Favorites and Loves: Summer

family, rest, Uncategorized

Sitting by the pool this evening and thinking about the coast.

My favorite part, the breeze.

The ocean breeze, warm and quiet, caressing me.

Cool sheets on summertime feet

Watermelon and a spoon

Watermelon with my daughter

Peaches and cream (ice)

Bike rides at dusk

White wine over crushed ice

Thunder and lightening hard rains

Days longer, but shorter, summer flies by.

Summer-crammed good things, quick squeeze in’s, all the good we can while we can.

Indulging in the good.

Fall around the bend waiting to remind us all to behave.

Summer saying slow down.

Laugh, linger, love.

Rest.

Chill.

Let it be.

Take your time.

Love your life.

Speaking in light and Proverbs

courage, Faith, praise, Prayer, Teaching, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

There is much reason to be burdened lately.

Churches burning, rants, debates, threats of harm floating about, impending doom speculated for later this week.

Nine people murdered despite loving a lost and angry soul, loving just like Jesus did and does. I was and am still astounded by their faith, their witness, their legacies. The peace of Jesus shown bravely through the ones left behind in Charleston. Attempts to overshadow were stifled by love. Then a decision made headlines on the issue of marriage. It worked its way into our minds, a distraction and a call to question beliefs in God’s word or to examine our faith. To find my thinking and resolve glaringly different than many. The challenge becomes walking in light, being light when it’s getting really dark all around, trying hard to avoid ugliness and remain quietly confident, yet desiring God, desiring to be light.

I’m over halfway through my life and I’ve wandered in rebellious darkness, trapped by my choices and I’ve walked in light, obedient and trusting, basing all my choices on being close to Jesus, a place of peace. Offended by a comment expressing fear of Christians who interpret the Bible so literally, they become extremist killers of those who are not like-minded. I was more than compelled to respond, yet waited and then took a breath, prayed asking God to help me explain why I believe His word:

“I am who I am because of my confidence in God’s word. I do my best every day to live out my faith in quiet confidence. As a child, I experienced the fanatical teaching. I rejected it, came back, knowing it’s the best and safest place for me. I believe in loving others and I pray I would never be seen as a violent type individual in my stance. My desire and calling is to share when asked Why I believe God and His word. My story of a life obedient and trusting is not loud or harsh. It is a strong conviction, though and may lead to much dispute. I know where my heart needs to be and I’ll stand strong and confident, rejecting hate and knowing I’m not perfect but so much better when I walk with God…this is the way walk in it…following His voice.”

And now, the story of a wise woman who walks in light, restoring faith, speaking in wisdom-filled proverbs.

Grandma Susie has that light. She and I shared a strong, sweet hug in the grocery store last Saturday morning when I, with a heavy and worrisome heart needed relief, there she was. She smiled, “Good to see you.” I wonder if she knows she has a smile like a light, a warm light like the glow of a lamp in an empty house left on in your bedroom, welcoming you in after a long day. I wonder if she felt my heart, its light beaming with joy to see her.

Like the morning light after a heavy, sleepless night, determined and hopeful, we throw back the curtains, lift the blinds to welcome the bright possibilities of a new day.

I told her years ago, I feel like God sent her to me to fill in for my grandma. Like an unexpected red bird, Grandma Susie is a gentle reminder of faith despite circumstances and of love.

When I worked where Grandma Susie volunteers, she loved on me filling that void. She was firm in her love to the children there, demonstrating love to build and cushion her strong and wise corrections. I remember her as “sharp as a tack”. She’d correct a child, then lean down and embrace them, speaking quiet words of explanation and encouragement long to be remembered.

In wisdom and love, as if to say:

My child, come and listen to me. Do as I say and you will have a good life. I will teach you wisdom’s ways and lead you in straight paths, so take hold of my instructions; don’t let them go. Guard them for they are the key to life. Proverbs 4:10-13

Wisdom

Grandma Susie makes me think of Solomon, wise sayings given with gentle conviction, Proverbs.

