Author: Lisa

Married for 17 years with 2 adult children, helping to parent our 6 year old grandson. Home is filled with the chaos that comes with Legos, mud and two very large dogs. Our world is centered around our Plum, the child who brings great joy and teaches us about grace.

Sunday is a Long Day

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

The problem with my faith community is that they take the community part seriously. The people at my church don’t know how to ignore a sister who walks in pretending she is wearing an invisibility cloak. They still hand you a precious piece of art created to show you God, art that is beauty when all you can see is ugliness. They hug you, ignoring your crossed arms and furtive eyes, they don’t ask how you are, they already know. Instead they say they care about you, they are praying for you. They know you have run out of prayers.

When you paste on a smile and hand out bulletins, this community includes people who call you aside and share that they are broken as well and ask for a hug. What is wrong with these people, meeting you right where you are? When you sit outside of service, avoiding music that may penetrate your armor, play mindless games on your phone to communicate you are not to be approached, still they come. These people still sit with you, a black sweater and closed body language is not enough to push them away. One of the older members tells you she is too angry to really talk but she prays specifically for you every day. She doesn’t know that you love her from afar. Another young woman sits by you, this young woman you have watched grow from a tween into this amazing woman of faith with poise and beauty, who sings God into your soul. You didn’t want to hear her voice. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears, she was carrying your pain. How can you tell her to go away when she is someone you always draw near to? What a horrible community of faith.

During the service you actually attend, you ignore the opportunity to share your burdens. You ignore the requests to look around at this community of faith, to see, really see the brothers and sisters. You leave when the music gets too close. You ignore the sermon, try to empty your mind. God can see your crossed arms and angry face. He sends his people to do his work. They listen, this horrible community. Finally thinking you have survived this brush with God, this God who refuses to heal your broken heart, the service ends. A young woman from the praise team approaches and hands you a letter. You are just trying to pack up Legos and Sunday school papers, cups of donuts and orange juice. She wraps you in arms she had just lifted up to God as she carried her song and the congregation to the heavens. She wore no armor, she came straight from the altar to you. Why can’t these people understand you are lost and alone and only going through the motions?

Sunday is a long day, longer than a couple of hours spent at church. When you have a horrible community of faith you have to go home and read a letter so pure it reads like a psalm, a lament, a strapping on of your yoke. Your heart breaks open and begins healing as you hide the letter and then pull it out over and over all day, never dare to read it again, just enough to have it close by.  A letter of promises and hope and refusal to allow you to wander away. You have to look at a picture created with love that speaks into your pain but won’t leave you there. No amount of noise can drown out the echoes of those voices who spoke your ache when you couldn’t.

You went to church with a plan to show God just what you think of Him. You might attend but you weren’t going to participate. Apparently He didn’t care if you weren’t full of worship. His horrible community of faith truly are His hands and feet, they are His voice when you can’t hear Him. He knows you will listen to these voices, you will accept these hugs and letters and paintings. These sacred offerings will carry you back into His arms when you are ready. What a horrible community of faith.

Lying

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Shivering in the morning chill, my porch is no longer my comfort place. Birds chirp insistently, the feeder empty. Flitting from tree to tree, they come back to complain. Still, I remain, unable to gather the energy to add seeds for my winged friends. Later, I whisper, later I will bring you food. I may be lying. I’m too cold but can’t get up, I know warmth is only steps away, inside, a blanket, socks. Still, I remain. Everything is empty, drained of hope, drained of joy, drained of caring.

The dogs are slowed, responding to my ache. They don’t play, the sit and asked only sometimes to be petted. They know we are having a funeral for my hope.  My Plum told me at dinner that I looked sad. No masking my desolation from this perceptive child, he sees into my soul. I admitted that I was, asked what he does when he feels that way. He suggested I hug one of my specials, he hugs his purple blankie. He is my special. I cannot hug him long enough to quell this hurt.

