#amwriting

Pretty Words like Hope

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

 

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What if we saw it as more than a word on a pin, this word, “Hope”?

More than a trendy phrase about an anchor, more than the middle word in the group of three?

What if we knew this emotion called hope as more than a

word in passing, a vague and wavering optimism?

“Well, I hope so.” we say,  as if hope is nothing more than a rare and pitiful possibility.

This morning, I rose to begin the day from the space on the carpet next to my bed.

Groggy and thankful for the ease of waking like clockwork without a clock.

My folded up, sleepy legs found their way to bending knees to rest in a downward pose to pray.

This morning, simply,  “Jesus, help me today.”

I read from the Book of Hebrews, chapters 4 -6 and found the familiar phrase there.

Hope, an anchor for my soul, a catchy quote, trendy phrase.

I  colored in my margin, drew an anchor, a sky, an ocean and a moon. Mornings like this, and my Bible are gifts.

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Fingers blending dusty colored pastel, a delicate touch on the border of a fragile page, I thought of hope.

The middle child in the faith, hope, love family. Hope.

Reading the verses just before the one I knew by heart, understanding a little differently, more clearly and stronger today.  This sweet little pretty word, what a mighty thing is hope.

I read the whole chapter, the whole book and saw hope, the way God longs for us to see…to see Him, our hope.

Saw it as certainty, read about histories and lineages of people who understood hope.

That hope is unchangeable.

Hope is God’s promise and we know he keeps his word.

I read that hope is earnest assurance and that we might sway, but hope cannot be moved once established.

Hope, I read, is a better thing for those God calls beloved.

So when God desired to show more convincingly to the heirs of the promise, the unchangeable character of His purpose, he guaranteed it with an oath so that by two unchangeable things, in which it is impossible for God to lie,we who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement 

to hold fast to the hope set before us. We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf.

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Hope, the place of  pausing to rest my seeking knees, my open heart every morning, to be anchored in certainty.

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee to Tell His Story.

http://jenniferdukeslee.com/bit-light-youre-dark-day-tellhisstory/

 

 

Maybe

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

imageMaybe, I thought, out walking in the late afternoon thickness of day…

Maybe, just consider it Lisa, there’s a change coming, a shift you’ve been seeking.

Maybe, you’ve been so offended by being overlooked, over corrected and over reacted to

that you’ve not thought to notice the possibility, the maybe of this time.

Maybe, I thought, out walking in the dull empty summer air, there’s a shift occurring,

one you’ve worked for

one you need.

Maybe.

Count it joy, not maybe; but surely…these various trials of my faith are producing something that can’t be shaken.

James 1:2

Seeing, Being Seen

courage, Faith, grace, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

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Several times a day I might notice a bird

or the sky or like yesterday,

the most amazing magnolia bloom I could barely see just above the fence top.

I’ll pause and just get quiet, my eyes and my soul resting.

Sometimes though, I just rush about frustrated or pitiful, one extreme or the other, angst and longing.

Then I notice the sky. The vastness of empty space, yet fullness of God and I’m better then, more myself with God.

I’m always better in the moment of pausing to look towards sky.

I think maybe it’s my age the way I intentionally, perhaps  accidentally notice God.

Maybe I am “the crazy bird lady” my daughter loves to call me.

Or maybe not, because she notices too now, and tells me about her red bird appearing outside the tall, curtain drawn farmhouse windows

following  her as she moves from room to room to front porch.

Or maybe, just maybe I’m in the presence of God more clearly, not because He hasn’t been there all along, but

Because I’m okay with Him seeing me.

I’m not as often compelled to hide from the God who sees me.

Waiting to be seen, asking where are you?

Lisa, why try to hide?

You’re seen, you’re known, you’re loved despite your attempts to hide.  You’re not hidden in the overgrowth, no need for that, listen, look…I’m here.

And they heard the sound of the Lord God, walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees in the garden. But, the Lord called…where are you?

