More clearly, now.

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

 

Mama's, sisters, children

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

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!

Thank you Jennifer!

Meeting Martha

courage, Faith, family, Motherhood, Prayer, rest, Trust, Uncategorized
The sifter and the sifted

The sifter and the sifted

If I had the chance, I’d like to meet Martha. I’d tell her about my Children’s Sermon with the old sifter and grater. I’d explain how we talked about grating cheese for macaroni and sifting flour for baking a pound cake.

Martha  would understand the point of the rusty grater and the sifter…the laborious process of being changed for better,  refined, finer, softer.

Martha, who was frantic and frustrated

Preparing the house and the dinner for Jesus.

I wonder if I’d vacuum or wait peacefully expectantly.

Would I,  like Martha go a little crazy?

Become the martyr of housework, miserable and bitter?

My family, like Mary, off in a corner letting my mood run its course.

Watching dogs, feeding dogs

Washing clothes, folding clothes

Working hard at work and hard at home.

Methodical sameness of effort.

Early mornings and late nights.

Then quiet time feels like striving, pushing, forcing

And love feels like work

The bitter seed of pity grows big and strong roots and I’m stuck in a place of distress and discouragement.

Where are your blessings, Lord and where is my joy?

I can see Martha in me.

Martha, and me, sifted and refined by the words of Jesus

Reminded to lay her burdens down

Martha, who felt her efforts went unnoticed.

That her words mattered little and her sacrifice was nothing more than expectation that someone might notice.

Martha, who had a hard time

A very hard time believing that her crazy, frantic efforts were nothing more than distractions and anxious control.

I’d love to meet Martha.

The Martha who was reminded to wait.

The Martha who gave up on Jesus.

I’d ask her, what I believe was true of me and of Martha

“Was it hard Martha, to lay it all down to surrender?”

“Did it get easier to trust…to be more like Mary…or was it something you had to work on every day?”

I’d ask about her brother Lazarus, because I wonder

“Did you feel responsible, you with the inconsistent faith, for Jesus not showing up soon enough?”

Most of all I’d like to know,

“Did you finally embrace faith that can’t be seen when your precious brother came to life with Jesus’s loving hand of healing?”

“Martha, did you finally let go of control when Jesus said?”

“Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”

And then, I’d say with a tight and teary hug…

“Thank you Martha, for being you and for being me.

 tellhisstory-badge-1

 

 

 

my good walk

Faith, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

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Somebody must have come along early that murky morning.

Made a little bridge from boards to ease my step to the shore.

To the skyline of  blue over pinkish orange sunrise and smooth sand.

So, I stepped lightly over the little dune and glanced towards the water, then lifted my head up towards heaven to begin my day.

To begin my walk.

My good walk. Hopeful and clear.

Somebody saw the muddy, grown up mess and bridged it with cast aside boards to beckon me to the shore.

To encourage my steps towards good

I’m remembering my grandma and her marked up Bible and the vision of her in the lamplight every night, steadfast and determined.

Remembering the traveling pastor who taught me of grace and welcomed a single mama to the tiny little generations of family run church.

Remembering the Easter egg hunts and the grace of the little ladies who loved on me because they loved on my children.

The black station wagon that pulled up to the house and picked Heather up for Sunday School at the home of me, the single mama, trying to make it alone.

Feeling scarlet and scorned. But a bridge was built towards my good walk because of a little black station wagon and a grandma and grandpa.

Heather loving little Poplar Springs Baptist Church, a bridge to my good walk.

And Austin a toddler, sitting as quiet as a little old man.

Another bridge…a clear and easy path to my good walk.

Friends like Debra who never rejected, always prayed.

Family who waited to see my good walk, the walk of faith and strength.

So many bridges to the good walk…path clearing people, beckoning me lovingly to follow along in their following of Jesus…on the good walk.

Good Friday, what a good walk, a long and torturous walk to the cross.

Jesus, miraculous, beautiful, merciful Savior

Saver of lives, redeemer of scorned and sinful,  friend of sinners and thieves, followed by many as he walked on earth and then followed by few as he chose the surrendered walk, ultimate sacrifice to bridge our wrong, to make clear the good way, the good walk.

 For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

 For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. John 3:16-17

 

Mercy prayers and stories

Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

 

Lord, have mercy...

Lord, have mercy…

What makes some of us anxious, even excited to share our days before coming to Christ while others keep their stories hidden? My grandmother, “Bama”, the daughter of a Methodist minister would start up conversations wherever she found opportunity.

