

written

painted

scribbled

sketched….framed…displayed…

maybe, published and placed

a book in hands of another

had I begun,

believed

in what my heart had spoken clearly

by now.

Begin again…not fade away.

Grace and Open Space

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

We turned the sharp turn towards the little house.

Dinner with the newlyweds, the planned welcome home.

I can see the roof from a distance on the long, main road.

Looking towards the right, in the distance past the wide field.

Yellow house under blue sky embraced all around by border of green.

I turned towards peach fields, all leaves now, blooms becoming soft, pretty fruit.

Wide open fields lined with trees for miles.

This is the place God graced them.

I look again, again, again.

Same place.

Same grace, still I look again and linger.

We eat together surrounded by ribbons, paper, china…talking, laughing, remembering bliss of the day they wed.

I look towards window, I can’t resist.

Almost night now, the trees lit low.

My daughter is a wife.

I’m a surreal kind of floating happy, like not believing I was chosen to be an observer of her joy.

It’s a new happy, a graciously quiet content.

We say goodbyes to newly husband and wife.

And turn towards the sharp curve home in the road.

Almost cobalt dusky blue sky love, grace, and God.

I’m captivated, yet again

By the grace of their open space.

Mud Rooms and God

Faith, family, grace, rest, Trust, Uncategorized

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I cleaned the mudroom/dog’s room/art studio last night. It was an absolute mess! There was green paint, pale in places on the wall I hadn’t seen before.

I remember the painting, large and vibrant sunflowers against muddy muted green.

My hands and my fingertips I’d used to create the raised center of flowers and then with sandpaper and a metal tool, I’d distressed the background, removing paint, exposing the old wood underneath.

Art is tactile. Life and God, too.

His hands all over our lives, we in His hands.

We, the clay

He, the potter.

Us, the work of His hand.

I thought of my painting style, a bit impatient, erratic.

Calm, but with fury in my focus.

The potter, though, has a gentle hand. The potter is slowly creating, no rush all rhythm.

Giving and grace-filled, a light tender touch.

Taking away, adding to or starting again.

A blob of clay held steady near the lap of the potter becomes a beautiful vessel.

Every circumstance, a question about what’s ahead, whether happy, disappointing, or unfolding is a molding of me.

If I truly believe God’s hand is ever on my life, then I’ll not be afraid.

I’ll not worry.

I’ll not live with the anxiety that compels me to know everything all the time.

I’ll stay there, okay in not knowing all, His potter hands on my life, my heart and I’ll surrender.

I’ll sit still there, accepting what He has in mind for me, for those I love, all vessels made from clay into a beautiful design of the hands of the potter.

Yet you, Lord, are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand. Isaiah 64:8

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