Looking for some good new reads?
Once a month there is a newspaper post put out called The Saturday Evening Blog Post.
This is where bloggers gather on the first Saturday of each month to share their latest and greatest blog posts.
I linked up.
You should too.
There’s some great reading. I shared A View from the Toilet Seat. It sums up my month. Despite how it might sound, that’s a good thing.
Pick up your copy here.
My recent state hopping was due to a conference on leadership that I was attending in Vancouver, WA. And one of the most remarkable moments of the two days was when we discussed the power of the pen.
We are living, breathing narratives.
We carry the story of our parents, our professors, our mentors, our friends, their failures and successes and their vision for us in our veins.
Imagine that every word spoken to us was written into our flesh; an invisible tattoo.
What would yours say?
There are parts of my story I haven’t thought about for years. And when I reach for something new, when I stretch toward what I think God is calling me into, sometimes it’s like a sleeve falls back and reveals part of a tattoo I had forgotten about. The words stand out painful, dark and threatening against the vulnerable skin of my heart.
“Arrogant child; willful woman; unteachable student.”
I twist my neck around my memories to keep reading the hard words.
“Lost, prideful, could have been great if she had taken our advice.”
I feel the sting of the words as freshly as I did 13 years ago when they were being tattooed onto my soul.
“You could have been so much more than who you are.”
And suddenly the years I have journeyed since that moment are reduced to a wasted exercise in trying to escape the inevitable.
I believe what it says on my skin and not what it says on His.
“Behold, I have carved you on the palms of My hands.”
Isaiah 49:16.
Carved on the palms of His hands.
Rough, hard working hands of a Carpenter. Tender caring hands of a Shepherd. Loving, hugging hands of a Father. Friendly, familiar hands of a Son and a Brother.
My name is tattooed across all of them.
“Lisa-Jo is loved because I love her. Lisa-Jo is worthy. Lisa-Jo is called. Lisa-Jo is not lost because I am her Shepherd and I am never lost.”
For a girl who’s never had a real ink tattoo, today I am fascinated by them. Join me, won’t you? Stop staring at your own markings of failure and insecurity – look up and over at His hands and share what you see there.
What do you read about yourself, carved into His palms?
He is never lost. With Him nothing is missing; nothing is broken.
You are beautiful.
So, lift up your eyes and read what He has inked on His very own hands about you.
What does it say?
At 3:40 this morning I was snuggling in bed with my nearly two year old, still in Virginia.
At 4:40 this morning I was headed into Washington DC to hop a flight to a conference. Seasoned traveler that I am (insert irony here) I had all my little travel sized items in the appropriate zip lock bag in my purse. I also had a carry on bag. And in it I had a humongous bottle of shampoo and another one of conditioner, a brand new bottle of styling lotion, contact lens solution and a big old tube of toothpaste.
I was astounded when security stopped me.
But, I gabbled, this is my suitcase. My purse has all the right size items.
Duh, Lisa-Jo, your suitcase is coming with you on this flight. Double duh!
Not prepared to sacrifice my tub of South African body lotion so preciously procured by a colleague on a recent business trip, back up to check-in it was.
But that threw off the rhythm and my travel buddy then proceeded to misplace her boarding passes and her driver’s license. But, smarty pants that she is, she had a copy of her passport with her and was able to get a new boarding pass issued in time to, well, you know, board.
Once we had huffed and puffed our way down the gangplank (hmm, that doesn’t seem like the right word – but I’ve been up nearly24 hours now) we spotted the license and passes stuffed in a hither-to-fore unexplored corner of her large, leopard spotted bag. I swear it growled at us. We were that frazzled.
From DC we flew to Illinois – hi Chicago style pizza!
Then over to Colorado – hello Rocky Mountains!
And then another jaunt on to Portland, Oregon – hello Trailblazers!
Then it was just a hop, skip and a cab ride to Vancouver, Washington. A mere 12 hours after we got up this morning.
Yikes.