A petite woman, dressed in crisp blouses and slacks, she found joy in engaging with others.  She always found a way to listen and make others believe she completely understood.

She was merciful.  She gave mercy.  Had received mercy.

She was an interested listener, so people shared. She didn’t have to be in church to talk about Jesus, about her faith and sometimes about us, struggles she was praying about or had made it through.

The favor she’d been shown, inherited, carried her through to a place of unashamed sharing her story of redemption and drawing out the stories of those she met.

Some said she shared too much information; was nosy and annoying but, she kept right on connecting in the beauty shop, the dime store or the fellowship hall. She was telling and listening to testimonies, stories of Jesus.

One morning last week, praying before the workday, I thanked God for my salvation through His Son, Jesus Christ.  And then, thoughts becoming prayers, I prayed “God, thank you for saving me long before I asked.”

Isn’t this the prayer of every person who has finally come to Jesus?

The story of every person who like Zacchaeus, wanting to know Jesus; but, believing too much wrongdoing and greed made him unworthy.  Or maybe like the Samaritan woman, shamed by wrong choices, yet welcomed by Jesus in the presence of those who scorned her.  Or the leper, discarded and avoided, yet embraced by the love of Jesus.  Wouldn’t it be amazing to have testimony Sunday and hear Zacchaeus telling, excitedly about Jesus wanting to dine with him, wanting to save him!  Imagine the Samaritan woman standing behind the pulpit in your church, and tearfully describing the welcoming salvation of Jesus despite her sins. I can hear her telling of the love she felt when Jesus defended her against the comments of onlookers who labeled her unclean and even reported to Jesus her record of sin.  What a touching and beautiful time it would be to see the horribly disfigured and cast aside leper standing in your sanctuary, healthy and radiantly smiling describing the healing hand of God, through Jesus!

Every one of them could proclaim, the Psalmist’s words

Praise God, who did not ignore my prayer and did not withdraw His unfailing love from me!  Psalm 66:20

Jesus was saving them before he even encountered them, for His best, waiting to offer redemption in simple, yet intentional encounters.

I learned about the struggles of two friends in our church recently. Both shared, through tears, and shaky voices glimpses into their lives before they were walking with God.  Both caught me by surprise. Powerful testimonies and disclosures of damaging choices and paths wrongly taken, spoken as examples of grace.  It would make sense to wonder, “Why are they sharing so much?”  or “How can they admit their mistakes in front of a church full of people who really did not need to know?”

Because, they know what it means to Tell the Story of Jesus, the story of His truth, “Truth Telling”, I like to call it.

I sometimes think I have a bit of my grandma in me.  I am drawn to the stories of others.  I love to share stories of His place in my heart, my life.

And just like the redeemed in the pews or in the parking lot or waiting in line at the checkout, I’m comparing notes, comparing encounters with Jesus who saved me.

Answered my prayer, seeking mercy.

I’m remembering a time of failure and devastation when the preacher from the tiny little white church stopped by to visit…he’d heard my story…everyone had.

And when I asked,  “How can I get through this?”

His kind and gentle voice answered firmly,

“Just pray for mercy.”

I did. I still do.

And now,  like my grandma. I love to listen and tell.

Stories of Jesus and His mercy.

What’s your story of Jesus, your redemption story, your truth?

Your  “Lord, have mercy” story ?

Come and listen, all you who fear God, and I will tell you what He did for me. Psalm 66:16 

 

humble believer – the one believed to fail

Faith, family, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized

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Pretty soon, I’m taking a trip down country roads.

A neighboring county where the roads become pretty hills and valleys, oak trees and old barns, daffodils blooming freestyle.

I’ll be looking for an old country cemetery that might have one headstone marked with the name belonging to an ancestor on my daddy’s side.

An ancient military man named Jabez Hendrix.

My brother, connecting and seeking, a habit of his.

A longing, perhaps to understand more, to fill in missing pieces and endings to stories that might be clearer, happier and hopeful.

Just so happens Jabez Hendrix is buried close by.

In the meantime, I am fascinated by Jabez of the Bible.

Just a few sentences about one son in a family of several sons.

Likened to the runt of a large breed of pups.

The one that caused mama dog pain, scrawny and most likely not the pick of the litter. The son whose name meant “bore in pain”.

Yet, he believed and trusted God for more.

Was bold enough to grasp the possibility of a God who created all.

Was confident enough to request more than just enough

Was humble enough to ask for God to stay close by, to ask for God to keep his hand ever present.

Yet, he knew of frailty and falling  asking God, “keep me from evil.”

