Yesterday, I listened differently. One voice I heard was as smooth as the cream in my coffee and deliberate in its pauses. She waited between words. I got the impression that every syllable was special.
I joked and told her she should give training, her voice was so pleasant to hear. She explained it was just Southern and I answered well, I’m just as southern as you.
We were helping someone, one voice on the phone and the two of us trying to listen in light of emergent need. I wanted to ask hard questions, scold missteps in my concern for her condition.
“But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere.”
James 3:17 ESV
Instead, I watched and waited and tried to line my parts up in the conversation with what she might receive as compassion not concern.
Her voice was quiet and it wavered. It was sure and then it was scared. It was willing and then it wished it had not spoken.
I listened as my colleague offered coffee and then calmly led her to talk about her boys, then at just the right moment as I turned to tell her, she voiced her agreement with me, assuring the young mother.
You can get back to the place of okay.
We saw her smile, softly repeat our belief using her voice and repeat it again, believing, I believe,
No wonder I don’t want to leave, my morning time with God is always too brief.
This morning God told me,
It’s like He truly has me and He wants to keep me here, wants me to really know His keeping.
Yes, my morning time is too brief, I’m getting stronger at taking it longer into my day.
“Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
Philippians 1:6 NIV
Because I slept well and long, my meet the day prayer today was brief.
The feeling followed me down the hall, the regret of my request.
I asked God for “opportunities” and chastised myself no sooner than the thought became a conversation. Thinking,
Oh, sorry let me take that back…I’ve already had enough and haven’t done so well with them.
I barely made it to the Keurig before I changed my perspective.
I remembered my pattern.
God reminded me.
When I don’t write or when my writing is rejected, I immediately believe it has nothing to do with my skills or my content; but, everything with my worthiness.
Viciously sensitive and cyclical is the dilemma of my endeavor. I will return once again, maybe this afternoon to the old desk where words have been written, pieces and parts and starts, because I heard God this morning.
His reply was quick.
You have to write bravely.
Pointing me away from the obligatory or copycat attempts to be one of those women who write and towards Him and yes, back to me.
Back to brave.
Back to the story that won’t let go.
“Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually served to advance the gospel.”
Philippians 1:12 NIV
I bet you have a thing like that, a thing God told you was for you, the treasure you believed was there, slowly began to believe Him enough to dig it up.
Maybe you were afraid your treasure might not be treasured or that you’d be insufficient in your conveyance of just how glorious your God is for giving you the ability, the opportunity,
The unabashed bravery to pursue it!
Yeah, that’s the thing mostly. Something that God has told you is this huge a chance, a calling…oh, you don’t want to be responsible for it being any less.
I ramble, I get pitiful.
Forgive me. I’m surely no victim!
“Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own because Christ Jesus has made me his own.”
Philippians 3:12 ESV
What we see as hard, God sees as worthy of our doing.
What we see as unlikely, God sees as possible.
What we see as unexpected of our accomplishing, God sees as brave and intentional daily, momentous surrender.
We must be brave or we’ll never be fully seen, He will never be fully seen through us!
We must tell whole stories, not just give hints or glimpses of our rescue and redemption.
Otherwise, how will others know the story behind the things we say, the little expressions we throw out?
Afraid of telling the entirety of before.
One I’m prone to declare quite often…
Not me, but you Lord.
Jesus in me, showing through me, inviting others to have to the same hope of glory.
Glory, as in eternal life, a heavenly home.
I only hint at what that means, fully surrendered and cooperative, obedient to His plan.
I’ve no idea why this seems scary, why I must be brave.
It should come as easy as breathing and last way longer than my morning coffee.
It must surely be the most perplexing thing an uncertain or nonbeliever sees,
The meandering missteps of a believer. We’re confident and then we’re not or we’re complete and then complacent.
Yet, it’s that reality that tells our story, the recognition that we struggle, we’re not able on our own.
It’s also His mercy that sets our stumbling back on track, is kind in the giving grace for our once again, beginnings to see.