Genesis 3:8

Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee to tell His story.

http://jenniferdukeslee.com/needed-begin-loving-actual-life/

http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tell-his-story/

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Thin Layer Chocolate Sundays

courage, Faith, grace, praise, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder
a satisfied heart

a satisfied heart

If you went to my mama’s on Sunday, there was always cake.

There might be roast beef, butterbeans, corn and biscuits.

There would be mashed potatoes, thick and creamy, with a little place where the butter sat in a little hollowed out center.

Some gravy on top and sweet, glazy carrots, onions.

We’d eat together and we’d talk. Maybe walk to the pond or nap.

Waiting for time for a piece of cake.

Maybe caramel, coconut, pound or “thin layer” chocolate.

The one with the yellow softness of 16 or so tiny layers, thin and spongy.

Striated like zebra, chocolate, layer, chocolate, layer, chocolate….

The dark, dark sweet chocolate cooked stovetop and then poured on top of layer, one by one, smoothed with big, flat knife…slowly, gingerly.

Layers baked on the old black griddle and then eased onto a towel spread on kitchen counter.

Easy talk about life as I watched my mama bake, so lovingly and at peace.

She’d gently take the layers, one by one, placing carefully on a pretty cake plate as she added the rich, chocolate, shiny icing, still warm from the pot.

Chocolate icing so thick with sugar, melting like warm grains of sand on the tongue.

This past Sunday, we talked about the bread of life.

How we all try to fill ourselves up, seeking to be content.

Jobs, cars, clothes, burgers, fries, recognition, acclaim and appearance.

I thought this morning of the insatiable seeking for more, for better, for as good as him, as attractive as her.  Wondered if joy were measurable, if contentment could be calculated, would it even be a ripple in the sea of our heart’s deepest desires.

To never have cake again on Sunday at mama’s is just a tiny little longing.

My heart knows the scene, holds the image, keeps safe the memory. It’s just as sweet, sweeter maybe.

To never be famous, have my art only on the walls of friends and family is unimportant, really.

As long as my heart knows the abandonment of paint covered hands and the chance to step back to gaze for a long time at an image known by my soul alone.

To write on this little blog, almost 300 times now… yet, never place a book of my words in the hands of my children.

Is not so tragic as long as my words get to come together occasionally in a way that reflects my soul.

My heart…that’s contentment. 

Satisfaction, fully.

Because your love is better than life,
    my lips will glorify you.
 I will praise you as long as I live,
    and in your name I will lift up my hands.
 I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;
    with singing lips my mouth will praise you.  Psalm 63:5

 

Linking up to Tell His Story with Jennifer Dukes Lee

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Be still, the Lord is Working

Children, Faith, family, grace, Motherhood, Trust, Uncategorized

 

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The sky this morning was dark.

Dull and heavy gray, the color of dirty mop water left in kitchen sink.

Unpleasant dark gray, dirt, dust and murk.

Grandma mopped her floor at night.

She dusted little mahogany shelves lined with tiny puppies, angels, bells, and kittens.

Pretty pink ceramic roses,  so many little “nic-nacs”.

Forgot to drain the sink after hanging the mop from a nail on the back screen door.

She’d say, “Look at that, you better not be trackin’ dirt in my kitchen again.”

Early this morning, the trees were bent to their sides by the wind.

The kind of morning, at my grandma’s we’d have been real quiet.

All of us, cousins at grandma’s,  the little white house on the hill filled with love, pancakes and butter cookies.

We’d have moved to the settee and sat straight up, feet dangling over edge, stiff and still.

Knees touching, a straight line of cousins, staring out the picture window, through the corn field towards Aunt Gloria’s.

We’d have sat there until the rumbling sky was a whisper not a jolt.

Until the wind no longer wrapped around us, sang its whistling song of swirl.

Because, my grandma would say, “This is the Lord’s work, be still.”

So, I wanted to cancel my trip today; wanted to be still.

Worried over my daughter driving before dawn.

Uneasy about the wind, the rain, the roads.

Prayed for her, journaling  “Keep us safe, Lord…help us not be anxious.”

The little girl in me, round freckled face, crooked pixie cut bangs shielding shy blue eyes

Remembered her grandma’s instructions,

Remembered her grandma.