Jabez, born to fail, believed in more.

Asked for more and received.

I’m praying like Jabez going on four days now.

Thinking of the blessings God has for me.

The blessings I never thought to ask for

The people he wants to place on my path

The broadening of my territory, my influence and influencers.

His hand, at my humble request kept securely close

Keeping me from evil.

Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil…So God granted him what he requested. I Chronicles 4: 9-10

The one who was most shy, most awkward, most likely to hide away.

The one searching for identity and getting lost in life, disconnected, disowned, discarded

I am the one who believes, finally in God.

His hand upon me.

His placing and planning of my territory.

His keeping me from evil.

Loved by God, the one with less than hopeful beginning and rebellious crazy, scary middle.

Fascinated and acquainted with God’s Jabez

The humble believer.

A courageous soldier, ancient uncle, laid to rest in a country cemetery a country ride away.

 

 

Clearly, friends

courage, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability

instaquote-25-02-2015-19-37-06_kindlephoto-35930353

This morning was blurred by the misty fog of this unending winter.  I have my morning place arranged so that I gaze towards the statue of my Savannah girl  sweet and sullen today.The greenish hue of the face, dulled by the wintry wetness, causing an affect of disdain, a lonely look.

I struggled to write this week.  I worried that my words might bring attention, concern, murmuring about my seriousness, sadness.

I’ve heard comments about the honesty of my writing.

Been told it’s clear I’ve gone through some difficult days.

I thought I should write a silly post.

I should maybe stop sharing.

Maybe just publish on the blog.

“Friends” wouldn’t wonder why I’m so serious, so openly thankful and so compelled to tell of doubt, fear, worry.

And yet, there are the handful who connect, who say Thank you for your posts.

They’re brave. They know the grace of the vulnerable share.

” Grace grows best in winter.”  C. H.  Spurgeon

So, if I write from a place of struggle, a spilling of my story, it’s because of the good that has come; the good that will come…Because God and because of God.

Perhaps, honest and transparent vulnerability is the call of only the few who know the worth of brave and open truth telling.

A friend once said, “Lisa, you write about the things we all fear, feel…but would never have the courage to share.”

My Bible has its pages marked with places that reassure the value of my story, of yours. Tiny notations of “memoir” or “truth”.

Truths, too important to not speak of

Truths like this:

You have turned my mourning into joyful dancing. You have taken away my clothes of mourning and clothed me with joy, that I might sing praises to You and not be silent. O’ Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever!  Psalm 30:11-12

Honestly and bravely

Because, my steps are directed by the Lord. He delights in every detail of my life. I may stumble, but I won’t fall, for the Lord holds me by the hand.  Psalm 37:23-24

Quietly, confidently…my strength, my assurance.

 

<img src=”http://jenniferdukeslee.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/tellhisstory-badge.jpg” alt=”” title=”” style=”border:none;” />

 

Sharing my Heart

courage, Faith, Motherhood, Trust, Vulnerability

 

Show your heart

Show your heart, crows feet, age spots and scars

Yesterday was the Monday we all love. The day off that falls after the Christmas and New Year’s days off.  It always feels to me like a gift, as if the timing of the date knows we all got spoiled rotten in the holidays, school out, time at home, cold outside, just lounging days after Christmas.

A day off from work in January is a sweet grace period before we really step up our game for the new and resolute year!

Of course, yesterday, an observance of a powerful leader who spoke of peace and rest, not strife and unrest made it even more appropriate that we “pause” in January on a day off from work.

However, at 8:30 ish, I get a text saying ” I need you.”

The nonprofit agency I oversee operates a homeless shelter for single mothers and their children. We embrace our families and facilitate lasting change for them.

Our mission. Pretty effective words, right?

Outcomes based and inputs focused…all the language of grantors, corporate or otherwise. I have a reputation of doing my absolute best to do what I say. Employees know this foundational truth about me.

And I do try.

Our approach is to help women acknowledge their role in homelessness along with the bad hand life may have dealt them. Staff ( I am blessed) who have just the right combination of empathy and structure spend at a minimum of  an hour a week, just talking about challenges, setting attainable goals.

Still, just as we all come with our scars, many of the women have deep, deep scars resulting in a closed off and protective approach.

Scars, no matter how scabbed over can be ugly.

Trauma has a way of hardening, hiding and disguising hearts. That way, they can’t be broken again.

Yesterday, I sat with a mama who had decided she was not going to talk to us anymore. She was going to bide her time and avoid a certain key staff member. Something had been said and even though the staff member apologized profusely, she was not going to budge.