That we’re good and close to God every morning and day by day that closeness and that light go longer and brighter through our days and into our nights.
We press on even though the fear remains, we hear the voices of doubt saying stop…don’t go.
But, we hear the other.
We become good listeners and we hear The Father saying,
We get up again and we, with Him, bravely go!
Some time ago, a speaker suggested we read from beginning to end and again and again, the Book of Philippians.
My Bible is evidence of the difference it made, Paul’s personal expressions of the importance of humility, of loving Christ fully, being lights in our world, being brave communicators of the life and death of Jesus, of our lives changed because of His.
The air, obviously different this morning, I walked as quietly as possible thinking my aunt was still sleeping.
The back door was open wide and I saw her nowhere. The laundry room, slightly lit by the light marking the dryer’s cycle and a shifting noise was ever faint.
I decided it must be a load of towels. I turned to start the coffee, turned back and there she was. Smiling and nodding at me, her hair all messy and loose and her hands already working, determined and sure.
“Well, hey.” she said, “I’ve gotten behind on my laundry.”
She smiled and added “get you some coffee” and so, I did.
I didn’t tell her I’d been looking for her, that I’d gone out on the patio and thought I might find her watering or working already in her yard.
I didn’t tell her how the sweetest aroma I’ve ever known caused me to stand still, surveying the impatiens, the begonia, the ferns, turning and tilting and trying to find the mysterious source.
We sat with our coffee and fig newtons and we caught up quietly.
And then I asked her what the scent was that captured me, the one so enveloping.
She asked me if I’d noticed that all the blooms are reaching out wider, brighter, more fully. They know the season’s about to change, she informed.
Then she told me that it was the ginger lilies who sent the morning scent my way.
“Must’ve been the slight breeze this morning, it’ll bring ’em right up to the porch.”
I looked over the wide green carpet of her sloping yard, way past the little house my grandma lived before and thought I’d never have figured it out had she not told me, the massive lilies, so far in the swampy distance, bordering the woods.
“Oh, yeah.” she added as we walked down to see, “these lilies live long, they’re strong, they keep holding on.”
Then we plundered around and she showed us the elephant ears she’d discovered and she took us around back to the tiny purple blooms running wild and free.
I thought about her love, her faith, her quiet hope and I watched her as we shared a current stressful worry or two.
She nodded again, folded her hands to pray and with no words or a prayer at all, we heard.
“Prayer and patience…”
and hope now too, I know she always hopes.
I want a wide and full hope like hers in my changing seasons, all stored up for now, being so very confident there will always be more.
The Spring before my daddy died, he planted potatoes. The air was cool and my children watched, their bottoms plopped down on the dirt, my daughter with her arms wrapped around her baby brother.
If you asked my daddy if he was a farmer he’d have said no because he wasn’t a farmer and the potatoes weren’t a necessary crop.
If being a farmer depended upon breaking up the soil, walking out the spaces between the slices of potatoes planted, well, yes he was a farmer.
He belonged among the farmers.
I woke up this morning thinking about the harvest, about the keeping at it to reap what I sow.
My daddy was meticulous about how the potatoes were planted.
Just a small plot of land my cousin wasn’t planning to use, next to my house, so I got to watch him stand over it, waiting for what was happening underneath.
I read this morning about perseverance, about persistence.
Thinking about this season my friend is calling our harvest, I sensed a sure stirring, a need to grow.
I’d been distracted, disgruntled, pulled away and pitiful, decided I was never gonna reap from all that I had sown.
Jesus told a story about seeds and what we do with them and how we get disenchanted with the idea of us making something grow.
We don’t stay with it, we let our hopes go.
He told of people who only stick with it for awhile or people who’d just toss their seeds toward the not broken up soil as if to say, that’s it now God, make it grow!