She speaks, her words linger, hold much weight. Grandma Susie, a modern day Solomon, much like Corrie Ten Boom or Maya Angelou.

Grandma Susie is a beautiful woman. I’m always stunned by her unchanging face, her confident posture, surprised to see her after several years.

I told her again on Saturday, just like years ago, how beautiful and kind she is. I asked her the secret to her beauty, unashamed embracing her in the produce section. “Is it water?” “Plenty of sleep?”

Ever humble, she never answered, so I asked

“It’s your heart and your faith, isn’t it?”

Then her face lit up and we were of one accord singing the same song, same chorus, the verses of our lives sustained by our faith.

And so we visited a little bit, planted ourselves in front of the bananas and got a little excited about our stories of faith.

She said, “Lisa, we got to feed our faith and starve our doubts. Doubt spreads like cancer…spreads faster.”

“We have to guard our hearts! “ She said, as others turned to listen.

” Oh, I know, but we make it so hard ’cause we can’t see faith” I added.”We’ve got to stay on our knees and in the word, keep it in our hearts.” she said. “We got to stop doubtin’, Lisa. We just got to stop it from growing. We got to stop doubt from spreadin’.” she added with conviction.

Then we smiled, held hands and hugged good and strong before going our on ways, she glanced back smiled and nodded, firmly and with authority.

I paused, hating to see her go and smiled back, uplifted by Grandma Susie’s love, light and wisdom.

I’m linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tellhisstory-when-youre-going-through-a-storm/

The brave and beautiful 3, Praises

Children, courage, Faith, family, praise, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

Wednesday morning, I felt the need to retreat. I thought of avoiding all social stuff, followed blogs, subscriptions, true and important posts on the Charleston horror and/or the ones meant to lift me, motivate or push me forward.

I thought of settling back into the comfortable place of effortless complacency. I considered quieting my voice, my words. I remembered my truth, “Write bravely or not at all” and not at all was feeling safe, feeling like a good fit for an expected mold. I had been here before, searching for the consoling truth of God, waiting His truth out.

And then I skimmed my inbox to read the next chance to tell my story, His story. Linking up, who am I kidding? I’ve just really begun, afraid my words are just journaling. On a muggy gray morning I found myself in a funk, a deep pit, asking “Jesus, help me out of this rough patch.”

Like the Psalmist, I cried, I’m slipping! Again, your unfailing love, O’ Lord supported me. When doubts filled my mind, your comfort gave me renewed hope. Psalm 94:18-10

I’ve been linking up with other writers mainly as an exercise in persistence, an assignment that elicits my naive courage, I think.

Jennifer Dukes Lee reminds me to praise and then suggests I comment sharing three praiseworthy things. I was feeling as far from praise as the sun is from the full moon on a winter night. So, I sat with that sullen quiet as I opened the next message.

I read about courage described by Tracy Line as she recalled her “Time Hop” of three years ago. http://tracyline.com/2015/06/23/the-art-of-practicing-courage/ I decided to comment, a Thank You for Tracy’s story of discovering what God intended for her resting period of three years. I shared my struggle with Tracy, which is odd but not odd, in that I’ve not met Tracy Line “The Writer Tracy”.

But, Tracy replied in the same kind way Jennifer Dukes Lee replied months ago. Both expressed good and hopeful truths. Tracy encouraged me further, told me she had read my brave words…You’re a good writer.” she said.

Both said they would pray for me.

Published authors, stopping to pray for me. And both times, God heard and I sensed a change of thought, of heart, reason and my reasoning.

Both times!

Here it is Thursday evening and I’m thinking of the beauty of kind words of two strangers who love God. I’m remembering the challenge to be thankful for three things. A discarded chance to comment just a day ago because I felt my praises were too contrived, too insincere.

Now, just a day past the thought of keeping it all to myself, my brave words, slipping into a quiet, keep it all inside place…I’m bursting to proclaim my three things for which I lift my face and hands in praise!