Sunday again, time for church. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to move from my cold porch, change from my ratty robe, talk to anyone, hear music. I don’t want to enter into God’s house. Rather I want God to come see me here on my porch and bring me hope. I want God to tell me this isn’t a funeral. To whisper, be patient, my child. She is safe. Even then I may think He is lying. I don’t know how to trust again. This is what it feels like to be alone, without the surety that God is leading the way.  Tricked, confused, lost, how can I know what is right anymore. Then the sun begins to hit my chair, spreading warmth. Damn warmth, damn light, right where I sit. Angry, I miss the cold. I want to stay in the cold, the empty. It keeps my numb. I don’t want to feel angry, that lets other feelings in. I can’t bear the other feelings.

My head is screaming just leave me alone yet my soul is aching for the presence of the One who sees me. Grieving again, too much grieving. Unbearable heartache and I have to go to God’s house to sit with others who worship. I may sing the songs but I could be lying.

Splinters

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

How do you fix something this broken? I was sure this was from God, the chance sighting of my long lost daughter. Chef had lunch with a friend from church, she walked in, didn’t see him in this tiny campus thai spot. Four years ago on this day we were visiting our strong bright girl in South Korea, our girl who was capable of speaking multiple languages and finding her way. Soon I would go back to travel Cambodia and Thailand with this girl, so proud of the young woman she had become. Now she sat in the thai restaurant inches from me and couldn’t find her voice. She allowed her husband to speak ugly hate-filled words to her mother, to her step-father, in front of her child. She didn’t use her voice, he spoke loud profane threats. He called the police. She stayed quiet. I know she allows worse for herself. The officer tells us she has to choose to leave, we can just let her know we are here for her. They suggest easing our way back in. Incredulous, I explain that was what I did. I said hello. She looked down, wouldn’t meet my eyes. She didn’t speak.

I taught my children to use their words. We didn’t allow violence into our home. Teachers always remarked with awe at the unusual ability of my kids to express their feelings. Teachers didn’t know we learned feelings words like primary colors. I was determined my children were never going to be silenced like I was. I gave them voices. I thought I gave them strength to make safe choices as well. I thought I gave them faith to always lead them in the right direction. I only gave them wings to fly away, minds no longer strong enough to stand up to cruelty, hearts hardened so easily against their one true champion.

Intellectually, I am angry at God, what a mess this all is and where is He? I could have had a perfectly normal Friday, not knowing she was even in town. How could I not believe He was in the timing and yet the disaster that ensued was surely the devil’s work. This story has been dragging on for almost 2 years, maybe this is the middle, not the end. Maybe God is using this horrible time to wake her out of this fog, God doesn’t tell me all of His plans. I don’t get to see each day’s outline, the agenda for the meeting. I know God can handle my anger, my questioning, I am not abandoning Him, He hasn’t done so to me. But surely, surely something must be gained from this?

Hours and hours of fantasies about a chance meeting, this was not ever how it ended. I went in too quietly, apologetically, slowly. I missed my opportunity to say everything I have stored up for 2 years. I didn’t know I only had seconds. I didn’t expect him to become aggressive and hostile in public. I thought I could hug my daughter, hear her voice. I ache to hear her laugh, to look into her eyes again, to hear stories about her daughter.  Maybe this is not the end of the story, just that really scary awful middle part. God hasn’t told me the rest.

I sat on the porch swing, the rocking disguising my quivering body. Still shaking an hour later. The slats of the bench need sanding, weathered by too many summers in the sun. Rubbing my hands along the seat, I realized I was just trying to feel something. I have lost my words, my feelings are so deep, buried, too dangerous to release. I think my Stella and I might be closer than I thought. Voices and feelings are often powerful, tornadoes that can destroy all in their path.  Ours have been buried, silenced by fear. I imagine another force of nature, a volcano, long simmering. I pray when she does erupt she does so with a safety plan that keeps her and little princess away from the distruction. I don’t know when I will let go of my feelings, I wish I had the strength to break a wall or cut down a tree but quickly dismiss these as wasteful and I love trees. I don’t advocate the cutting epidemic among the youth but have new understanding of just wanting to feel. My Chef tried to hug me, he is seeking any way to comfort me. I told him to stop. I learned early how to not feel. This is too big for my to allow into my world.

Rocking, shaking, touching the rough wooden swing, I try to begin again living without my daughter, an artificial loss, neither of us really gone. My laments only heard by God, I know He hears my cries. My prayers are soul screams. My heartbeats are demands for help. Rooted to my seat, silent, I swing and wait for the Lord.