“And the ones on the rock are those who, when they hear the word, receive it with joy. But these have no root; they believe for a while, and in time of testing fall away. And as for what fell among the thorns, they are those who hear, but as they go on their way they are choked by the cares and riches and pleasures of life, and their fruit does not mature.”
I thought about my daddy and his potatoes, bothered that I couldn’t remember, did we go back to reap the harvest, dig up the little baby red potatoes? Did he get to see how well his last crop had grown, how abundant his harvest was that last year?
Jesus continues, explaining how we are made to flourish, lead others to flourishing.
“As for that in the good soil, they are those who, hearing the word, hold it fast in an honest and good heart, and bear fruit with patience.”
Luke 8:15 ESV
The soil was always good where my daddy planted his garden. He had an honest and good heart, he was patient with his potatoes.
Daddy belonged among the farmers, I believe.
Maybe I, among the writers, the planters, the sowers and the patient, holding fast to be mature believers.
I see the cloud, I step in. I want to see Your glory like Moses did. Flashes of light and rolls of thunder. I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. Jesus Culture
Somewhere between the nightstand and the hallway, I misplaced my glasses. I want to turn back and look again, my hand unable to find them in the dark before the day.
My husband is sleeping, I’ll get by without them. Stepping into the air of day, the sky is pink behind the pines and I squint hoping to get an unobstructed view.
It’s not possible. I long for a wide open space, an expanse of empty field.
Like the place of my childhood, room to roam, to run, to see for miles to come.
I look up and I am welcomed. Little cotton ball clouds all clustered and I can’t get enough and yet so much more, always more.
The slow shifting sky above me, more and more to see.
The morning after deciding I might never be enough, this rushing into making up for lost time on wasted days and jumping into every chance for fear there will be no more!
A rejection, the fifth or six and I said to myself, well you’re not an encourager really, you can’t write an encouraging submission. Encouragement is not your voice.
I bet God just loves it when I talk to myself that way, it’s always either fear or truth. One way or the other, it’s growth.
Maybe Moses worried he was running out of time, afraid the calling and the task might not be complete.
He prayed and asked God to show Him the way, to show him His glory.
“And he said, “My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.””
Exodus 33:14 ESV
God assured him, I’m gonna be with you and you’re gonna know without a doubt you’ve been in my presence, but I can’t show you everything, you won’t see my face.
God told Moses that he would lead him and that mercy would be shown along with goodness. Moses saw God walk away and nothing was ever the same.
Moses was not afraid.
Not afraid to be led and to lead.
Or that he would run out of time or provision.
The measure of my success is often skewed by my fear of not being enough, fear I won’t have the time or won’t choose to go on.
A futile mindset, until I was reminded by the sky and the glory and later, discovered my glasses at the foot of the bed and carried on, carried on anticipating the next time I’ll be reminded to notice God in my presence,
His glory reminding me, I am not afraid.
Linking up with others who are writing for 31days. I can’t say I’m following all the rules or that my presence is share-worthy encouragement, I’m just writing…Freely.
I’m horrible at writing for only five minutes. (I believe she was right, out of the blue she told me to “focus on the bigger thing, Lisa…the story that is supposed to be written, yours!” ) I like the idea of responding to a suggested prompt, waiting to see what God might have me say. It’s an exercise, skills building, practice.
So, Five Minute Friday’s prompt today…here is where you led me:
This morning, I’m recording what I’m beginning to see come through. I’m not concerned over what I’m not sure of yet.
The light just enough for now, more breathtaking than all at once, for sure.
I should keep a record of how things come true, come through when I take my thoughts elsewhere.
Big, big revelations about my path and tiny little, sweet surprises that if I’d seen my face in a mirror, I’m quite sure it held a glow.
How a bold statement from an honest soul had been tucked away festering in my place of what if, maybe.
In the back of my mind.
The place where those thoughts I manipulate, the ones compromised by past and the ones trying to shine like a pretty twinkle of light longing for unveiling.
Yep, they are all there together.
This morning, I journaled two sentences from a lengthy devotional, pulling out the ones for me.