Unfortunately, because Nurture Home requires meetings with staff, this refusal, going on a couple of weeks now, would not be tolerated.

I would need to tell her she and her children were being discharged.

Arriving at the shelter, tension filled and unpleasant, I first talked with the children and mama’s. All were situated in the den, braiding daughter’s hair, little girls braiding their baby dolls hair. One mama working on a job application while her son played a game. I simply said in front of the children, “I know there has been some yelling and some people have been angry…that is not good.”

I spoke, to the boys and girls, homeless and afraid, and told them that I knew they needed a calm house to live in, so I’m going to do my best for our house to stay that way.

Children who experience trauma, unrest, instability are keenly aware of the dynamics, the mood, the possible violence in their home. They are skilled at trying to determine what’s next, how to stay safe.

I know.  I was one of those children.

So, I promised them that we want them to be happy and not worry while they are living in our shelter.

The 7 yr. Old raised her hand and said,  “I have something to say, I’m happy, because I have a home. Nurture Home is my home.”

And then, she asked if I could braid her doll’s hair.

Still, the angry mama was not budging. Her heels were dug in and she refused to talk with staff. She and three children, one who sat next to me, head resting against my chest, would be leaving.

So, we gathered for our “one on one”. We talked about what the staff member had done that she would not forgive. The decision had been made, she and her children will leave at the end of week.

I told her that I didn’t want her to leave without talking things through with the staff member before leaving.

Because, I said, I know what you are doing. If you are angry and if you stay angry and leave, you don’t have to trust again.

You don’t have to take the chance of being disappointed by another person you thought cared.

And then, I did the thing that’s taboo in my work.

 Self-disclosure…”don’t let your clients see your insecurities…they’ll use it against you, you’ll lose your power.”

I disagree. If my struggle is not used for good…it’s stays just that, my struggle, my pain, my scar.

I asked her to look at me and I said. “If you leave Nurture Home because you are afraid to trust, we have failed you. I see what you’re doing. We all have ways of protecting our hearts.  My childhood taught me to stay in the background, not cause problems, never challenge anyone who mistreated me. I stayed safe that way along time”, I told her.

“That’s not safe. That’s trapped. The victory is in being vulnerable and courageous at the same time, not tolerating bad, but being open to good”.

She cried. I held her. She cried again. I told her,  ” I don’t want to discharge you.”  “I don’t want to leave.” She said through tears.

Where is it safe to share your heart?

Go there.

Finding my key

Faith, Uncategorized
Blessings

Blessings

I was happy to make it to choir practice on Sunday.

I find my key by sitting next to a soprano because I still can’t be sure if I’m alto or soprano. So, I ease closer to the soprano with a beautiful, clear tone and find my key.

Next Sunday, I get the chance to sing a song that my voice finds it’s “sweet spot” in.  I love the song and the story behind it.

“Blessings”, written by Laura Story, as she and her husband navigated unexpected, serious medical crisis and recovery.

It’s an emotional song with verses I could carry off…not really as a vocal performance; but, simply a rhythmic sharing of lyrics imploring us to trust God’s plan.

His best in midst of trying times, of despair, disappointment, disillusionment

On the drive home I replayed the track over and over.

Practicing, embracing the words,  seeking to relate more significantly…preparing to convey its message next Sunday.

I thought of saying no to the request to sing because of a rough spot, two little lines that go from low to high.

My voice is a radio/shower/blend in voice.

Quiet and subtle. Not powerful.

I have to find my key, I kept practicing the couple of lines that jump from one to another key…a high one.

I sang the words…flat first, then screechy, strained.

Okay try again.

Maybe, I thought, if I just really and truly understood the meaning of the words?

Maybe I’m not “feeling it”.  Maybe I’m trying too hard. Maybe it’s not real to me.

So, I prayed “Lord, make this song real to me. Help, me to hear the message, the blessing, the key for me.”

And I just listened, heard.

And then, I sang in my key, from my heart.

Because, I understood.

“What if my greatest disappointments, or the aching of this life, is a revealing of a greater thirst this world can’t satisfy?”

Laura Story

“Blessings”

Every yearning, every expectation, each and every pretty little plan that has not come to fruition…has distressed, disappointed.

A return to salvation.

In returning and rest is your salvation. In quiet confidence is your strength.  Isaiah 30:15

Nothing of this world or in this world is capable of the thirst-quenching satisfaction of a closer walk, a consistent walk.

Dissatisfied?  That’s God’s intent, His design. His reminder that this world can’t satisfy.