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Dark, Donkeys, Disciples

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

I can’t see in the dark. Even in the dusk really. I stumble into walls and chairs, trip over 100 lb beasts who blend into the black even though they are white, golden. The stairs are a particular hazard, I often forget to count as I proceed down and miss the last couple. Every night before I go to bed, I make the rounds, ensuring chairs are scooted in, toys are returned to the proper room, all obstacles are cleared. I rise before the light and often during the night, wandering outside to listen to the sounds of the dark, the peaceful time alone soothing my restless soul. These shadowy wanderings are dangerous for one with limited feeling in the lower extremities, limited eyesight. Darkness is perilous, light is safety. Is it any wonder that I seek the Light, that my soul yearns for those who shed this precious glow into my world?

Two weeks ago I moaned and complained to my small group because my plan for time after my Plum headed to kindergarten was not panning out. I expected long days of writing in solitude, space to contemplate, to just be alone. Now my Chef was home with me all day and I loved his company but I needed quiet, needed seclusion. My friends listened, suggested, gave me space at their homes. On the drive to C’s home, our gathering place for this next meeting, I went below the speed limit. I extended my time alone in the car. I fantasized about driving back to the mountains where I felt such peace.  I arrived with an update of irony,  a house more filled with noise, chaos. A home exploding  with the sounds of a 2 1/2 year old, dogs barking, people talking, cooking, always, always activity.  For someone who craves silence, I certainly seemed to be undermining my own plan.

C. shared the fable about the man who went to the mountain top, complaining about his wife and kids and the noise. The guy at the top, the wise one, told him to bring in his donkey. The man descended, brought in the donkey and then soon returned to the mountain top. What horrible advice, he complained. My home is now even louder! He was advised to bring in his cow. Again he descended, followed the advice, his home grew louder. This process repeated until all of his animals were in his home. Finally about to lose his mind, (I am assuming, as I would be) he ascended again to the wise one. He was told to remove all of the animals to their rightful place. The cacophony of clucking, mooing, baying, baaing, barking, all gone. Silence, as silent as a household with only his wife and children could bring. He was content. (Too Much Noise by Ann McGovern, my retelling is complete paraphrase, buy the book.)

I got the message. C brought perspective which is called light in my world. This story was a gentle chiding even though she never would have meant it that way. Not a story about donkeys or cows or loud children, rather about choosing to find your own peace in the midst of the chaos, determining your own role in the noise making. How much we hear, how much we see, knowing there can always be more, worse, our choice to find comfort in the now. I left our group feeling chastised. I needed that. Those people who follow Jesus, they are called disciples. It requires discipline. Not the spanking kind that this word has come to be associated with, rather the teaching kind. Jesus was a teacher who led the way into the Light. Using parables, he called his people out of the darkness. He asks us to do the same with each other, never to be too afraid to gently hold another sister accountable. But first there must be trust. Preaching at strangers doesn’t work. Teaching with, to our friends is discipleship. I trust these friends to discipline me because I know their hearts.  I hear what God is calling them to say, even when they would be appalled to think I felt chided. I know God is in the midst of our gatherings.

I need friends who help me find my way around in the shadows, removing obstacles with me, putting things where they go. Otherwise I trip and fall, I get hurt. Without friends to share their wisdom, I would never find my way home, stuck adding noise, adding chaos, bringing in donkeys and cows. I would be forever wishing I could go back to the mountains. Somehow I stumble, trip to these wise friends who take this journey with me and illuminate the way when it is too dark for me too see. My friends are disciples who carry candles, art supplies, make bread and share stories. Sometimes a trip to the mountains is just across town, a slow drive towards the Light.

Sharing Our Little

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

Before we left home for the Labor Day parade in Chef’s home town, I asked my Plum to grab 5 large baggies. Full of questions as he went about his task, his patience for my hedging mixed with the chaos of three families struggling to pack for a day trip led to disclosure earlier than planned. I assured him he would need them later, during the parade when the participants threw candy out. I have been around long enough to know you don’t tell children about candy until it is time for candy. The hour drive and subsequent 15 minute walk to the parade site saw him clutching his bag, ready for donations.