Not a single one of your thoughts escapes God’s notice.
The place I keep deeply covered, the longings for one thing or another.
They come to light when I let them, on their own.
There’s a lesson here. One I should know by now. We can’t hold faith, can’t see it or hear it.
Cannot manipulate or mold into what we want.
It resides in the recesses.
Then when it pleases, it shows itself in beautiful or bold surprises.
And though I’m giddy sometimes over the surprise of God’s notice and timing, I still go back to depending on me and my part in it all.
When did I forget that you’ve always been the King of the world? Natalie Grant
The hidden things are of God. The secrets revealed in time not mine.
Were it not so I’d do nothing but strive, search, yearn, push and pout.
Instead, maybe, no…Yes! I’ll hold on longer this time to the surprises that are never surprises at all. Yes, I will depend on your knowing.
A phone call you never expected, an answer to your fears on the other end or just a voice, saying everything is okay.
“Faith shows the reality of what we hope for; it is the evidence of things we cannot see.”
This morning the tiny icon shaped like a bell said, “Congratulations, it’s your anniversary. You’ve been blogging four years!”
Oh my! I don’t dare read the first year or so, convinced I’ve made no progress or worse yet, I’m in the same old place.
The timing of the announcement collided head on with seven or so paragraphs in draft where I’d once again belabor the significant or insignificant challenge that battled back and to.
Got a little taste of accolade occasionally and I found myself hungry, starving for me, miserably full, filled.
Full of myself.
So, that piece, it’s staying in the draft for now, hopefully forever, while I come to terms with the reality of this space I write, what it’s been, what it should be becoming.
I came home tonight on wet roads and under little pockets of orange behind thickness of dark clouds.
This morning the Rose of Sharon plant towering late summer, brought me back to a place I’d been missing, the pause.
I was intentional, opening myself to the beauty that should fill me again, not striving to see; instead, finding what might come in the pause.
The place where I remembered not to seek, instead waiting to have little thoughts come to mind with no expectation, only patience.
Like falling from above, landing ’round my feet, scooped up and brought to my chest, allowed to rest near my heart.
I’d gotten away from simplicity, I’d been sipping the juice of significance and I was thirsty, so desperately thirsty for more.
My longing for notice becoming impossible to quench.
I wondered what is this blogging I do if nothing more than a pink diary and your sister found the key?
I considered the way I’ve reacted to a tiny bit of glory.
Paintings selling, guest posts and strangers saying they hope I never quit writing.
Too much, Lisa.
Having a taste of it made me strive to be filled and in that scrounging for another little morsel of praise, I lost my voice, the thing I call treasure. I’d made joy ugly effort; I’d pressured myself to be measured by most everything other than my worth decided already by my Heavenly Father.
Too much Lisa
So, I sat.
I thought, I slept and prayed. I stumbled upon truths and began to believe in what I’d decided a “treasure” again.
Stepped back and away to come back not better, not broken, or made hard from shame.
Instead, softer like glow, welcome home.
I pray I learn to write this way, a soft but, still brave way…that I not spill my angst all over the page, contradictory to my declared quiet confidence.
I pray I wait.
Wait to be filled, my heart bursting with longing to tell, so that my writing be so graceful and grace-filled it will be quite clear it’s only grace
Grace that’s brought me thus far.
And there will be a reader or two or three who might have heard of grace ad nauseam; but, maybe might all of sudden wonder…
Could grace be for me? Could the grace that found Lisa Anne find me too?
That will be glory, that will be glory to God.
To know my words cause wonder, cause another to wonder…What is this mercy? Who is this Jesus?
Perhaps, I should know.
This is how I shall write I pray, not tripping over self into the abyss of bottomless searching for significance, for notice.
Satisfied in the place of pause, abandoned and found again in the place I remember to whom goes the glory.
From whom I’ve become acquainted with the knowledge of grace.
“May grace and peace be multiplied to you in the knowledge of God and of Jesus our Lord.”