Praise God #1

Praises to God for a wedding dress weekend! A couch filled with crazy, how do I work this selfie-stick laughter. My daughter streaming happy, joyous, honest and sweet tears from the dressing room when she could wait no longer and slipped her pretty arms into the wedding dress. Her quiet request of the seamstress to honor Grandma and my stopping to catch my breath sigh upon hearing it…my daughter, soon to be a bride. One of my three…

Pre-Yes to the Dress party

Praise God #2

I bought the biggest and best dog bed, refusing to believe it would be ripped apart. I bought this dog bed because “Colt” the Christmas gift to a son about to enter The Citadel, is in fact a pony size chocolate lab puppy who has outgrown the crate. Praise God, he loves his bed!

Every night for a week, back to the place where the crate had been and a word “Bed” and he sleeps, all night. No more pee puddles and he has stopped eating my bras! He is a rambunctious little boy of a dog who likes living here. Praise God for my “What was I thinking Merry Christmas, Austin” lapse in reason addition to our family.

Worth it all

Praise God #3

From a heart, heavy and tired, I’ve been lifted again. Praise God, the sustainer and lover of my weary and wayward soul! The God who reminds me of the good seed he planted in me. The God planted, joy bringing, soul nourishing act of thoughts made words.

Writing, my seed

Clearly and more confident

Bravely, with a few familiar steps back, but stronger steps forward, good work began, carried to completion.

With God, through and for God.

He who began a good work in me will carry it through to completion. Philippians 1:6

Quiet Confidence is my strength, returning and rest, my salvation. Isaiah 30:15

I’m linking up with other amazing and motivating writers who Tell His Story at Jennifer Dukes Lee.http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tell-his-story/

The Story of my Daddy’s Heart

Children, courage, Faith, family, Prayer, Vulnerability

I hadn’t noticed the puppy until now. I didn’t remember my daddy being the dog lover mama was. But, here we are.

Me, almost three with daddy and a puppy following along at our heels. I’m looking down and he must have been watching for roots to trip me up or something that might harm my tiny little feet. I keep this photo on my desk and I cling to the love it portrays, an image of his kind and quiet heart.

Walking by the water

My daddy’s life was badly bruised by tragedy. His daddy was murdered by a black man over some sort of dispute, at the well drawing water. Daddy never spoke of this, I only know through stories saved for my grown-up ears. The knowledge of my daddy’s pain brought clarity and forgiveness for hurtful and scary words that would come easily when alcohol was salve for his wounds.

The story of my daddy’s heart is a timely story, an important story.

Mainly, for the children I love, grown or still small who need to know.

A story of a friendship between a white man and a black man.

Thomas, my daddy’s friend helped him when no one else would.

Thomas checked on my daddy, had long talks on lonely cold nights with my daddy and drove him home on many nights.

Stood by his friend through cancer and watched him, with us, become kinder and more humble each day. Every day spent in searching conversations centered on ammends making and making right of perceived wrongs.

Thomas and his wife, Mary cried at my daddy’s funeral and then stopped by to sit with, listen to my mama on lonely cold nights in her lonely country home.

Thomas fished in their pond, cut her knee high grass in summer.

Just checked on her, kept her going. And then, when my mama died, we gave Thomas and Mary her car. They cared for my mama’s best friend, her dog, until it’s grieving and aging heart passed on too.

Thomas and daddy are together again, friends in Heaven.

Thomas was my daddy’s friend. Race didn’t matter. This is the story of my daddy’s heart and of his friend’s heart.

A Father’s Day story, a timely story

A story for a time like this, a time of tragic hate and young people who are both impressive and impressionable. Young people who are paying attention and are standing for something. Maybe deciding between love or hate.

Choose love over hate. Love like a Wednesday night prayer meeting prayer. An open heart, open door prayer for someone they thought just lost and seeking. A love shown, freely offered in light of and because of Jesus. A strong love like a mama taught a son. A son who lost his mama at a Wednesday night prayer meeting in Charleston.

For the ones I love, a story you need to know

“Love is always stronger than hate.”