Firetrucks, more firetrucks, more than I have ever seen, led the parade with sirens and waves and no candy. Plum tried to stay interested, he waved back at the first few and then sat somewhat dejectedly in the wagon, still holding his bag, legs flopping over the side. I assured him candy would happen. Finally I spied the telltale signs of sugar tossing: children running to the street further up the parade route.  “Get ready, Plum!” He jumped up, energy restored, as did all the other children around him. Big pressure for the one person tossing. Plum got one piece. His bag looked pitiful. “No worries, more is on the way.” Soon another rider tossed some out, all the children grabbed. Plum was out-battled by the bigger girl next to him. Close to tears, he slunk back to his wagon.

“No, no buster, we aren’t doing this,” I told him. I told you there would be candy, there will be plenty of candy. We are not crying about something that is being given freely to us. It is for all the kids, you will get yours and you can share some too. “Didn’t Gran promise you there would be candy? Have I ever let you down? We have to be patient.”  No tears, no pouting. Have some water. My best boy squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, waited. The candy came. Before long his bag was overflowing, he started on a second bag. Someone threw SourPatch candies, his personal favorite. He grabbed for them, another guy got there first. Then something incredible happened.  The other little boy came over and gave the candy to Plum. The next round, Plum grabbed something and handed it to his new friend. Finally the heat and the overflowing bag convinced him he was ready to hit Great Gran’s pool so we walked back early, pulling a red wagon full of sweets.

I asked him later about the bags, about the sharing. He said it is easier to share when your bag is full. I asked him what if his bag only had a little and someone else had none, what might they think of his bag? He immediately understood that his little would be much to someone else. When pressed about whether he would share with them, his response was the stuff to make God sing. “Of course, Gran, I would share my little.”

We are sharing our little right now, our little that seems like so much to those receiving. I worry about money, I worry about how much more we are spending right now with our extra guests. This was not in the so very tight budget. Suddenly with no incomes, isn’t it wiser to hoard our “candy bags,” hide away what little we have, save for our uncertain future?  But our little all came from God, thrown out to us not because we deserved it but just because we were at the right parade at the right time. I am trusting that more candy will come.  While our bags may never be overflowing again I know they don’t need to be. We do have enough to share today. We have always had enough to share.

No pouting, no tears. A glass of water and a tootsie roll as my snack while I remember all the emptier bags. A smaller bag would have filled more quickly, seemed less stark with only a few pieces. I may be forced in the future to downsize, to leave my large home. For now, as long as I am sharing the space with those God brings our way, He will surely provide enough for all of us. It is hard to see the end of the parade from where we are seated, to just know that better things are coming. Fortunately I have the promises of one who has never let me down as reassurance. More candy is coming, be patient.

Communing Sunday

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

Our two rather large dogs were terrifying to our little house guest. No amount of reassurance would convince him that he was safe. As they drew near, he screamed. They are so protective of my Plum that the screaming told hem they must comfort this small boy, so they tried to go closer. More screaming. So our beasts were stuck outside, confused and barking. A dance began, moving the dogs either in or out, depending on where our new friends were. My Chef entertained while I sat with the dogs, our home divided. I prayed that I could find some solution, I wondered about the wisdom of opening our home to strangers. Beautiful in theory, complicated in the execution. We seemed to be offering a bit more misery than hospitality. I searched for a solution, wondering if a different home would be a better fit. Fearing permanent traumatization, I knew something had to change.

Chef informed me that he had invited our housemates to church, I was appalled. This act of evangelism felt disrespectful to their pathway to God, I worried they would feel pressured as our guests to go. Given that the beast dance was wearing me down, I had little energy or even time to chastise my husband. I hoped they would assert themselves and politely decline, I worried how I would attend and leave them with the beasts. I worried, got more and more tired. Finally the dogs and I escaped to my bedroom, fatigued ruling wisdom. I gave up. I forget that until I get so tired of trying to steer the ship, I don’t let God take over.