Be quiet.

The Lord is working.

The storm will pass, she said.

And it did.

 

Earth and Heaven – Dirty Feet and Peace

courage, Faith, grace, praise, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

I wondered about the soles of my feet yesterday.

Bare feet, pointed towards my friend, a yoga instructor, I remembered the callouses from my days of fancy shoes and I thought of the hardness of my heels. Hesitated there only a second, purposeful in my breathing, the intent of this new thing for me, a practice in resting my mind.

Earlier, my pastor mentioned dirty feet in his sermon.

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He glanced my way when he spoke of the method of travel in those days.  He spoke of Jesus washing feet. Feet on the ground. The earth uncushioned, the dryness of soil showing no mercy;  yet, feet followed closely in their seeking of Jesus, of heaven.

For just a few seconds, I was there. I was one of those women, my dress touching the earth, like a curtain, full and billowing on a dining room floor.  My feet, dusty and tired.  The soles and heels hardened by my journey; but, not yet weary in my  pursuit of peaceful destination.

Others there, dusty brownish gray hard feet, all of us witness to His cleansing.

Seeing the blind see.

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The lame walk.

Walking with Jesus, pausing because a desperate father has brought a child to be healed or to be with a sister waiting for Jesus, almost hopeless for a brother to live.

My thoughts were there; my dirty, earthen feet longing for Jesus.

To be one of the throng of followers, surely weary from watching.

Circled round the cross in mournful lament,

Our dirty feet holding up our weary hearts.

Hearing Jesus say, “It is finished.” John 19:30

Maybe falling to filthy, tormented ground to join in bellowing grief.

And later, to be standing with Mary, to have seen the scars and believed in His promise…the way of peace.

“Peace be with you.”  John 20:26

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I sat with hands folded towards my heart yesterday. This new thing I’m doing, not faith-based necessarily but, beautiful in the mingling of my faith.

Bare feet, yoga pants not quite covering waist of panties and uncertain of the meaning of  “Namaste”, I prayed in warrior pose and I prayed in victor’s breath; practiced what’s called soul breathing, eyes closed and heart towards heaven.

Dirty feet and cleansed soul.

Earth and Heaven

Joined together in bare feet.  

I’m linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee and am treasuring the truth

of her words today, “your critics don’t own you.” 

http://jenniferdukeslee.com/what-we-all-need-to-know-about-our-critics-tellhisstory/

Morning, a lingering

Faith, grace, praise, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

 

If morning were all day and filtered into evening

I may be a little different.

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Morning still

My maybe might be sure.

My perhaps would be probably.

I’d be more apt to linger, content in unfolding of day.

My  “No’s”  might be  more steady.

My “Yes’s” more enthused.

My failures  be more misunderstandings than mistakes.

If morning lingered longer

I’d wear the color of patience on my smile.

Subtle, pretty and just a hint of shine like a peachy lip

My pauses be more often, intentional in exchange

My words more heart than  hurry.

Mornings like today, moved more slowly towards task and rested in time for contemplation.

The sky was more dusk than dawn.

Rain coming, not here yet.

Questioning the time of day…is it earlier than I thought?

Could I have a little more early morn?

Oh, good! Thank you Lord, for mornings lasting longer.

The sky reflective of rest, not at all impatient to commence.

Patient,  satisfied and content for whatever may be.

Oh, to the linger a little longer in the mindfulness of morning time.

Thus, prepared for the unfolding of day.

 

“Restlessness and impatience change nothing except our peace and joy. Peace does not dwell in outward things, but in the heart prepared to wait trustfully and quietly on him who has all things safely in his hands.”  Elisabeth Elliot

 

http://katemotaung.com/five-minute-friday/

Day 5 of 31 Days of UNimpressive Writing: Geese, Bluebirds and New Chances to Love

Children, courage, Faith, family, Motherhood, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability, wonder

The geese were back this morning.

First time in days.

I turned to make my way back inside, stopping to gather fallen leaves and heard their approach.Their sound a celebration of the day, exuberant and joyous it seemed.