Chris Singleton, son of Sharonda Singleton

Feelin’ melancholy, Sis?

Uncategorized

Something about Sunday had me wanting to go home.

To the country, a big white house, grandma’s house.

It was a sneaky kind of longing all around a breakfast choice, wishing for breakfast at my grandma’s…doors wide open to the wrap around the front screened-in porch.

I always loved the narrow little side porch, a good place to be tucked away.

Last Sunday morning, I found myself wanting what couldn’t be again.

That kind of floating around in your mind of all things changing.

The knowledge of not being able to be in that place, with those people again, not a cumbersome sadness dragging around all Eyoreish….

Just an almost sweet ache. I had written about the look on my son’s face at graduation, and my sister-in-law commented:

“Feeling melancholy, sis?” Dianne

And it stuck. Why yes, I believe I am and by the way, Thank you for putting a name to my longing, my wistful thinking

Also, thank you for calling me “sis”.

That made me smile in the simplest and sweetest of ways.

Melancholy feelings on a Sunday morning,

Wishing for, what back then I thought silly, odd old people ways.

I opened the refrigerator for milk, thinking I’ll have cereal and banana for a change.

Instead of protein boredom and sameness, I immediately thought corn flakes in the big white, bright rooster box and I went for the closest we had in the cabinet.

Remembered the wilted, golden floating, softened flakes… me, at Bama’s tipping the bowl to get every last drop of milk flavored with thick sweetness of cream.

I was thinking about my grandma’s sweet milk, tiny pancakes and coffee with cream from a can, poured into the saucer of a cup to cool so I could then sip along with her.

So, instead of two percent, I grabbed the pint of light cream purchased earlier for something, can’t even recall.

I poured it over my flakes and bananas, its creaminess settling amongst the fruit and flakes, finding its way into the ridges of the flakes and sinkin’ into the bananas.

I tasted home, sweet country dirt road, playing baseball with my cousins on the clay front yard home.

The sweetness of simple, of sparseness, of sameness…of small things that happened with spontaneity.

Again on Wednesday, I thought of Bama, my grandma. I moved into my morning, the lingering melancholy of accepting change, difference, good and worthy transitions…blue, nonetheless.

Waking up feeling complacent, doubtful…needing to surrender but not really feeling hopeful or too thrilled with letting go…

I journaled in the quiet marking my little notes to self. Remembering my grandma in the dim tiny light, her Bible in her lap. I made more notes on prayer.

Lately, God has called my heart and beckoned my attention towards prayer. That morning, empty house except a snuggled down beagle and lab puppy (like a toddler) waiting beside the door, I sang in the shower; free, confident and joyously affirming “Tell it to Jesus” Lisa.

Are you weary, are you heavy hearted?
Tell it to Jesus, tell it to Jesus.
Are you grieving over joys departed?
Tell it to Jesus alone.

Refrain

Tell it to Jesus, tell it to Jesus,
He is a friend that’s well known.
You’ve no other such a friend or brother,
Tell it to Jesus alone.

I’m linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee and am thankful for a chance to Tell My Story, His story. http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tellhisstory-the-first-step-to-authentic-friendship/

Are you here yet?

Uncategorized

Everything started moving really quickly. May felt like two days, not a month. Your birthday, on the 29th and I thought, “Didn’t we just get done with Christmas and your first car and making the AllStar team with your buddies, all lined up, gangly legs swinging along the side of the pool?”

Seriously, wasn’t it just a little while ago that bedtime meant Spot stories and afternoons were Tellie Tubbies and Clifford the Big Red Dog? I feel like it was just yesterday, on a Sunday just like today…warm outside, summer time waiting for us to get home from church…that you caught me off guard, stepping from our pew and down the aisle to open your heart and life to Jesus. And I cried, not big showy tears, sweet soul-filled tears.

And it seems not so very long ago that you’d fall asleep in my bed. Not long ago that I’d pick you up from daycare to find you usually on the playground. I’d walk towards the window after gathering your things and I’d watch for just a bit. Mamas do that. Sometimes you’d be sitting in the sand and I’d smile because I knew your sharp little blue Keds and socks would need to be emptied first thing.