Draw near, Stay near…find rest for your soul and the key for your song.

 

2014 in review – learning by doing what you believe you can

courage, Faith, family, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
Walking in the clouds

Walking in the clouds

Last night, my friend Ray Visotski read about my waning confidence and advised simply,  “Just keep writing.”  A second comment came from David Kanigan, a resounding  three letters,  “Yes.” And so, I will.

This morning, I am thinking of my most recent Children’s sermon in which I challenged a handful of boys and girls to tell me something they were afraid to do.  One little boy described his zip line experiences …staring across a cable from a little perch, wanting to let go, but afraid.  He was happy to share how good it felt to take a chance, to be confident, his sweet face beaming as he recalled the challenge.

He believed he could accomplish what the guide told him he could.

I asked the children if they realized how afraid Mary was when she was told she would be Jesus’ mother.  I shared with them her doubts, fears, disbelief.

I told them of her encounter with Elizabeth who shared with her the one powerful truth that grounded her and led her on.

Blessed is the one who believes what the Lord has said will be accomplished. Luke 1:25

I am thinking this morning of this truth. Having just returned from a trip to the mountains on which my sister’s family and ours challenged ourselves on a hike, walked through waterfalls, ate good food, laughed and loved…All under the planning of my brother-in-law who was insistent and intentional in our 3 days being memorable.

He has the personality of a believer, a thinker, a risk-taker. He jokes about my deep thinking writing, yet instructs me to explore opportunities with my blog. He believes I can be a successful writer and artist. He believes I can accomplish more than hobby.

If I have the chance, I plan to ask him if what I believe of his journey towards his current success as a businessman and ingenious CEO was motivated by the one thing I am convinced of:

(S) He believed he could, so He did.

Here’s my summary of progress thus far in this journey of believing.

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,800 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 47 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Room for writing

courage, Faith, Trust, Uncategorized, Vulnerability
Writing room

Writing room

I shouldn’t be surprised.

I’ve been here before…everything in place, steps taken for forward movement and yet, no movement, no motivation, no fire, no fervor.

I painted the guest room. My husband gifted me with a new laptop.

“Writing”, I told him “feels like what God wants me to do”.

He listened. It was important to me. He understood, I believe.

He recognized the place of my soul, the yearning of my heart.

I made a Pinterest Board and named it…”Writing Room”.

I packed up toys, treasures, junk, memories, the contents of the “catch-all” room.

The guest room, a shrine to lost parents and childhoods…all clean now.

Sparse and pretty, calm and subdued.

Art, words, images of my heart, my love, my family…my story of the stories that made me. Just a room filled with stuff actually, it was.

So, here I sit, wrapped in mama’s quilt on the couch looking for words and for reasons to explain the stuck place I’m in.

Just, typing away on my tiny little Kindle.

As if I am unworthy of writing in a pretty room with appropriate technology. Because that would feel special and deserving…Two places that make me uneasy, pressured, tending to step back. Stay in the background…The place without fear. The place of no risk.

I’ve been here before….an Art scholarship and yet flunked sculpture.

A promotion yet hindered by the fear wearing  wrong shoes

A chance to sell my art; but, refusing to take payment from friends

Two blog posts are waiting as drafts in my dashboard.

Good thoughts on resolution and lessons learned, yet, ramblings, phony words and disconnects that are “not me, not Quiet Confidence”.

What holds me back?

Tells me not to expect good?

Reminds of my disdain of attention, avoidance of being noticed?

It’s the voice of not good enough.

The perception of other’s looks when I struggle to confess my love of writing…The look that so loudly says…”oh, everybody wants to be a writer” that completely obscured the thoughts of  “Why not me?”

Yet, there is always streaming love of words, of descriptors of the commonplace, of conveyance of struggle, of fear, of celebration of joyful beauty and important moments of God’s grace and mercy.

So, move forward tenderly, Lisa.

Move forward without pressured expectations, without perfection.

Stay quietly confident. This is your theme, your heart.

Stay true. Stay transparent. Touch lives.

Turn hearts towards Jesus.

Tonight, good and true words flow from a quilt wrapped sofa.

Maybe tomorrow a pretty writing room desk surrounded by  a sparrow, my mama and daddy in picture frames and tiny little books…

Good doesn’t flow from pressure…Motivation doesn’t come from fear.

Just write, Lisa.

Just write, wherever, whenever.

Motivated, unafraid,

Don’t expect failure nor be afraid of success.

Be you, quietly confident.

” I am able to do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13