Before the sun even rose on our sabbath morning I asked Chef for the day’s plan. He confirmed our guests were joining for church, I was taking everyone to meet at the late service as he leaves early to teach Sunday school.  While I slept, he  and God had been busy with details I now had to implement. Escaping to my porch sanctuary with beasts, I drank coffee and talked with God. I drank more coffee, tried to listen. God whispered. Realizing I had the perfect interpreter, someone who could communicate to a little boy that these dogs were harmless. I called in my Plum, this almost 6 year old bundle of compassion who wrestles the beasts and spreads joy. While it was mama’s weekend, she graciously allowed us to pick him up to join for church and play time after. Mama understood non-beasts loving people. What ensued was such beauty that only God could have been messing around with this.

We walked into church, my Plum, little Jesus, Mary and Joseph and I. I’m not sure anyone even greeted me. The children were too adorable, the adults immediately welcomed, shepherded to the coffee bar.  My worrying couldn’t find any place to land, pushed aside by joy. “Yes, I am among friends, friends who will carry this yoke with me.” For a time I could just rest in the house of God.  How often I forget that I don’t have to do this, any of this, alone. Coffee, tea, water bottles in hand, we entered the sanctuary, boys racing around as little boys do.  I will only attend a church that allows little boys to race around.

I assumed we would sit in the back, inconspicuous, as much as any one could be dressed in such beautiful scarves as Mary. Chef told them we sit in the front row and guided everyone up there. His boldness is ridiculous sometimes. The children and I sat on the floor, dumping out the baggie of cars I had brought. Plum searched my purse for the snacks he knows Gran always has. Packages of cookies were opened, divided. One for him, one for Jesus, over and over, as they sat on the prayer kneeler in front of the entire congregation.   Communion in the purest sense.  Music began, the boys danced. Jesus danced just as my Plum used to so freely do until he got a bit shy and aware that he was dancing alone. We go to a Methodist church after all.  When the children were dismissed for Sunday School Jesus went also with some coaxing but soon returned. Back to the floor I went, rolling matchbox cars to and fro, until it was time for communion when I retrieved my Plum. He loves communion. He loves the bread the juice the lining up with everyone to participate in something he knows is special. Jesus was ready to partake as well. More worrying, how to stop a child from having “snack” that everyone else gets?  Anxiety spiking, searching for a quick solution, the voice of my pastor broke through.

Pastor Chris reminded the congregation that everyone is invited to the table. He spoke God to the people. The people heard. Joseph rose to join the line, I could barely breathe. Mary sat still in her chair, the boys rushed ahead. As the communion steward tore a piece of bread and handed it to little Jesus, she told him it was love broken for him. Is there anything more pure, more magnificent?  Finally, Mary rose, unsure, haltingly, to join the line. I walked with her although I had already received this sacrament. Arm in arm, we walked to the table of grace.

After church Plum played with the beasts and spoke confidence into little Jesus. By the end of the day we had harmony in our home, no more separation dance. Our guests cooked a meal for us, stepping around beasts in the kitchen. We communed again. I may never write these words again, pay attention. I was wrong, my Chef was right. He sent out an invitation because he was listening to God’s call. I pray that I can be so fearless when given the chance. I pray that I can trust that when God brings us someone to love, he doesn’t leave us to work it out on our own. I pray that I remember communion is little boys dancing to worship music, Muslims taking bread and juice with a group of Christians because we have shown the real face of our One Father. I want to always remember when Pastor Chris said, “Let’s pray,” Jesus stopped playing cars and ran to me, enveloped me in a hug and didn’t let go as we rocked on the floor of the sanctuary. Hearts beating together, wrapped in the arms of Jesus, is there anything more glorious than that?

My soul is overwhelmed, brimming with the love and light God has shown me. This lesson of trusting God is something I relearn everyday,  easier with the example of children.  Bread and juice and cookies become sacred. If I just keep showing up, our One Father will supply the miracles.  The table is set before me, open for all who seek to lead a life of peace and love. I come to it broken, like the bread. I pour out my pain, just as the blood of Jesus was poured for us all. Shared, we become whole.

  • If I am bold enough to issue invitations,
  • if I am silent long enough to listen to the whispers of God,
  • if I am transparent enough to rely on my faith community,
  • if I am honest enough to acknowledge that quite often my Chef is right,

I will find communion. I don’t ever have to wait for Sunday. Grace and light will meet me there. Thanks be to God.

