To see more clearly, I must simply gaze more faithfully.
I’ve just completed an application to be an artist vendor at an April event.
I have a list of other places I and my art may “get to be” and one I was selected for and am a day late on the paperwork. I’ve just emailed the coordinator and said a solid silent prayer.
It’s okay if I’m not there. There are other places I should be and you know these, Lord.
Tiny Words
I’m of the age I can see far away only with my contacts in and to read I suddenly am learning neither glasses nor contacts are beneficial. I toss them off, they are no help.
I see best up close, reading or painting with simply my naked eye.
I see what is needed to be seen by me, nothing more and only what’s very close.
I see just enough.
My Place
My focus is on what is near.
What is now, not in the distant future, not beyond my reach or my vision.
And so, I can give myself grace and permission to simply and quietly do what is mine to do in my “present place”.
Cakes, Mamas and Remembrance
“Act faithfully according to thy degree of light, and what God giveth thee to see; and thou shalt see more clearly.” Edward D. Pusey
Walking, listening, with an attentive ear and vision only committed to faithfully see what’s not too far to see, only just in front of me.
“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
I’m joining other writers today in the Five Minute Friday community, prompted by the word “Far”
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.”
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.
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
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.
Yesterday morning, Christmas morning all misty and mellow, I walked early with Colt, the Labrador.
It was early, phone in my pocket and no pods in my ears, the world was whispering like sounds from a distant violin.
It was not noisy.
The birds sang, the trees ready for rain, rustled.
As a walk often does I was walking to unravel my thoughts, to shake off the embrace that had decided to grab hold, the worry for no reason, the sneaky attempts of changing my hope to dread.
The ways we walk, have walked in our lives…some of us, for most of our days left deep and muddy almost cavernous ruts we gotta decide to step up high and get on a new, undamaged by weather road.
I consider myself late to this learning.
That’s okay.
There’s grace for late in life learning and even more than that, there’s glorious celebration.
A few days ago, it occurred to me that I so less often “thank Jesus for helping me” than I do plead and moan consistently, “Jesus, help me. Jesus, help me!”
And I sort of quietly decided with tears to simply change the wording.
“Thank you, Jesus, for helping me.”
and so I said this on my walk along with the acceptance of “I am weak, you are strong”.
I don’t want to speak too soon (as I’m prone to do) but there’s a change that’s been coming in me and for me and I’m welcoming the newness of it.
The life lived from an embrace of the truth of being RESCUED.
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 