Tomorrow I get to rise and shine and show off my swollen, black and blue chin to all the other conference attendees. Oh, didn’t I mention that yet? Yea, on Sunday I took a spectacular fall right after this purrtyy picture was taken.
Related photos and the humbling tale of what happens when a mother tries to force her overtired kids to pose for family photographs to follow.
It. was. not. purrtyy.
And naturally, as it begins to heal the rainbow of bruises has come out in full force right before I have to spend two days meeting strangers.
Here’s to first impressions! (and frequent flier miles).
But on the up side, the “before” pictures are awesome. Thanks Mallory for making me look less like a mommy and more like a me. And for stealing a beautiful picture or two of our wriggly family.
Over and out,
from Washington (state, not district).
I’ve gained a little holiday weight already. Several pounds of dissatisfaction have settled onto the hips of my heart. And I’ve spent the past few days trying to work them off. This time of year there are so many rich lies about what you need to fill you up.
The holiday season seems to be a smorgasbord of expectations impossible to live up to. I’ve seen the pictures. The perfect tree, the perfect mantle, the perfect advent calendar countdown experience for the kids. It has made me look around our house with dissatisfied eyes.
I worry about what I am not giving my kids. I swallow down the impulse to rush around instituting a rash of new family traditions that seem to make other families so happy and fulfilled. I don’t bake or quilt or have the time or real desire to make an advent calendar from scratch. I am not a photographer or a crafter. But I compare nonetheless. And I come up wanting.
I want more space. I want to take advantage of all the coupons that come calling at this time of year. I want the right words to explain to my son why our house is “liddle” and his friend’s house is not. I want to erase the distance and all the miles between my South African family and me with just a wave of the hand. I want things I can’t even put into words. I just know, I want.
All my many wants have been choking me. Stuck in my throat, they make it impossible to feel full. I gag on them. And I am empty inside. Hungry.
Come, …
you who have no money,
come, buy and eat! Isaiah 55:1
He feeds me.
He nudges me to reexamine my expectations through the eyes of a young, newly engaged girl. Hugely pregnant and uncomfortable she travels away from her family as her due date approaches. Unwelcome and unexpected she gives birth without mother or friends to encourage or celebrate with her. There are only farm animals and strangers saying strange things.
There is no gift registry, no baby shower, no clean hospital or crib.
There is no time to settle in. There is just uncertainty and more travel; this time to a foreign country into a strange language and no promise of immediate return. Waiting and wondering and comparing their situation to the ordinary lives going on around them, the couple must have cried with the weight of their own expectations.
Something shifts from off my shoulders. I breathe better.
I remember that my expectations are not important to the God who came to us wrapped in the unexpected vulnerability of a baby. His expectations are what matter.
I readjust my sights. I shift my vision. From me to Him. From my perspective to His.
I see it.
Thirteen years of marriage, countries and fellowship shared; two children bursting with life and health. Family ties that have held despite the distance.
I feel it.
The weight of our wealth; we are knee deep in riches, living beyond my wildest expectations. Love lingers in these walls. We pour into each other and grow stronger together. We journey through lean times and learn how to measure success on a different scale.
I start to feel full. This is the only hunger worth meeting. And He is the only food that will do.
Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life; he who comes to Me will not hunger, and he who believes in Me will never thirst.” John 6:35.
Everything else is cotton candy by comparison. Sweet and vapid it dissolves on the tongue and leaves the stomach feeling unsettled. No one in their right mind would serve it for dinner.
I’ve been eating cotton candy for three days.
But I’m done now. I’m back in the kitchen. And He doesn’t ask where I have been. He simply sets me a place and spoons steaming hot meat and potatoes into my outstretched bowl.
Side-by-side we sit and eat the first Christmas again. Slowly, chewing it over, piece by piece. Warmth spreads from my belly to my heart. My wants are filled up by what He has given me. My needs are met. Satisfied. I promise to come back for breakfast. And lunch. And snacktime. And dinner again.
We make a date. Now all I have to do is keep it. Because I know He will.
I’m thankful for:
