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~ Welcome to Rise Heart ~

Lindsey Gallant
Lindsey Gallant
Let me help you pay attention to the glories in your own life. This is a place where small is significant, the broken is beautiful, and love is the deepest reality of all. There’s always an invitation to lift your heart. Can you hear it? The call to rise.

Ukrainian Refugee Support

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sacramentofsmall
The view toward the river this morning! I’ve had The view toward the river this morning! I’ve had a very snowy welcome back to the island.
At Toronto Pearson with my Tim’s, dreaming of sp At Toronto Pearson with my Tim’s, dreaming of spring in Moldova…
Tanya’s daughter picked these tiny flowers for m Tanya’s daughter picked these tiny flowers for my room! I ❤️ small blooms. It’s so special that I am seeing the first flowers of spring in Moldova this year. #springflowers #smallbeauties #sacramentofsmall
City by day, city by night, and my little friend L City by day, city by night, and my little friend Lola!
We just finished 2 days of training with the Cru s We just finished 2 days of training with the Cru staff here in Moldova - digging deeper into our stories, writing towards healing, and finding our voices on the page. This time has been such a joy! I got to spend one last night with both Tanya and Leslie, our small but mighty Your Story Matters team. @leslie.leyland.fields
Moldovan beauty ❤️ Moldovan beauty ❤️
My time in Moldova so far has been very rich. Ever My time in Moldova so far has been very rich. Everywhere we go - from the Ukrainian refugee centre to the women’s prison to a women’s conference - people are opening their hearts and experience to each other, discovering they have a voice and a story to tell. A story that has deep meaning, not only for themselves but for others. It is a precious thing to be entrusted with the stories of these women. And I have been enjoying Moldovan food and hints of spring along the way! ❤️
At “home” in Chișinău! At “home” in Chișinău!
It is a dull morning, lionlike for the beginning o It is a dull morning, lionlike for the beginning of March, with a biting north wind sharpening the edges of muddy snowdrifts. I step through the gritty crystals in my familiar hiking shoes, hat scrunched low, to take the road I always take in these before-school walks. I have walked this particular road as therapy, as labyrinth, as prayer, and as protest. If pavement could talk, this stretch would have a lot of dirt on me. Despite its familiarity, this country lane has been the scene of many small epiphanies. It is no Zion, but I am yet a pilgrim, even to the summit I have called Drunk Skunk’s Hideaway, and down to the stream where the kids take their bikes to catch minnows in spring. A thin place, the ancients might have called it. Grey clouds meet grey road today, and nothing feels too inspiring. I am ok with this. I pause to greet the rosebush, even dirtier now than in January, with one or two winter-gnarled hips still attached. I nod to a spruce in the field, one that still has its full top after the big fall storm. Where the road bends to go up the hill, I stop to listen to the water as it gurgles from the culvert beneath me into a pool with a soggy beer carton at its edge. None of this is particularly beautiful, but it is familiar. Loved in a well-trodden way. These simple landmarks have become friends, companions in the quest to live within my boundary lines and make peace with limitations. I know this road. When I turn to head for home, the wind hits me full in the face, clawing across the corn field. The pungent smell of silage from the cow barns hits too. I tuck my face down and think about the days ahead. In a week I will be on a road completely different and new to me - in Moldova, a tiny Eastern European country on the fringes of war. It’s not the first place I thought I’d travel to after all these years, but it feels fitting, like the road was meant to lead there all along. I am excited to meet friends I have only seen through a screen, and share stories with women and men who are looking for the deeper meaning in their own lives. The thing is, I’ve spent so much time and thought in the place of small that I wonder... [continued in comments]
In just over a week I will be landing in Moldova a In just over a week I will be landing in Moldova along with the author of this book to share the power of story! After being involved in the Your Story Matters online writing community for almost 3 years, I am so excited to meet up in person with @leslie.leyland.fields and Tanya and to be part of a week of workshops, training and ministry - serving the people of Moldova and Ukrainian refugees there. Sharing our stories is a powerful form of connection and healing. I would love your prayers - for health, safety, and that our time would be a blessing to those we meet.
“Beneath our clothes, our reputations, our prete “Beneath our clothes, our reputations, our pretensions, beneath our religion or lack of it, we are all vulnerable both to the storm without and the storm within, and if ever we are to find true shelter, it is with the recognition of our tragic nakedness and need for true shelter that we have to start. Thus it seems to me that this is also where anyone who preaches the Gospel has to start too—after the silence that is truth comes the news that is bad before it is good, the word that is tragedy before it is comedy because it strips us bare in order ultimately to clothe us.” —Frederick Buechner, Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy & Fairy Tale #lent #lent2023 #broken #lentwiththeoldhouse #frederickbuechner
Lent begins right here. With a recognition of our Lent begins right here. With a recognition of our brokenness. Our complete inability to fix the mess we find ourselves in. Our utter defencelessness against the battering storms of life. Our grief at watching what was once beautiful decay into ruins. And the realization that the foundation was unstable anyway. When things first began to crumble, someone spray painted this question in bright red paint on the walls of the old kitchen - “Where is your god?” It’s haunted me ever since. Maybe because it’s the barely audible cry that sneaks out past so many of our pretty painted facades. Where is God? Does anyone see me? Does anyone care? Lent begins with this question. Right here. No pulling punches. Where are you, God? #lent #lent2023 #whereisyourgod #ashwednesday #broken #lentwiththeoldhouse
