I’d be more than enough if I quietly painted and gave myself over to small and large pieces or thick papers that I stacked high or hung in the corner of one wall.
And I left them there, to be seen
I’d be more than enough in the eyes of God and I believe, the eyes of others, too.
I’d be more than enough if not a single soul read the words I pencil or peck out.
More than enough if later, a long time away maybe, my children and grandchildren got a glimpse of my faith and my falters and remembered me well.
I’d be more than enough, more than I can know, if they found their names written next to a little dot and they knew that God knew and that I knew too.
Because I’ve found my name in my grandmother’s Bible, faded black underlines and a delicate cursive “Lisa” in the margin.
It was something to see, significant.
I’m all out of sorts with the attention that comes with the calling, the calling to write, the calling to create.
What a fine line it is, thin and fine, between expression and validation.
Too much, Lisa.
Too much Lisa.
This morning, I’ve read a blog post from a writer who wrote about grace, her focus for “31 Days”.
Her disappointment over not being chosen yet again, her submission denied.
I commented “same here, I understand, show yourself some grace, I’ll take a little too”.
Then, remembered what I’d said when I’d been informed of my own no.
It was a clear declaration, a mindset proclaiming acceptance, it was all the right words.
“Yes, Lord. I see this no is your no and I see that you see me not writing devotions; but, the book.”
I was confident in my making the no a yes. Everyone agreed, oh my, what a way to make a no a yes!
Then that sneaky feeling came back… the fat girl in the weird clothes whose name was last to be called in the “Red Rover, red rover, send…right over” or the one sitting up proper amongst the pretty and proper dying inside over “How soon can I leave this room, how much longer must I be on display?”
I went back to my default of quiet girl unnoticed, safe, no fear of not being chosen.
It was familiar.
But, somehow foreign.
So, I asked God the other morning in the shower,
I prayed. It was different, not different because of where I was, shower prayers are my daily, maybe odd to some thing.
Different, because it was certain and for sure feeling.
“Lord, what will you think if I just don’t write anymore, if I don’t finish what you told me start?”
I waited, the question was free flowing, like asking a friend “What do ya’ think? ” easy to ask and open for their reply.
I waited, knees resting.
Then this thought, an answer to my prayer question.
“Wouldn’t it be okay if I just keep it to myself, and you, God…pages and pages of the heart you know?”
I waited, relieved to no longer be toting ’round the worry over my worth based on my words.
But, He answered.
I saw myself there at the end of my days resting close by the one who knew me best.
He answered, it was a gentle and kind reply.
Lisa, I know you wanted to
I wish you had
trusted me more.
This morning, I’m reading about grace towards ourselves and I’ve pencilled in my daily prayer of Jabez in a new way, like a conversation, God’s replies added.
Oh that you would bless me indeed. (I have.)
Enlarge my territory (I have; but, you still long to hide away.)
That your hand would be with me.(Always, it is.)
So that I would not be in pain.
(It is not of my making, any pain that you are feeling. I have and will grant your request.) I Chronicles 4:10
I walk out into the damp grass before work, a mindless morning thing, remembering the Winter day we brought the Labrador home.
It was work. I kept at it. More effort and angst than I could have imagined. The morning thing, routine, schedule, energy let loose…toss a ball, say “good boy” , again again.
Some mornings I rushed. In a hurry, but determined, days that were hard, cold, icy, some humid and mosquitoes unrelenting. Others, I cherish, the geese flew over, a cardinal flitted by, the sky was wide and blue and the rhythm of our play, it was enough.
His retrieval, his reply.
He lumbered up next to my side this morning, now two years with us. My mind miles away and he’d finished his rounds along the fence line.
I looked down and met his eyes.
“Where’s your tennis ball?” I asked, just like the way I used to say “Where’s your paci or your blanket, your glove?”.
“Go find your tennis ball.” I told him.
Then, I waited.
He came back, the dirty and matted old ball sideways, hanging tight in his mouth.
“Good boy!” I said, threw the ball a long ways and he ran towards it again.
I’m thinking about trust, how it is not struggle, about how I make it hard work, make it hard, make it too much me, make it vain. Decide it’s never enough, my trust.
I toss again. Again.
Still thinking of settling here, this morning thing, this scribbling down of prayers, rambling and random thoughts expression of art, or word.
And yet, fascinated by what might come with trust.
I’ve opened my Bible now and it falls open to the pages marked with crimson petals,
Find wisdom. Find reply.
“Then I observed that most people are motivated to success because they envy their neighbors. But this, too, is meaningless—like chasing the wind. “Fools fold their idle hands, leading them to ruin.” And yet, “Better to have one handful with quietness than two handfuls with hard work and chasing the wind.””
Ecclesiastes 4:4-6 NLT
So I’ll not sit idle, hands folded in my lap. I’ll be content with the one handful, not chasing after what might be in the hands of another.
I’ve gotten quiet today thinking about the contrast between strife and restful trust, motivation and following God’s lead to
go and find what is mine to catch and bring back.
Out of the blue, I hear from one of my “colors”.
Instead of saying, love you, how are you?, yes I’m still writing or hope to see you soon…
I say, “I’m ready to finish your chapter, up for a visit?”
“Yes”, she said.
And I have lyrics again, lyrics that come to mind.
“Only trust Him…
Only trust Him more.”
Linking up with others at Jennifer Dukes Lee. Click here to read and then share your love, your thoughts, your wisdom and words today with everyone around you!
Jennifer’s story of a man named Charlie, I’ve read again this morning as it’s the 19th year since my daddy died. His name was Charlie Ruel. He fought in the Korean War. He was a good looking man, sharp dressed, lover of the sound of a steel guitar and of my mama. He was a quiet man, not at jovial. When he spoke, he made sure his words were necessary, were beneficial. Tonight, I’ll go to Bible study. We’ve been discussing heaven and I pray I somehow hear from him, my daddy, Mr. Charlie Ruel Hendrix, the baby of his family.
Read here about Jennifer’s Charlie.