 

Unexpected Encounters

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I found a frog hopping down my hallway. Just a baby one, an adult frog would have been really odd. My upstairs hallway, away from outside doors and window access unless this baby amphibian has super jumping powers. It was covered in a fine webbing of fluff, like it was caught up in dryer lint. My dryer is on the floor below. I truly have no idea how this frog came to be in my home, how it managed to stay alive with two dogs and two cats who would certainly be intrigued by the movements of this little creature. How did I come to see it first? You might think I’m crazy but I am convinced it is a God thing. You would surely believe me if there were thousands hopping down my hallway, a plague among my family. Will you trust in the miracle of one?

I took the baby, wiped him off and set him free. Then puzzled over his purpose in my life. I wondered how long I would have stayed that odd creature, veiled to hide my identity, a veil which hindered my progress. Showing up at unexpected places, seeking asylum, wondering how I came to be with this crowd, how can I ever find my way home. Dependent on others to strip away the parts that hold me back, to deliver me safely to a resting place. Or cowering in corners, wondering if I could remain invisible forever. I certainly must have appeared so when I showed up in Janet’s clean living room, unshowered, unkempt, confused and so lost I couldn’t find my way back to God. I can’t claim any hopping, I barely had energy to brush my teeth. She gently helped me find my way back, she saw my soul underneath, she saw worth in my life, she saved this frog.

Maybe the lesson of this little creature in my home is to remember the awesome responsibility of the freed.  I must keep my eyes open for others who need a bit of help as well. To see beyond facades, dirty clothes and expensive wardrobes, all the ways we hide from each other and into the soul seeking a safe place to rest. Unexpected encounters may show me someone who just a needs a way home. God will bring these people into my view, will I see them? It won’t always be so clear as a frog in an upstairs hallway. It may take more than five minutes of wiping down and safely depositing in the yard. These are details I will trust to God. These are the miraculous everyday encounters I pray I keep seeing and have the courage to act on. Certainly this story would be quite different had I found a mouse.

 

Soccer with Jesus

On By LisaIn The Chef, Travel6 Comments

I played soccer with Jesus yesterday while Chef loaded baggage into our car. My 2 1/2 year old opponent spoke little English but his beautiful brown eyes and quick smile stole my heart immediately. Little boys and grandmas need few words when a ball is available. The other adults managed the packing up to move this family who came to America and found there was no room at the inn. I played soccer with Jesus who’s family worships a different path to God. His mama doesn’t call him Jesus but my soul knew.

This couple, highly educated, came to study at Purdue and found themselves the victim of a fraud. Their housing agreement, paid in advance didn’t exist. No room at the inn. God was watching though as He guided them to the doorsteps of a member of our church who has been sheltering them for a week, establishing them at the university and setting up banking. His skills at maneuvering those systems as well as his apartment that was free for a week must be God showing off. Our extra beds close to the school, our habit of taking in strangers, our nest newly emptied, God clearly is guiding this Islamic Mary and Joseph on their journey. We are honored to provide a safe haven for weary travelers in a strange land with the blessings God has given to us. Isn’t this God’s house anyway?

As we navigated food and customs and acclimating a child to our rather large beasts, I heard Jesus call me Auntie. He calls for me, of course I come. So easy to answer any call when the voice is that of a child. God knows how to talk to my soul. We ate pizza, not the best way to welcome them but we were all exhausted. The banana I sliced for him became our game, another way to connect. We adults are finding our voices with each other, Jesus and I are already communicating well. I looked at this family sitting at my table, breaking pizza together, knew it was thanksgiving early. I knew it was grace. How to stop hate in our world? How to stop the polarization, the labeling, the separation into groups based on religion or gender or who one loves? Invite Jesus to play soccer. Then have some pizza. It really doesn’t have to be harder than that.

Soon they will be settled in their campus housing, the 6 months they are here will fly by. I believe they will return and tell stories of Jesus worshipping people who took them in, then sent them to the next family who worships Jesus. They may tell stories of hospitality and grace that will shed light into who we as Christians are, who we are meant to be. Christians who try hard to follow the teachings of Jesus and follow that entertain strangers bit. We will tell stories of God’s glory in guiding Mary and Joseph and little Jesus on a journey. One story at a time, we might just spread love.