I held fragile leaves in my hand, turned towards the sounds of geese and joined in their flight, my mind there with them, moving forward, renewed and committed to the day.

 

The ground is soaked here,  covered in pine needles today. We were spared the damage of wind and flood, our yard simply evidence of rain, constant torrential showers.  photo 1I was thankful today for leafy, wind tousled and soaking wet ground.  Wet, muddy yard scattered with pretty color; my feet were planted in a level spot and I glanced towards the damp, steely sky.

 

My cousin called this morning and we talked of life, of children, of God.  We were getting carried away, consistent in our anguish, of things we can’t let go, things that frustrate us. We talked about the flood of our weekend and she shared her experience of Hurricane Katrina. This flood, Joaquin prompted storm, had both she and her husband reliving the trauma. I told her I’m very afraid of water and wonder if people will be found dead in their homes. She said “Most likely” and shared of homes ravaged by Katrina that were marked with an “X” to indicate a dead person inside.

We meandered back to the subject of our children then.

We understand why we’ve mothered the way we have; just don’t know why we keep going back there,

Trying to be the mother they’ve outgrown.

The mother that meets our need, not theirs.

We’re making progress though, beginning to think as God thinks of us, agreeing that the greatest desire of our lives has been to parent well, differently, unquestionably committed to our sons and daughters.

We have been and are good mothers. We know this.

Never occurred to me until just now, I thought to myself.  “I’ve parented well, absolutely wholeheartedly. Let God lead them now. ”

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She got quiet, thinking, I assumed then excitedly announced  “There are bluebirds in my yard. The most beautiful bluebirds are just outside on my porch!”

“God is telling us to have hope”,  I said. ” He’s telling us to let go now, we’ve done our part, he’s ready to take it from here.”

They’ve left our nests; well-loved and knowing they are loved.

There are new, bright places for them to grow,  us too.

Loved well and loving well.

New places to grow

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Day 2 of 31 Days of UNimpressive writing: only from the heart: Our Given Names

Children, courage, Faith, family, Motherhood, Prayer, Teaching, Trust, Vulnerability

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There’s a story about my mama’s name, mine too.  She, Bette Jean, was supposed to have been called Elizabeth.

Mama wanted to call me Libby. Daddy said “No, that’s a can of peaches.”  My grandma, “Bama” agreed to my name being Lisa; but, insisted on the Anne that follows.

Who’s to say whether we, over time, become our names or they were just right for us all along. My mama surely was not Elizabeth-like.

Couldn’t see her as a Liz or a Beth; Bette, for sure.

And me? Libby is cute, perky, and pretty. Not me. Lisa Anne is who I am, who I have become.

Heather could have been Olivia and Austin was almost Zachary.

Teaching love

Heather Analise, a child of God

Heather, open to life and at peace near open fields and cows. Her name fits. Analise added as a middle, pretty and classic.

Austin, James Austin, again just right. James a solid and reputable name, Austin, a  nod to the dry humor and surprisingly big heart of his great-grandfather.

James Austin.a child of God

James Austin.a child of God

My children’s names, the names they have become.

I am thinking of the unthinkable today. One in college, the other a teacher leading a classroom of the youngest students.

I am trying, but struggling to place myself in the minds of the parents of students killed in Oregon.

I am wondering how, in the aftermath of terror and shock, I would feel to know that when asked, my children said they were Christians, told to stand and then shot.

I visualize not so clearly and can sort of imagine the scene.

Young adults, students, surprised by the intrusive presence of a peer with a gun, afraid; but,  deciding to go with his demands, to not cause anger, to remain quiet, not draw attention to self.

To cower. To be compliant. I imagine this might have been their thinking in effort to survive.

Until, the question

“Are you a Christian?”

My children are Christians.

I witnessed the salvation of both and I’ve seen them acknowledge in ways big, small, private and outspoken, their faith.

They know Jesus.  Jesus knows them.

People know that they know Jesus.

Children of God. A name that can’t be denied.

I am praying for the Oregon mamas and daddies, parents of children of God.

Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become  Children of God. John 1:12

Thank you, Lord, for my name and for the names of my children.