Healing Spreads


Don’t get discouraged.

Like the common cold,

a yawn,

smile wrinkles,

like dandelion seeds,

Healing Spreads!



Holy Wind

Words are useless.  I can tell my son how much I love a paper he’s written. He can take what I’ve said and think I’m saying he usually doesn’t try.  I can tell my husband how much I’ve missed him.  He can hear from those words that I’m angry he’s been insensitive about the amount of hours he spends away from home.

The topic of speaking in tongues has been a divisive one.  This past week I spent some time in the book of Acts and was taken back at the immense waste of time we’ve helped ourselves to at being right – all the while missing the point.  The squabble has been foreign language (seen by the counter as a way to feel superior) versus an unknown language of angels (seen by the counter as demon possessed blathering).  Did I adequately rock the boat?

Everyday I can be speaking the very language you speak, and still you hear one thing while I intend another.  You can hear arrogance, gibberish or hate, when my heart is attempting to speak love.  From the same country.  Same costumes.  Same topics.  And still each spirit requires something slightly different to make it’s way from head to heart, and taken with trust.

I have often thought of how much time I spend covering topics my clients already know in the mind, and yet struggle to transfer from head knowledge to heart knowing.

The heart – a home for hatred and love.  

Hopelessness and security.

Fear and peace.

Irritation and patience.

Nastiness and kindness.

Badness and goodness.

A calloused heart and gentleness.

A free-for-all and at times self control.

The Spirit rolling up sleeves is God’s power that clears out one and grows the other.

Both sometimes exist together.

Both can’t thrive side by side.  

I don’t know about you, but I need the language of angels to speak for me.  How will I know when I open my mouth that I love you with my words?  How do I know I speak of the Lord honorably with my very human mouth.  Jesus could see this would be a problem (I’m thinking time with Peter and knowing what I’d be like enforced the need:).  Jesus told his followers to wait for and expect a gift the Father was sending.  The gift wrapped in wind and fire.  Wrapped in power and God Himself was the Holy Spirit.  Jesus explained what the gift would be used for.  He told his followers the Spirit was needed for witnessing. Witnessing far and near. When the Holy Spirit finally arrived, all the folk in town who happen to be from many different parts of the world heard in their own language the marvelous things that God had done.  Notice they didn’t hear doctrine in their own language. They didn’t hear the most Godly political views.  They heard the marvelous things God had done.

I could never do my job without Holy Spirit intervening.  There are too many variables.  I take too many chances.  I might speak words that cut into my client like a knife.  I don’t have a library of hateful words used against them all their life long.  A kind word from me might have been the evil word used before said perpetrator destroyed it all.  Everyone has their own story.  My youth pastor spoke a beautiful text over me one Sabbath morning. One equally beautiful Sunday afternoon he used my innocence to pleasure himself and destroyed my world. How could the verse below harm anyone?

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,

neither the present nor the future, nor any powers,

neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation,

will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.  

Romans 8:38-39.

How would anyone know not to speak those words to me without dumping adrenalin through my body?  They wouldn’t.  Which is why we all need the Spirit to intercede for us, through us, and between us.  Even in our prayers, the Spirit needs to make sense of our arrogance and blathering.

 In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness.

We do not know what we ought to pray for,

but the Spirit himself intercedes for us

through wordless groans.

Romans 8:26

Spirit Groan.  Spirit language.  Earthly or heavenly it be, without the Spirit making sense of what we say, we hurt each other.


I wrote a simple chorus based on Act chapters 1 and 2 and combined it with “His Strength is Perfect” by Jerry Salley and ‘I Need Thee Every Hour’ by Robert Lowry.

I can do all things

Through Christ who gives me strength

But sometimes I wonder what He can do through me

No Great Success to Show

No Glory of my own

Yet in my weakness

He is there to let me know….


Holy Wind, please come to us

Fill this house with Spirit

Holy Wind alive with words

Heart will finally hear it

Now we know the warmth of You

In our frozen places 

Holy Wind, Holy Wind

Holy Wind come near

We can only know

The power that he holds

When we truly see how deep

Our weakness goes

His strength in us begins

when ours comes to an end

He hears our humble cry and proves again

Gathered here together now

Let the wind consume us

Gospel words in other tongues

Holy Wind move through us

Now we know the warmth of You

In our frozen places

Wind of Spirit form our words

Words we’ve never known

His Strength is Perfect

When our Strength is gone

Fill this house with Spirit

He’ll carry us when we can’t carry on

In our frozen places

Raised in His Power the Weak become strong

Holy Wind Move Through us

His Strength is perfect

His Strength is perfect

I need thee, Oh I need thee

Every hour I need thee

Holy Wind, Holy Wind

Holy Wind Come Near

bY lisa boyl-davis
May 11, 2016

Rose Blooms


Freshman girls, grand pals they were

That walked among the beauty here.

The stories shared of boy on bus,

A broken car in drifts of snow.

Batons and cheers, and soldiers back.

The years have passed, the girls are old,

But still the path is lined with trees

And roses bloom along the wall.

The girls, they sit with silver hair,

Our small talk words get in the way

of rare and treasured moments now.

A quiet hug, goodbyes they say.

Freshman girls, grand pals they were

They walked among the beauty here

But still the path is lined with trees

And roses bloom along the wall.

Dedicated to My Mom who took a trip with me back to where she was raised,

walked with me around her old neighborhood,

peeked with me into window of the church where as a little 5th grader she gave her heart to Jesus,

walked down her violin teachers street,

round the campus of her beloved school,

past the drug store where she and Grandma had been many times,

and the drive through she worked that has since been torn down,

the pool where her Dad had been a lifeguard,

introduced me to old friends, one town friend, one country friend,

both wonderful women,

I now understand why Mom has held on to these friends over 65 years.


Not Knowing


Today a friend commented after having told her how I’m doing, “So, no changes,huh?” That is so depressing to me. At the moment, I’m setting up a counseling business because the last office I set up made me no money in 6 months. Will this one be a waste of time too, although I have a book keeper now trying to help me keep paperwork straight? As we speak, we are packing up a daughter for college. We are preparing to put the younger two in school, we are asked to decided whether we want to move to Salt Lake now, or in January, or Charleston now or later or stay here. As for staying here, we are told we can’t refinance unless we raise our house payments by a TON, and that our house has to be finished, which we haven’t been able to manage yet. Dealing with Adored Husband mentally teetering on the brink of crazy and genius as he always does when he’s inventing – the thing he does for a living.

…they that wait upon the Lord WILL renew their strength…

I’m told to keep moving forward. To act as if I’m going to put the kids in local school. As if I will have a dozen paying clients in my new office in a week, moving forward.. not knowing – yet moving forward. I don’t do that well, which means I’m not doing well. Last year – today – I had a breast removed in an effort to keep cancer from spreading through me. That was the day I wondered if the cancer was taking me or moving on. I had to adjust to one on, one off. The crisis gone, why does life feel so off and so hard and so confusing? I don’t know. All I know is that I love to see my kids learn and grow. I love to work with clients, even when I’m not getting paid. I love my friends in WA, and my house. I love the mountains in Salt Lake, and the sunshine. I don’t love anything about Charleston because it’s too far from my kids… but if I was forced to, I’d learn to love life there as well. I love my guy, always curious about life  – despite his swings. And so I toss the stress back at God…. and move forward, not knowing.  Teetering forward, haltingly forward, hoping as I move along that God will direct these stressed out steps of not knowing.

Blank Paper

To write is to live. To write is to sketch the heart of me in words. And today I tried. Like a horse stuck behind a starting gate, it’s been months I’ve felt trapped, wanting to break free for the words needing a paper, a form. Today, after getting a fevered child to sleep, the other child occupied elsewhere – herself just over a week long flu, the husband with bad cold comfortable and our college girl busy too, I quick slip out with blank paper and pen clutched to chest. A quiet place found. A chair soft. Criss cross, apples sauce, my back against perfect fit. Energy flowing, moving inside the soul of me at the treasured moment I’ve waited for, and no words. Where are the words I’d been aching to jot down? The book I’d charted an outline for? I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’d intended to say, what needs addressing – what the flow might be, and frozen stiff, gate wide open for charging ahead, I haven’t a clue how to ease ahead for beginning.

Some say solitude revives the movement. It has for me before. Yet, hunt as I might, no extended stillness can be found. Weeks on end of crisis and survival. I might go into details on all the ways life has been upside down, but they’d be no different than any other mom on a given day in a given life.  I’ve heard it said that motherhood is a season. The idea is to wait out the season, like waiting for a storm to pass. And as children grow up and move on, the chance comes for a mother to experience being human again. This idea is not reality for those of us who have spread our child bearing years out. Our last child we had when I was 42. I will be 60 when she is on her own. And so self actualization has to be intentional. But how? How does one not loose the drive, the tug, the rhythm of the ground underfoot? I need to know as I’m loosing it. Looking out from starting gate, I see nothing but one impossible task after another… no writing, or the solitude it takes. Hope and I part ways. I concede to something possible, like getting a good night kiss placed on cheek, prayers said, door closed, head for bathroom, cool water over tired face, cream applied thick to hold disappointment lines at bay, I have a secret wish that in the quiet of evening time, words and me will move together once again. The knocking door.… “Momma, I need a drink of water”. And once again, paper waits.





This house feels empty though there are three of us here. Hollow, although I know you will be home soon. Ridiculously too large, yet knowing College Girl will return in a whirlwind a month before summer, and College Son too, and someday with that special one, and later bringing fat babies, mouthy, active children, baggage, far too many shoes, bikes, pillows, cell phone chargers, cars, diapers, personal devises everywhere, making the misery of crowding divine.

But in the mean time, come home and use up some space with your giant you, feet tromping on the stair up to the door, shrieks of little scurrying hiders, hinges noisily do their job as here you are, parking size 13 shoes along the wall, a voice with only two volumes -off and on – belting out “Hummm, I wonder where my burritos are?  I’m hungry for a bean burrito!” More hidden squeals.. one from under the entry bench, across the room tiny legs hardly seen beneath hanging heavy coats.

When you are here, giant house doesn’t feel so empty. Hurry home then, will you, until once again I’m use to two beds, two chairs, two kids and all their giant collection of clothes and things and rare wonderful selves gone.  Gone to work hard at the job of filling the lonely, hollow, empty earth with good.

Yours in empty and in maximum occupancy,