Open Nest Openness

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Those baby birds that nested in our garage? All have safely flown away. I miss the insistent chirps echoing in our space. Quiet has descend. Our level of quiet with 2 dogs who find the best time to battle over a stolen sock is when I sit down. But this I have grown accustomed to. God sent the mama to us, to our garage for safekeeping. I fretted over the cats, trying to monitor their location as they run freely and visit only during storms or hunger or the occasional desire for a chin scratching. God wasn’t worried.

Our little huntress was missing for two days, the days the babies took flying lessons. I was able to corral the big beasts and the fat lazy cat but my little girl was AWOL. I called for her every time I passed a door, I checked on the  babies as often. She didn’t show. Finally I checked the shed, the doors were shut after my Chef mowed. Surely she wouldn’t have run in there, the noise would have sent her scurrying away. In her 6 years with us, she has never been locked in there. Out of options, I looked anyway.  She was curled up on the mower seat. She was saved the indignity of walking the property to her food bowl, I deposited my wayward girl into the house for all of nature’s safe keeping. She ate, rehydrated, slept, the babies spread their wings and flew unto branches.

I may not recognize their songs now, the blending of all the morning joy into one. I won’t forget though the opportunity to love who God brings, the awesome responsibility to share our blessings, the joy that comes from opening even the little spaces to those in need. We find ourselves in this home with too many bedrooms, too much quiet, wandering about, rooms not entered for way too many days. Our home is not fit for an HGTV spread, unless it is the “before” picture. It is easy to grow self-conscious about all that is wrong, all that needs updating, painting, renovating. It is easy to avoid opening our doors because we don’t feel our home is good enough. Then we find someone who is in such great need that our place becomes like a castle. We find someone, or God brings someone to us, and realize that the shelter we can provide, the respite from worry and confusion, the peace and grace afforded at our table, these are the gifts of our home. God brings us people and creatures. We keep our doors open to those who need us. Those with more may be shocked that I don’t have a dishwasher. Those in need are amazed that we have so many beds, waiting.

I am realizing more and more that my soul is just as my home. So in need of fixing up. Broken, chipped, scarred, oddly patched but accepting of those who come without judgement. Broken knows broken. Look deeper and you will see a home, a soul, inviting all those who want more. Come and see me, I will share what I have. I will feed you, let you sing to me your song. You can nest here for as long as you need, until your wings are ready.

Soul Art

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I am supposed to have this time each week where I gather with some friends and we art. They do actual art, I write. But we quietly create in this dedicated time. Today I hijacked this time with these women because my soul was bleeding. I went to this creative time as if rushing to the ER. I needed patched up as only close friends who tell you the truth can do. Supporting, guiding, chiding, and then offering some ideas, this is soul healing stuff from  women who have their own souls that bleed and their own needs and really wanted to art. I felt only a little guilty for taking this time over because I know that the core of this time is trust. It was a safe place to take my junk, my broken pieces, spread them out like old crayons and let the group melt these into something new.  We made art, still. No watercolors touched the paper, pastels never left the box. My laptop stayed in the case, in my purse. Yet the generative grafting of my dark pieces into a new light, swirling colors around so that I could see a new thing, staunched the bleeding, nursed me back to a health that accepted I was responsible for many of my own injuries.

Being in authentic relationships with other women is like having a first aid kit available all the time. God how I mourn the lost years of pretending to be someone else in order to fit in, pretending to be fine when I was hurting, pretending to laugh when the jokes weren’t funny. Thinking survival among other women meant I had to give up my own air, I suffocated myself. I hid my truth, my brokenness, kept my voice quiet. I thought that was the price of friendship. What beauty to discover how wrong I was. I no longer mourn the loss of those superficial relationships with women who couldn’t handle the me covered in old scars. I mourn that they are still afraid to show theirs.

I have a safe group of friends who see light in my darkness, who show me grace when I am the one who is broken and in need of extra care. Other days some else brings a soul that is in need of intervention. I pray I rise up as well as these women. I am no good with pastels and everyone knows to keep paintbrushes out of my hands. Showing up, staying truthful, being open to another’s gift of soul sharing, that is just us bringing our supplies. God makes the beautiful art of our friendship.