“Two for each person, and one for the pot.” I “Two for each person, and one for the pot.” I count out the smallish russet potatoes for supper tonight, just another ordinary Thursday meal. I’m rushing to get them peeled and sliced so we can eat in time before heading out to dance class. Pay attention, I tell myself, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s words still echoing in my head. “Only he who sees takes off his shoes.” Only she who sees…. peel, peel, plop. What’s to see here? I wonder, shaving the earthy brown skin off the potatoes. My fingers are getting slimy with starch. These spuds are starting to sprout here at the bottom of the bag. With the pointed end of the peeler I dig out one of the eyes and the tubular beige bud poking out of it. Eyes. I gouge another one out. This potato has around half a dozen. I think about other creatures with more eyes than me, houseflies and starfish and cherubim. Gouge. The eyes are where the life sprouts, from each dimple a potential new plant. Just multiplying away at the dark bottom of a paper bag. The more eyes you have, the more life can grow. This is a new thought. I picture myself walking around like a giant Mrs. Potato Head, googly eyes in all directions, with a hot pink purse, and cartoon flowers. Perhaps it’s the most like an angel I’ll ever look. I reach for the eleventh russet and peel it white - one last dig and it is rendered blind. I feel a little sorry for it, lifeless on the board. But the slicing and dicing must go on. Soon a pack of hungry stomachs will appear. I take a final look into the paper bag and am strangely cheered by the last few sprouting spuds. They’ll wait for another meal. Give me more eyes, I murmur, for the first time in my life praying to be like a potato. * [Link to blog post in bio] #prayer #potatoes #eyestosee
Current read while recovering from the latest wint Current read while recovering from the latest winter virus. The fact that I keep falling asleep before finishing a chapter is no indication of its quality! The limits are real... #amreading
My idea of fun on a Saturday morning! #amwriting My idea of fun on a Saturday morning! #amwriting #writinglife
Tiptoeing barefoot into 2023… A poem for the new Tiptoeing barefoot into 2023… A poem for the new year. (Full blog post linked in bio.) Barefoot Let this be the year you catch me barefoot in the blackberry patch, and the kitchen din, the track-worn tread up the back road, and the quiet, child’s bedside. Oh child, behold. Let my toes dig deep into spark-warmed soil, grounded in the love that bedrocks every landscape. Oh child, be called. Keep me rooted to the holy place till even my soles have eyes for glory, and they can see their way to run the mountains with beautiful news. Oh child, be swift. * #amwriting #poetsofinstagram #newyear #barefoot #poetry #prayerforanewyear #prayer
I'd love to leave you with a blessing as we cross I'd love to leave you with a blessing as we cross the threshold of a new year: Be blessed to bring the good, the bad, and the beautiful of the year that’s past into the hands of the timeless One – the Giver of all good things, the Healer of your brokenness, the true Beauty ever ancient, ever new. Be blessed to know Him whose presence renews our hearts, redeems our times, and re-sources our life in the depths of his freshness. Happy New Year! #happynewyear #newyear #blessing
The last day of the year is warm enough to sit out The last day of the year is warm enough to sit out in my writing hut camper without heat! (Though still wrapped in wool.) It’s been good to quietly reflect on our season of celebration (which is still continuing in our house - it’s only the 7th day of Christmas), the year that has passed, and the goodness of God. I’m not ready to make plans for the new year just yet. For now, it’s enough to say thank you to 2022, for the good, the bad, and the beautiful, and for all of those who walked with me in some way. ❤️
The Weight of Glory: A Christmas Poem Heavy, with The Weight of Glory: A Christmas Poem Heavy, with child A woman carries a weight she can no longer bear The burden of ages The burgeoning longing of Abraham’s starry host The sands of time piled high with precarious hope – The wait of the world. All creation groans with her Labouring for deliverance through the overshadowed womb . . . The wait is over! The woman lifts the babe with birth-weakened arms The morning star has risen with glory in the highest. . . . Heavy, withholding not His will The man carries the wood He was born to bear The burden of ages The bursting flood of sin’s bloody hell The mud of many sons’ slinging – The weight of the world. Now the Creator groans Labouring for deliverance through the hole in His side . . . The weight is over! The man lifts His children with nail-strengthened arms The world has been reborn and we are raised to glory. * #christmaspoetry #poetsofinstagram #amwriting #amwritingpoetry #merrychristmas #christmas #poetry
This sequence of poetry was conceived for the care This sequence of poetry was conceived for the caregivers of The Good Samaritan Society, a non-profit organization that provides accommodation, health, and community care services to aging individuals in need. As I wrote these poems, I prayed for those whose care encircles others around the clock, who give often out of a sense of their own limitation and lack. I do not personally know what it’s like to provide this kind of care, though I have dear friends in this season right now. Their perseverance and love are inspiring. It is with humble gratitude that I dedicate these poems to caregivers everywhere – you are the presence of Jesus in a needy world. Merry Christmas! * The Blessing of Small Be blessed to receive the still, small presence of God in the creases of your cupped hands, lifelines of flesh that he himself walked so he could trace us into his own heart and reveal the expanse of love there. Be blessed to press this humbling mystery into the hand of another — the passing of a flame, your hushed and holy care, a fragment of song, and finally, a bending low, for here, here is God with us. * Lindsey Gallant From Small: An Advent Poetry Sequence Digital download on: lindseygallant.com Composed for the caregivers of The Good Samaritan Society (www.gss.org) Illustration by Elizabeth Evans #advent #adventpoetry #christmaspoetry #christmas #caregivers #blessing #smallisbeautiful
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