Sometimes, it seems I’d find you in thinking mode. You’ve always been my thinking child. And I could see you watching the other little boys and girls, content to sit and gaze. I can see so clearly your little elbows on your knees, your chin cupped in your little hands. Or sometimes running around, laughing as you toddled on cute, chubby little tan legs, blonde hair glistening from the sun.

But most of all, I saw you waiting, your face intently focused and your little mind’s clock anticipating my arrival, waiting to hear my voice, your name…”Austin I’m here.”

Are you here yet?

And this is why I can’t take my eyes off this one shot.

My daughter, making allowances for my lack of discretion, captured this gem. I told her…”Catch him looking, he’s scaninng the room. Hurry, get that shot!”

My son, looking to see if I had arrived. Waiting to see me there. On the day of his graduation, knowing I was there, but looking for me in the crowd. Until finally a barely noticeable, understated nod and just a hint of a reassured smile.

Because he had been waiting to know, I was there.

Be assured, “Austin, I’m here.”

Finding feathers again

courage, Faith, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

I almost stopped noticing feathers, red birds and coins.

A callous remark meant to be fun was hurtful.

“How will you survive your son, your “baby” going to college?”

My answer, not quite as mournful as the question.. “Oh, I don’t know.” was met reply…”You’ll be fine, just go find a feather.”

So, I almost stopped noticing.

I walked the Saturday evening after seeing the accident with a little boy injured frighteningly bad. I thought of the posture of my prayer that day and the unashamed plea for life. I recalled the scene of imploringly requesting mercy, the prayer, unashamed, uninhibited.

I remembered as I walked, the sweet story of a white dove on the walking trail. The dove my daughter and her fiance had greet them a few days in a row before that Saturday.

Before that Saturday afternoon beside the road with a little boy.

Peace, a dove, calmly preparing the heart.

And as I walked and prayed God’s will, God’s glory, not mine

I noticed, shiny, glistening, amongst flattened leaves and straw

A silver, beaten up old dime.

And I remembered that finding a dime is symbolic of grace and assurance as if to say, ” It will be alright. You are seen. You are loved.”

“You are remembered.”

And so, I am noticing God again.

Red birds flitting by. Clouds bordered by pink. Big pretty full or skinny crescent moons. Lyrics that stop my busyness, speak perfectly, clearly.

Parallels in prayer, in thought, in scripture recited, journaled, offered up to a friend and then recalled, repeated, reminded by another.

My friend, John stopped by and we talked about a funeral.

The music. Piano, clear and consulate. The message. The presence of God, of love.

He had noticed too. So, I shared my words recorded earlier:

A few weeks ago, a friend who happens to be an employee lost her husband unexpectedly. She was in shock and heartbroken, physically ill. In our embrace, I reminded her of her strength, her courage and her faith. “You are strong.” I told her. “Still, it will be hard.”

Through the evening and into the following day, I texted her to check in, each time reminding her that I was praying for her. I recalled a promise from God’s word and I simply texted her “My prayer for you is that you are keenly aware of the peace of God…the peace that surpasses all understanding.” Thinking back now, I know that verse was brought to mind by God, for my friend. Without knowing the exact verse or its context, these few words came to mind for my friend.

While not nearly sufficient to ease her pain, I’ve thought since how appropriate these words were for my friend her world spinning and she, in shock. The passing of her husband on a typical Thursday morning, something she could not understand. And I thought “How amazing is our God that he knows there will be tragedies we can’t fathom or understand?”

We are not expected to understand.

Our lack of understanding confounds us, troubles us, and grieves us. His command, His promise, “Rest in my peace. It surpasses your bewilderment and grief.”

I attended the funeral service for my friend’s husband. The music enveloped me as I sat accompanied by a few women who live in our shelter and one other friend.

We were such a contrast, lining that pew, I’m sure to most people.

Young women, older women, and a sharply dressed professional and member of our board of directors, we lined one of the pews. All of us there as friends together loving our friend through her loss.

The minister welcomed us with a prayer and all joined in singing Amazing Grace. My board member and friend, the definition of a gentleman, sat on my right and a pregnant and homeless young woman, a resident of our shelter on my left. The gentleman, a crisp navy suit; the young soon to be mother, having no dresses wore a pair of denim capris, a maternity top and a bright scarf she later told me with a big smile she added to give “a pop of color”.

We sang together. We blended beautifully.

We sang Amazing Grace as if we’d all been singing in the same little church choir for years. By the third verse, I found myself in tears over the beauty of this grace, this peaceful worship.

The minister spoke from Philippians, Chapter 4. He spoke of the pain of death. He spoke of grief and of the hope of heaven. Then, he closed with verse seven:

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Phil. 4:7

Quietly, I closed my eyes then and thanked God for His words and His lyrics, our Amazing God, our God who longs to be noticed.

I am noticing again. How can I not?

My friend, now a widow returned to work at our shelter.

A very young new mom and precious newborn baby girl, anticipating her return. A child, a mama, an older wise lady.

A young woman, burdened by mistakes but believing in good

And a front porch fern with open mouthed, frantically happy birds

Saying “Begin again”.

Finding feathers and noticing God. We begin again.

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee, sharing, learning, being brave.

The Bluest of Days

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

This time last week I was hoping for more time of quiet. I knew pretty soon I’d be interrupted by noisy kitchen rumblings and Saturday morning useless television.

But, I stopped my down time and moved slowly from the couch to shower when my daughter offered to have lunch and go antique shopping. A tiny little town about twenty minutes away, our favorite spot, we’d need to hurry she said.

Just time enough to “go junkin'” and have a little lunch, then back home so she could go fishing with her fiance.

My plan had been to write, to try and make sense of some of the thoughts from a rough previous week.

I had asked a friend earlier this month…I can’t decide if I’m overwhelmed or sad. Just so much good, so much sad, so much to celebrate, so much to grieve.

There was such a disconnect. I felt so disjointed.

I was thinking about sadness and a longing to be hopeful. I felt like life had become too much for me understand and the idea of being hopeful and surrendered was a burden, a chore. Felt unattainable.

Resistant to hoping, I struggled, because all I kept thinking was

Sometimes being sad makes sense and hope feels like being stranded in a deep grey ocean, clinging tightly to whatever is possible, staying afloat, yet wondering, “How will I ever get to shore?”

I attended the funeral of a friend’s husband of 22 years. He, I believe, was on the cusp of living fully, freely. Suddenly massively unexpectedly. he died on an otherwise predictable day. His wife, my friend is sad.

Sadness makes sense.

And I had been stuck on something I couldn’t change. I wanted mama here, their grandma. Ausin will be graduating from high school and Heather will be trying on wedding dresses…both happening in just days, weeks.

Sadness makes sense when grandmas don’t live until grandchildren become adults. This is truth, to me.

Being sad made sense…the kind of trying to but can’t snap out of it sense. But, forced to be a secret kind of sadness because you can’t or don’t really let on how hopeless missing someone feels.

The spiraling down hopelessness made even more ugly because of the feeling of “shouldn’t feel this way” and “your faith is an example to everyone so you can’t be so afraid, so sad, so weak.”

And the promises of and from God are good. But still, that dark grey ocean of longing for what no longer can be surrounds you as you peer anxiously and vacantly to see, feel that hope.

There you are holding onto to what you know of hope; but, still squinting through tired, heavy eyes for rescue, hope…stumbling and stepping cautiously for a level, safe place.

We all stumble in many ways. James 3:2

Days passed, thoughts gathering, circled around and stored up for sharing. Yet, no time for writing, my journal filled with ramblings of prayer and promises of good to come.

Jotted down thoughts on sadness, on hope. Lists made of scriptural recordings of sad and wandering people like me…themselves floating in the murk of what they knew, never doubted, truly and deeply knew was a strong solid hope, yet they too wondered

” How long, Lord until hope is again my safety, my solace?”

How long, Lord until I see your glory?

How long until I see you, know and believe in Hope?

Writing about sad making sense and hope feeling like lost was on my mind and heavy in my heart until last Saturday when I said yes to lunch and shopping.

Until, I walked outside and saw the sky, saw God.

“Look at the sky, Heather, not a single cloud.” I said, lingering for a minute, my face turned upward as I pulled out of the drive.

Nothing but blue.

The brilliant, bluest expanse of blue, as if heaven had thrown open its arms to say, ” All is well.”

My daughter and I had lunch, she discovered the sweetest idea for her reception tables and we headed back home.

Pretty country roads on a blue sky day with happy talk of wedding and then, ” Oh, mama”

And I turn towards her face to see a flash of blue pajama bottoms, a child badly injured.

We stop abruptly, side of the road, get out of my car, hurrying.

She consoled. She comforted. She nurtured. Talked of 5th grade and basketball. Teacher voice, calm and intent . She prayed, silently, kneeling amongst overgrown weeds.

And again, that same blue sky buffeted us as I ran without thinking to pray…to a sister, a mama and held hands pleading ,

“Jesus, save this child. We are certain Lord of your love for us. Please, Jesus, save this child.”

I had never prayed this way. Never implored, pleaded, cried out in this tone…this manner.

Praying, hoping, knowing, trusting.

And a week ago tomorrow, afraid of what I might hear, I found hope again in the voice of a mama who answered a hospital room phone saying,

“He’s gonna be just fine.

I recognize your voice, you held me. You prayed.”

Hope, I see you. You, God are my hope.

More clearly, now.

Children, courage, family, Motherhood, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I called my daughter and asked her to check my roast. ” I think it’s gonna taste like grandma’s this time.” I said.

“You’ve never gotten it like grandma’s, mama” she insisted.

” I have a couple of times, check it.” I said. “I think it’s gonna fall apart.”

“You’re right, mama…it is…you did it this time.” she said.

Last week, my cousin asked what my daughter’s favorite cake would be, planning ahead for birthday.

“She loved mama’s pound cake or the thin layer chocolate.” I answered.

Cake and my mama….always consistently rich, no holds barred, exceptionally outspoken, rich in taste and memorable.

You got what you expected, anticipated.

When I think of my mama, I think of cooking. I think of love expressed with joy.

I think of honest, simple, and no secrets…all expectations met.

Satisfied, satiated, blessed even. Her cooking was art.

Her conversations, her opinions, her advice were the same.

No cutting corners, nothing artificial, sometimes harsh.

Consistently honest and end of the story succinct.

Rarely soft or maternal.

She mothered the way she was mothered.

Industrious, focused and intentional. Harsh at times. Vacant, disengaged, exhausted at times.

She was overwhelmed. I understand now.

More than almost anything last week, on Mother’s Day…for Mother’s Day

I wanted to write my story about my mama….about a feeling I had come to know.

To understand now.

An opportunity to express the peace that comes from experience.

A place of perspective I found, of understanding finally.

I positioned this sepia toned little story. Mama, my aunt, silhouettes of my children, me as a pretty baby….beautiful imagery, idyllic, almost perfect.

I began to write about a memory.

A time, an encounter left hanging around for some time.

Still, it was painful and it was a troubling, limbo type story.

I drafted and trashed.

Too hurtful. Too honest. Too surprising maybe.

Edited and trashed.

The story of a cold, quiet night when I decided after months of drifting, disappearing, rebellious ignorance…to show up and ask my parents

“Why don’t you care?”

A story of the quiet of the room

The warmth of the fire, my palms hot behind my back as I waited

For answer, for punishment, for anger, for forgiveness.

For reaction.

Any attention is good attention for a wayward child.

No words except, ” We did all we could do.”

I left my family. I chased after the wind.

Got caught in terrible violent storm and

Stranded by choices

They stopped searching.

And so, that night, full of attitude and angst.

I blamed my mama.

But, she only listened in the quiet, daddy unmoved in agreement.

They had done all they could.

And I left, knowing then.

But, not realizing until now, more clearly now.

That this was truth. Is truth.

And I became still like a child, turned and left, beginning to see.

My heart not proud; my eyes not haughty. Psalm 131 :1

beginning to hope in the Lord.

She did the best she could.

The best I could do has been far different.

More hands on.

More intentional “love you’s” or random “love you’s”.

Daily affirmations or scripture sent in text messages

“Don’t forget I love you’s.”

Unconditional, my love for them, they are reminded in words.

Letters, notes, conversations.

Maybe overkill, so that love is not something cherished?

Can children become numb to our love?

Does independence lessen it’s worth? Reduce their longing for it?

Is it not the special secret treasure I had hoped….this yearning to love better than?

I hope not, but maybe. Flaws and failures, drifters sometimes. Children are humans in a crazy, enticing, all about me world.

Pathways are prone to drift. Roadmaps must be their’s not mine.

“God’s driving the bus, Lisa” mama said

I’m really just a ride along companion anticipating and praying over departures and destinations.

Imperfect mama…loved children.

Grace comes when we are touched by ugly, but still love.

I can’t even remember when, because it doesn’t matter now.

I have forgotten.

But, one child questioned me.

Sort of “called me out”. It was hurtful and unexpected.

I didn’t react. On the outside at least.

Except to say “I love you and always will.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“I always have.”

And there it was.

After all this time since the firm, vacant look in front of the fire.

Clarity like a knock upon my door…the knock of a scary, rebellious, unwelcome child you say will never be yours.

And I saw my mama loving me.

Withholding anger. Choosing not to bring out my hurtful wrongs.

I saw clearly.

More clearly now.

More honest. Life, love and my words.

“I can only write honestly. Anything else is simply vacant, conspired, not wise. Bravery is healing.” A lesson from this community of writers

But you desire honesty from the heart, so You can teach me to be wise in my in most being. Psalm 51:6

Honest love

Wise love

Thank you Jennifer!

little sayings big thoughts

courage, Faith, family, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, wonder

Closer to God

I cannot remember when, but someone complimented, noticed my faith.

I wish I could remember, just a conversation in passing I think.

I thanked them….said “I’m a work in progress.” Because I am.

Progress not perfection.

Doubtful but not nearly as often doubting God.

And lately, I say “Time will tell” about most everything.

And I’ve said “God has a plan.”

in response to unknowns so many times a day I should be constantly at rest, in submission.

And I recall my best stance, my life verse, the Lisa God knows best, God made this way.

Quietly confident…resting strongly. Isaiah 30:15

I woke this morning and thought of prayer. Can’t see, can’t touch, can’t measure…like faith it is most real in the looking back, the remembering of the written, the spoken, the thought, the mentioned to God, to friend, just to self. I thought of my frustrations, my drive to intervene, to fix, to shed light on an unfair turn of events.

My prayer, my thoughts, my surrender. God answered. He convicted. The unfair and upsetting became fair and possible.

I had rested. I had waited. I am waiting more often.

I am drawing near, staying near.

Refusing to doubt.

Doing what I can…letting God do the rest.

Little sayings.

Big thoughts.

Early morning brings a prayer of clarity:

Lord, remind me of the gift of coming back to you. Remind me of clarity and of your sovereignty. Keep me aware of the joy of quiet. Make me an example to others of the blessing of trust, of confident quiet. Give me simple, yet powerful boldness in declaring your mercy and your grace and Lord, most of all, thank you for loving me in the times my prayers are angry, rambling, frustrated, and disheartened. I thank you Lord, for the gift of quiet, for this is when I see, I feel, I recognize…

You were listening.

In Jesus name, Amen.

	Lisa Brittain on Women of Faith
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Women of Faith
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	juliedibblewrites on Embracing
	Lisa Anne Tindal on Shine On